Page 51 of What Love Can Do
Lilly watched them, remembering when life was simple.
She snapped a couple photos of the little girls playing, then she reread Maggie’s words about her first kiss: And there, underneath the park gazebo, he asked if he could kiss me…and then he lowered his head, and our lips touched. Like magic, sorcery, and kismet all rolled into one.
Lilly knew exactly where the gazebo was, in the back of the park, because she’d hung out there many a time long ago. It was a perfect place for kissing. When she arrived, she laid the old journal on the wooden seating, probably where Maggie had once sat, stepped back, and framed the shot, taking pics of the whole composition.
Satisfied with her photos, she walked back to the car.
From there, she moved on to the flower market down the road, purchased a small bouquet of sunflowers from Mrs. Garcia, and thought of another great photo. Laying Maggie’s journal on an old chair just outside the flower shop, she stepped back and framed another shot, taking pic after pic of the old diary in front of the store. Another historic Maggie-Grant spot.
After that, it was the bleachers behind Green Valley High School on the football field where their marching band was rehearsing for the big game this Friday. Lilly flipped open to the right page.
And right there, Maggie had written, underneath the second column of the bleachers, Grant asked me to run away with him to Ireland. It was the single most romantic moment of my life. We etched our names for all posterity to see. Ha! Such rebels.
No mention of her father.
No guilt over the pain they might cause him.
Lilly took this as a sign of how deeply in love Maggie had been with Grant. She smiled at the words and at her own ability to forgive and forget and searched for the etched names underneath the bleachers, enjoying this post-mortem game of scavenger hunt. It took a while, but finally, on the underside of the bleachers, carved into thin, shiny metal were the initials MP <3 GO.
Lillian propped the journal up between two perpendicular beams and framed the shot. The marching band’s trumpet line blared the ending to a song, just as Lilly snapped the photo. The perfect finish.
“Gotcha.”
Putting her phone away, ideas for the album tore through her mind like a tornado, swirling up a cocktail of creativity. Tonight, she would compose these together for Quinn as a gift. If she knew anything about manly men, most wouldn’t take the time to compile the pics in any coherent way.
This way, he’d have a tangible memory of his time here in Forestville, of his “mam” and dad, and possibly of her too.
That evening, Lillian sat at her laptop, furiously working away at her photo project. She deeply regretted not standing up for Quinn at the most crucial moment and had to undo it somehow. This would be a start—a worthwhile peace offering. She wasn’t perfect, but she was doing her best to do right by him.
Listening to Billie Holiday with a glass of wine by her side, she listened to the lyrics as she worked and thought about how difficult some people had it, how hard they’d struggled in their lives for a measly salary, and she felt luckier than ever to have the opportunities coming her way. So in some ways, this photo album she was creating using Mosaic was a testament to dreams—Maggie’s dreams—and of keeping them alive.
She added in a few pics of them together for good measure, ones they had taken at the vineyard, at the hotel on the Pacific Coast, even the secret ones at Phillips Vineyard & Winery. For fun, she included the shots she’d taken of him and Con stuffing their faces full of her muffins, and another one—a selfie of her holding his mom’s journal, and snuck that one in as well. Hopefully, he’d smile out loud when he saw them.
Finally, on the last page of the leather photo album, she wrote:
Love, Your Muffin Girl
– Lilly
Editing it one last time and putting it in her online shopping cart, she paid for overnight shipping, said a little prayer, and sent off the order. A happy face and thank you! popped up on screen. Lilly slowly folded her laptop.
“Well, that was that,” she muttered.
Throwing herself on her bed, she stared at the ceiling fan above and wondered what Quinn was doing at this very moment. Had he noticed the journal was missing but put off having to come back here? Was he missing her at all? Because she missed him terribly.
She missed his joking way with her, his dark brown eyes and the swoony way he’d look at her right before he kissed her. She missed his lips. She missed his strong arms, remembering how safe she felt in them. But most of all, she missed him—all of him.
Twenty-One
The morning after driving away from his mam’s childhood home, Quinn looked out at The Cat’s Meow, the park, and the Catholic church across the street, thinking how quickly he’d become accustomed to these sights in just a short time. Pulling on the front door handle of Mulligan’s, the bell sounded, and he strolled inside.
“You’re sure you’d be okay with it, mate?” Quinn asked Paul Brennan twenty minutes later.
“Wouldn’t regret it for a second, Quinn. Would be handing her over to great hands.” Paul winked at him and went back to wiping down the countertop.
How many times in one lifetime did bartenders wipe down the same bar? Quinn wondered. He reminded himself that if he was going to do this, he’d have to follow the same advice he’d given Lilly about not becoming a slave to the business.
“Alright,” Quinn muttered, swigging back his pint. Setting the glass down on the counter, he paid his tab and headed back to the motel room to start doing the numbers. It wasn’t until he rummaged through his travel bag, searching for the notebook where he jotted down ideas that he noticed something.