Page 110 of Chasing the Sun

I leaned into his embrace, closing my eyes. I knew in my heart that Cal wasn’t the enemy. Emotions were high, and shoving down my sadness for losing Stan had been a losing battle.

I let the grief in.

I let it wash over me in waves, pulled under by the tide of everything I couldn’t say—that I loved this place. That I missed Stan. That I was deeply in love with Cal. That I didn’t know who I was without this dream, and I wasn’t sure I’d survive watching it belong to someone else.

When the heaviest of sobs racked out of me, Cal stayed sitting on the walking path, wrapped around me like a blanket. “It’s okay,” he soothed, smoothing my curls away from my face. “I won’t let anything bad happen to the farm. I promise you.”

It was something, but it wasn’t enough. I nodded and sniffed, staring at the wet spots staining Cal’s shirt. I used the heel of my hand to wipe my tears. “I can’t give up again,” I whispered.

His arms tightened. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you should give up. You need to give this your best shot.”

After a moment, I risked a peek at Cal’s face. “What about you? Won’t you hate me if I still try to buy it for myself?”

His jaw flexed, his dark eyes unreadable as he swallowed and shook his head. “No, Darling. Nothing could make me hate you.”

THIRTY-THREE

ELODIE

I was emotionally wrungthe fuck out.

After my total meltdown, Cal had carried me in his arms back to the cottage. He was gentle and soothing as he tucked me into bed and kissed me good night. Despite the heaviness and uncertainty between us, I was still utterly, deeply in love with him.

I only hoped it would be enough for him to forgive me for not admitting defeat already.

A few days later, the lawyer’s office smelled like coffee that had been reheated too many times and something vaguely citrus, like someone had tried to mask the scent of despair with a cheap lemon-scented candle. I sat in the stiff chair across from his desk, fingers twisting the silver ring I wore on my middle finger. It had been my grandmother’s. She was one of the boldest women I’d ever met and, right then, I needed some of her tenacity.

When Mr. Richardson stepped into his office, he got right to the point.

“Mr. Stafford left the farm in the care of the Keepers,” he repeated gently, like I hadn’t already been told thoseexact words in the letter the day the will was read. “With a preservation easement, meaning the land itself can’t be developed. It is reasonable to believe that they will sell the property.”

“Right,” I said. “I understand.” My voice sounded like it was coming from the other side of a wind tunnel. “And the proceeds from that sale go to the town.”

He nodded, clasping his hands together like he was sorry but also very used to delivering this kind of news. “I think he understood the likelihood that, after his passing, the farm would be sold, but Mr. Stafford wanted to ensure the property was in trusted hands. Historic hands that shared his values.”

I nodded and looked down at my lap. “And the only thing I can do is purchase it myself?”

His pause was small but mighty. “It appears that way, miss.”

I blinked, knowing my only option was so far-fetched it was laughable. I could size up any situation in a matter of seconds and make a plan, but I still hadn’t figured out how to make money fall from the sky. “For how much?”

“Well ...” He clicked through his computer screen. “Back in 1992, the land was purchased for about thirty-five thousand, but with the orchard added, and the easement in place, it’s ... a lot more now. Millions.”

I laughed. I actually laughed. It burst out of me unbidden, like a sharp, humorless thing.

I pressed a hand over my mouth like that would keep everything else from spilling out—my hope, my grief, the ragged little dreams I had nursed so close to my heart they’d fused with my ribs.

Millions.

Mr. Richardson didn’t laugh. He only offered me astrained smile, the kind people wore at funerals and divorce proceedings. “I understand this is a shock.”

There wasn’t a more perfect word for it.

I left his office feeling like I’d been hollowed out, like someone had scraped my insides clean with an ice-cream scoop and forgotten to put them back.

Outside, the world had the audacity to keep turning. Traffic moved. A woman pushed a stroller past the aging office building. A couple laughed and hugged across the street.

And me? I stood on the sidewalk with a file folder tucked under my arm and no idea what to do next.