She blinked hard, as if fending off tears. “Why did you?”
He dragged a hand through his hair. Why? It was a ridiculous question. And he had absolutely no idea how to answer it. “When I left for Boston, I didn’t know . . . I thought you’d still be here when I got back, that there’d be time. If I had known you wouldn’t be . . .” He dropped his hands to his sides, abandoning the pretense. “I came because I needed to see your face one last time.”
The tears Lizzy had been fighting finally spilled down her cheeks. How had she ever thought it would be easy to leave this man? Or that skipping town while he was gone would be less painful for either of them? It seemed incomprehensible now.
But then, so much seemed incomprehensible after what she’d just read. She should say something, make him understand, but she couldn’t seem to find the words.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Andrew.” She reached for him, but he pulled away. “I was trying to make it easier.”
“You thought this would be easier?”
“Andrew . . . listen to me.”
“I’ve been listening. I’ve heard everything you said. Every single time you said it. Did I hope you’d change your mind? Yeah. But I get it now. So I came to say goodbye.”
She put a hand to his lips, cutting him off. “I’m staying, Andrew. I’m not going back to New York.”
“You’re . . .” He grabbed both her hands, as if afraid she might run away. “But Rhanna said . . . What made you change your mind?”
Lizzy smiled up at him. “Nine generations of Moon women, a dandelion—and you.”
He frowned, clearly puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“The things you said—about me planning to slip out of town without saying goodbye, the part about the FOR SALE sign—it’s all true. That’s exactly what I was going to do. But this afternoon I was packing some of Althea’s things, and it hit me. I can’t walk away from what those women built, what they made, who they were, what they endured so that I could be here. They’re part of my story—and I’m part of theirs. I don’t think I understood that until today. They’re my legacy. Not this place—not the buildings or the land—the women.”
“What about your job?”
“I can make perfume here.”
Andrew stared at her, his expression guarded. “You’re going to just walk away from your life in New York?”
“I am. I’ve spent the last hour walking in the woods, trying to reconcile what I want with what I promised myself all those years ago, and here’s what I realized. My mother was right. I’m allowed to be happy, and this is my chance. You’re my chance. And the rest of it’s just crap. I’ll call Luc tomorrow and tell him he needs to find a new creative director.” She reached up to touch his face, inhaling the warm amber scent of him. “I want to write my story here, Andrew—with you, if you’ll still have me.”
His arms went around her, his breath warm against her mouth as he pulled her close. “I love you, Elzibeth Moon. I loved you when I was eighteen, and I’ll love you when I’m eighty. Those are just the facts.”
He kissed her then, his mouth achingly tender as it closed over hers. She had nearly walked away from this—from him. From everything they could have and be together, to return to what her grandmother called half a life. How could she have ever considered it? Althea had spoken of blank pages, reminding her that how her own pages eventually got filled was a choice only she could make. And now she had chosen.
“I plan to hold you to that,” she whispered between kisses. “The part about loving me until I’m eighty, I mean.”
He stepped back just a little, grinning down at her. “What happened to not being cut out for happily-ever-after?”
Lizzy slid out of his arms, took his hand, and led him to the shade of Althea’s favorite willow tree. “This happened,” she said, picking up The Book of Remembrances from the bench and handing it to him.
Andrew glanced at the handwritten page, then back at Lizzy. “This is the book you told me about, the one Althea left for you, with all the pressed flowers.”
“It is,” she said, smiling softly. “Read the last page.”
Gardenia . . . for secret love.
Dear Lizzy,
I was twenty-two when I met Peter Markey. We met at the fair one day when he nearly ran me over with a handcart. I thought he was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. Dark haired and blue eyed, with a smile that made me go weak at the knees. He was there with his father, a photographer working one of those dress-up booths. He asked if he could buy me a cider. I knew my mother wouldn’t approve, and that I should say no, but I didn’t. The next day we met again. By day three, I was in love.
We saw each other as often as we could. He lived in Somersworth, so it was hard. But we managed, sneaking off whenever we both had a free hour. We’d go to the pictures—that’s what we called it in those days—or dancing at this little place in Dover, where no one knew us. I told my mother I was with my friends, but she figured it out. I think she knew about the baby before I did. When I told her Peter wanted to marry me, she forbid it.
She reminded me of Sabine’s story, and why our kind must never marry—because no man must ever be allowed to rob a Moon of her power. Our loyalty, she said,
