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Prologue
Dottie
Three Years Earlier
Miami
The pen is barely in my hand before the arthritis in my wrist angrily protests. Perhaps handwritten letters are a young woman’s game. But it’s the only way I can keep him close.
My mother used to tell me true love transcends death. But how would she know? She didn’t marry her true love. Then again, neither did I.
Anyway, this doesn’t feel like love, just pain. The sharp stabbing in my wrist from writing letters he’ll never read. The throbbing pressure in my head from trying to piece together broken memories. The constant gnawing ache in my chest, knowing my whole life has been spent regretting one foolish decision.
But the pain is necessary. It reminds me that it was real. So, I keep writing to cling tightly to the hazy memories.
Dear Jacob,
After fifty years, no matter how hard I fight, I find myself losing some of the little details.
That night at the gazebo, I can’t remember if we saw stars in the sky or if it was too cloudy? Was my hair loose or braided? Was it cold? I remember you put your coat around me, likely because I was shivering. But it was probably just from the nerves.
Were you nervous, too? Did you have any idea we’d start our family that night?
I remember the bouquet of white daisies you had waiting for me.
Oftentimes, I picture the gazebo decorated in daisies like we planned. Daisies wrapped around all the pillars. Scattered all across the dock. Pinned in my hair. Woven into the bottom of my veil.
All the promises we made still dance in my mind. Along with all the ones we broke.
There were no daisies at my wedding. Harrison’s mother suggested them, but I refused.
Daisies were ours. For us. For our daughter.
I still lay a thick bouquet of white daisies on her grave at least once a week. I know you’re with her now. Can you ask her if she still likes them? Or if I should stop?
Do you still like them?
Because I picked out a dress for when they finally put me in that casket. It’s handsewn lace in the shape of daisies. I know I missed my chance in this lifetime, but if there’s any hope of a second chance for us…
I’ll be there.
In a white dress.
Waiting for you at the gazebo.
I’m interrupted by a soft knock on my office door. I drop my pen, hastily fold my letter, then cover up the evidence of my tears.
“Come in.” I push away from my ivory desk, glowing under the overhead lights I set to low. I like to see the Miami skyline at night. My city is always busy in the evening. The lit-up buildings look like frozen fireworks against the dark sky, reflecting off the still water. When I designed headquarters, I ensured all the executive offices and meeting rooms had this view.
The handle turns, and my grandson’s handsome face appears through the crack of the door. “Grandma. Why are you still here? It’s late.”
Dex is such a worrier. I’m the CEO of Hessler Group. I’m no stranger to late nights at the office. “Come in, Dex. Sit down. I want to talk to you.” I point to the sofa in the sitting area, and he begrudgingly obliges.
After grabbing two thick crystal lowballs and the matching decanter full of aged bourbon, I kick off my heels and join Dex in the sitting area of my much-too-large office.
“How did it go today with the settlement?”
I pour us both a generous drink before passing a glass to Dex. He takes it and mutters a soft, “Thank you,” but sets it down on a coaster instead of drinking it.