Forgiveness

It didn’t take a psychic to see what was in her letter. She’d found me and wanted to be part of my life.

What life? You’re not exactly living La Vida Loca. Why not let go of the past?

I didn’t want to argue with myself today. The warm breeze scattered the sycamore leaves I had swept into a neat pile earlier, providing a welcome break from the scorching August heat, made worse by the unusual heatwave. Reed would arrive soon. I half wished he wouldn’t come.

No, you don’t.

I do.

He’s another person you should forgive. It’s not his fault he loves you.

It’s complicated. He won’t understand.

How do you know if you don’t give him a chance?

And the debate inside my head continued.

I stood up and paced the deck, trying to gather my thoughts, but it was no use; they’d never paid me much attention before. I didn’t know why I thought today would be different. Maybe my nagging inner voice was right. Should I throw caution to the wind and… Reed’s tires crunching on the gravel path beside the house stopped me mid-thought. I quickly returned to the green Adirondack and sat down before he reached the porch and caught me in mid-panic.

“Cassie, what are you doing out…Babe, your shoulders are pink?” He leaned over the chair and kissed me on the right cheek. He smelled sweet, like melon, and spicy like roasted green chilies.

“You stopped at Willy’s place.” His eyebrows arched in response to my statement. “Smell your shirt, definitely green chili." He smiled, and my heart raced at the warmth in his blue-gray eyes.

That man deserves your trust.

He picked up the letter and read the return address. “Still wrestling with your past?”

“I need some way to spend my days.” He handed over the envelope without any judgment. If I allowed myself to love this lanky man kneeling beside me, this would be why. He stood and offered his hand, which I accepted without question. His kiss quieted the chaos in my mind.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he told me.

“You should.”

“Your secrets aren’t any worse than mine."

My questioning brows furrowed.

“I know she left you when you were young, and you grew up in an orphanage.”

“You investigated me?”

“Not by choice. Let’s go inside. It’s too hot out here.”

He led me into the house, seated me at the farmhouse table, and poured me a glass of wine. He told me about the missing person’s report that crossed his desk the previous year—a mother searching for her estranged daughter. The description was vague. If not for the mention of the tattoo on the inside of the arm at the base of the hand, he wouldn't have connected the dots.

“Not many people have a star and waxing moon tattoo quite like this one.” He ran his fingers over the inked skin and smiled. His eyes said what his words did not. He didn’t care. He turned away before the sparks slipping through the tips of my fingers flew.

Strange that his touch on my birthmark had that effect.

Your magic knows what you’re hesitant to accept.

“Why didn’t you mention it?” I wrapped my arms around my middle and held tight.

“Being left behind isn’t anything to be ashamed of. It’s probably why she’s so determined to find you. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

Tell him.

I can’t.

Just tell him.

“I’m… different,” I blurted.

“I know.” He turned and looked at me. “Your eyes change colors depending on your mood. Sparks fly out of your fingers when you’re nervous, and you talk in your sleep,” he chuckled.

“I do? What do I say?” A ripple of panic once again sent sparks flying.

“Breathe. Nothing to fret about. I think you’re making lists, but honestly, Hon, I have no idea. We can record it if it helps.”

His offer disarmed my defenses and knocked down one of my many walls. I inhaled, leaned forward, and took a chance. “But…you stayed and didn’t—”

“You’ll eventually come around to loving me back, and being a Sheriff doesn’t give me the right to arrest someone who can grow flowers with a touch or can see things before they happen.”

I moaned. He had seen me all along.

“I figured that’s why you live all the way out here and keep to yourself.”

It’s time. Tell him. And don’t ask yourself a million what-if questions.

The wine was gone in a few gulps.

For the next hour, I shared my past with him. I told him about Mom leaving me with

Dad’s people, Old Testament types, convinced I had devil blood running through my veins and their efforts to exorcise the demons. About how, when their efforts failed, they dumped me at St. Teresa’s Home, and where I stayed until my body flourished in unholy ways. I told him about Father Mac visiting my bed at night and how the good sisters had kicked me out when they found out. Harder was telling him that I was just seventeen, two months pregnant, and homeless. I told him about losing the baby in the first month on the road. He hadn't said anything, but he cursed and walked out. I watched the screen door slam against the doorjamb.

I knew it, I said to my annoying inner voice. He’s like everyone else. I sagged, my heart sinking inside me.

You’re wrong, he’s coming back.

I was startled when the screen door swung open. He set the letter from my mother in front of me.

“Maybe she can help you.”

I told you he was different. He might be right about her. It’s time to let go of the past and your fears, and to take a chance on tomorrows, Reed, and your mother.

I stared at the envelope, fingers trembling slightly, unsure whether I wanted to open it or set it on fire.

Reed poured another glass of wine and set it beside me. “You don’t have to read it now.”

“I know,” I said, but I didn’t move.

The house carried the weight of time—lemon oil clinging to the air, cedar groaned underfoot, and now, the warm trace of someone who didn’t plan to leave. A comforting sense of peace settled over me.

I told you he was different.

“I’m scared she’ll disappoint me again,” I whispered. “Or that I’ll disappoint her.”

Reed didn’t offer empty words. He simply placed a hand on mine, and the sparks remained still. It felt like giving consent. Like trusting. I took a breath and tore open the flap. Inside was a single page, her handwriting still looping and messy, like mine. She told me she was clean now. That she never stopped thinking about me. That she was sorry. That she had changed.

“She says she wants to meet,” I murmured, glancing up at Reed.

“What do you want?”

I stared out the window, where the sycamore leaves swirled again, like they were applauding the moment.

“I think… I want to know if forgiveness feels as magical as it seems. I want to find out.”

He smiled, gentle but sure. “Then let’s find out together.”

I folded the letter and tucked it inside the cookbook drawer, the one with all the old recipes and none of the instructions. Seemed fitting.

Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of rain and a promise of cooler weather. Reed touched my back, steadying me as I stood.

Maybe it doesn’t take a psychic to see what’s next. But it helps to believe.

And this time, I do.