All these years later and ignorance remains an issue.
“Maybe that’s the problem.” Taylor’s gaze drops to the table top my forearm was resting on a short while ago. “Your friends, those of us who believe in you…why aren’t we in front of your house, protesting the protesters?”
“Because you respect my neighborhood more than the protesters do. You don’t want to feed the trolls. And you shouldn’t. I doubt staging a counter protest would solve the problem. It might make things worse.” I sink back in the chair. “There are times when a counter protest is a good thing. This isn’t one of them.”
The counter protest might only encourage more protesters to come out, making the situation worse.
“You might be right about that.” Taylor releases another frustrated sigh.
She drives us home to Maple Ridge. The number of protesters outside my house has diminished compared to before my little rant yesterday. I don’t know if my words actually reached some of them or if they grew bored waiting for me after I left this morning with Taylor.
She pulls into my driveway, and I hug her. “Thank you again. For everything.”
Her arms tighten around me. “You’re welcome. And I hope once all the stupidity ends, I’ll see you at Barside with Troy and everyone.”
I promise her I’ll eventually be there, and I get out of her car. I wave goodbye and hurry to the backyard gate.
Zara’s sitting at the wrought-iron table on the patio, looking at something on her phone. Shadows from the oak tree dapple a pattern on the ground near her feet and paint the back half of a snoozing Bailey. A white box from Picnic & Treats rests on the table.
I push open the gate. At the sound of the creaking hinges, Zara’s and Bailey’s heads pop up. Zara smiles. “I have a special delivery for you.” She taps the side of the white box.
Bailey waits with her limited puppy-patience for me to call her, her wide eyes pleading for me to say the magic words. “Bailey. Come.” She bounds over to me and laps up my attention. I laugh. “Yes, I missed you too.”
“Let’s see your tattoo!” Zara strides toward us. Bailey and I join her at the edge of the patio. “Simone dropped Bailey off when I told her I was coming here since you were on your way home,” Zara explains.
Simone had texted me a short time ago to also tell me that.
“Thank you.” I lift my arm for Zara to see. The clear film clinging to my skin allows her to see the colorful design underneath.
“That’s incredible…and so beautiful. I know Taylor is a talented artist. I just didn’t realize the depths of her talents.”
We walk to the table, and I open the white box. Inside is a small cake covered with white, rolled fondant and decorated with flowers and butterflies.
“Oh, that’s perfect!” The words fly from me on a gasp. “Thank you for doing this on such short notice.”
“Keshia was thrilled to make it for you.”
“Does she know why I want it?” I’m trying to keep the number of people who know I have a daughter to a minimum.
“No. And she didn’t ask any questions. Also, I’ve texted Garrett to send Troy here once they get to the cabins.”
“Did you tell him why?”
“No. I told him it wasn’t an emergency, so he doesn’t give Troy a heart attack.”
“Good thinking.” Knowing Troy, he’d rush back, thinking I’m in great danger. His protective nature seems to kick into overdrive when he’s been away for the weekend.
Zara leaves, and I let Bailey and myself into the house. I place the cake on the kitchen counter and collect my laptop from my bedroom.
I pause for a heartbeat inside my bedroom door, and then walk into the closet. I pull down from the top shelf the wooden box with the lotus carved in it. The box I bought at the festival in June. The box where I keep the few things of Amelia’s I still have.
I sit on my bed, open the lid, and remove the items one by one. Amelia’s baby shoe with tiny pink flowers painted on the white canvas. Her teeny-tiny sleeper with cute pink hearts all over it from Granny. Her birth announcement. And the only three print photos I have of her—when she was nine months, twenty months, and five years old.
I look at them for several minutes until tears make it impossible to see them anymore. I put them away in the box, return it to my closet shelf, and go downstairs.
* * *
A loud rappingon the back door jerks my attention from the laptop. I’d been so absorbed in writing Angelique’s story, I hadn’t realized the time. I’ve been writing for almost an hour.
