Page 3 of Hush (The Seaside Saga #25)

HEATHER BARELY SLEPT LAST NIGHT.

Between the plane ride back to San Francisco, and the changing time zones—oh, who’s she kidding? Mostly, it was her own troubles getting her up before the sun. Her own worries. Her own doubts at handling the situation with Celia.

With her daughter.

Now she fritters around her small Victorian home only long enough to shower and get dressed.

A cropped brown sweater over black jeans tucked into brown harness boots.

Gold studs in her ears; her blonde hair twisted into a low chignon.

Then? She does what always helps. She gets on with it.

With her day. Her business. Her life. And the only way to do that is to be at the beloved shop embodying that life.

August Dove.

So she kicks her routine into gear and, as usual, stops at the café across the street from her jewelry boutique.

Right away everything feels… better, anyway.

Right when she steps inside the earthy café with its dark wood walls.

With its scuffed-and-worn wood-plank floors.

With its chalked menus hung on those walls.

Today, though? She’s very early, and so has extra time. So she asks for her take-out order to be served here, then sits herself at the window-seat counter. Arched windows rise above it. Tendrils of spider plants and ivy dangle from small clay pots strewn along the counter, too.

When she settles in at her stool, it’s with some relief.

She’s home.

Outside the arched window, San Francisco begins to awaken. Random pedestrians step briskly; shop doors are unlocked; a delivery truck parks curbside at a small restaurant; and above it all, the early-morning sun rises higher.

Heather slips out of her long brown-plaid coat and hangs it over the stool back.

Next, she sort of travels back east via her cell phone.

After pulling it from her tote, she flicks through photos she’d taken of Stony Point Beach.

It’s a pretty little crescent-shaped beach.

Long Island Sound sparkles beneath the sun; gentle waves lap at the golden sand; pines and tall oaks frame the western end beyond a rocky outcropping.

She tries to see it all through Celia’s eyes.

To feel the comfort Celia would derive from these sights.

“Heather! Good to see you,” an approaching server says, setting down coffee, a plate of avocado toast drizzled with honey, and strawberries on the side. “Your shop’s been closed many days now. ”

Heather nods and pulls the toast dish closer. “Hey there, Delilah. I had a family visit back east.”

“Oh! Sounds nice.” Delilah slides over a napkin dispenser, then moves aside a wayward pot of ivy. “A special occasion?”

“No.” Heather looks up from stirring cream into her coffee. “Just catching up with someone.”

This Delilah, she glances across the café to the busy take-out counter, then turns to Heather again. “Well. Glad to see you back,” she says before breezing away to another customer.

As Heather sips her coffee and bites into her honey-drizzled avocado toast, her cell phone is still propped on the counter.

So while having her breakfast, she decides on something.

It’s easy enough to do. Before delivering Celia’s letter to Shane, Heather had snapped a photograph of it.

Now, one swipe of her phone brings the letter to the screen.

But she hesitates. In these few days since, she’s not taken even a glance at what she’d written.

Not given a look at the words penned while sitting in her rented cottage at Stony Point.

While she bent over a piece of paper at that tiny front porch table.

The same table where Shane shared his rope-entanglement story.

Sitting here in San Francisco now, it’s surprisingly difficult to read the letter to Celia. But Heather tells herself this: She won’t decide if it was the right thing to say. Won’t judge herself.

First, though, she picks at a few strawberries; glances outside to the street.

Then, she does it.

And just like with the Stony Point images, Heather tries, tries, tries as she might to read her own penned words through Celia’s eyes.

Dear Celia,

I struggle with what to say here. With how to begin.

It can’t be standard fare. Can’t be that I miss you.

Or that I’m sorry. Or let’s try again. And here’s why.

It’s because of what my heart really wants you to know.

Which is this. My heart stopped when I realized it was you last week in my shop.

Standing before me was the beautiful daughter—and mother now—whose life I once held in my hands. Literally and figuratively.

You see, all those years ago, when I discovered that I was pregnant with you?

I was very young, in my early twenties, newly married, with big dreams. Dreams that were starting to crystallize.

So I’d scheduled an abortion. Nobody knew I was pregnant.

Nobody knew what I was about to do—except for a dear friend who’d drive me to the clinic.

I invited her because I knew she would really listen to my side, my decision.

And she did. But on that car ride, she also talked openly with me.

With no pressure, no judgment. She just gave me this safe space to consider, weigh, wonder.

So before we actually arrived at the clinic, we’d scrutinized my situation—and my choices.

Your father didn’t even know yet that I was pregnant.

And if I did abort, it would’ve stayed that way.

He’d never know. Instead, Gavin and I would’ve gone on with our plan and moved to California together—none the worse for wear.

But I had another option, too .

I also had the freedom—in that one car ride—to wrestle with my decision.

And it was a difficult decision—but mine to make. Oh, I owned my tormented thoughts. My struggle. The conflict. The car ride that morning was so emotionally wrought. But because of all that … I changed my mind.

I never went inside that clinic.

Instead, I brought you into this world.

Oh, Celia. I’m not saying that any one choice is right—either way.

But as an adult, the power to choose your life, your path, is critical.

And I’ve never regretted my choice that one day.

Because choice is freedom. It’s dove wings.

And Celia, your choices cannot be decided for you.

Your choice to walk out of my shop. Your choice in how to handle this note.

They’re your choices and shouldn’t be decided by anyone else.

Not by me. Not by Gavin. Not by the government.

Not by friends. Not by social mores. Not by Shane.

So what I actually want to say to you is this. I wish you and your daughter a lifetime of good choices. Thoughtful decisions that fulfill you both. That are right for you. And not to worry about how they might be perceived. Only you know best—for you. Please remember that.

We didn’t say much together when you and Aria were in August Dove.

But I’m grateful for the words you did say.

You clarified the meaning of your daughter’s name.

Aria. How the name wasn’t derived from song, but rather from that beautiful aria di mare.

Italian for the air of the sea. I want to share something, too.

The meaning of your name, Celia? It’s a derivative of the Latin word for heaven.

Always now, the names of you and your daughter leave me with stunning imagery … heaven surrounded by sea air. Where you live—but also with each other. Not a bad place for you and your daughter to forever be.

And so I thank you, Celia. For stepping into my shop—and life—however briefly. For letting me see even that much.

Heather

Quickly then, Heather drops the phone in her tote. She stands, too. Slips into her brown-plaid coat, takes a sharp breath, hurries out of the café, crosses the San Francisco street and unlocks the door to August Dove.