Page 93 of Piece By Piece

The square was quiet.

The fairy lights were on, of course, and that owl cookie jar had just been refilled that morning with shortbread.

Through the open door of the bookstore, they could hear Dixie humming something from the country music station as she closed out the register.

Grant had a crossword grid on his lap, as he often did.

He was working on a new puzzle.

It had actually been commissioned by a small press in Vermont that reached out after the festival.

They wanted a monthly crossword for their literary magazine, published under the name W. Elliott.

Grant had said yes, because he could work from Seagrove and no one would ever ask him to attend a conference.

Liza had her laptop open, creating a marketing plan for the bookstore’s fall reading series.

She had designed the whole thing: author events, book clubs, a children’s literacy program tied to the Seagrove Scholars Fund.

Dixie had reviewed the proposal and said, “Honey, this is too many spreadsheets and not enough heart.”

But then she’d read the event descriptions and said, “Never mind, it’s perfect.”

Liza closed her laptop and leaned against Grant’s shoulder.

He shifted slightly to make more room for her, the way he always did.

“I called my mom today,” she said.

“How’d it go?”

“She wants to visit. She wants to see Dixie. She wants to meet you.” She paused. “She also wants to see her husband’s crossword books in a place where the person who made them lives.”

Grant was quiet for a moment. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think your dad would have liked it too.”

Liza smiled. She reached into her bag and pulled out the crossword book. Her father’s. The one that had traveled from Charleston to Seagrove in a box of things she could never leave behind.

She opened it to the page she’d marked.

This creator is a genius. I’d love to meet him someday.

She held it out so Grant could see it.

He’d read it before, of course, but tonight, in the fairy lights, with her shoulder warm against his, the words hit differently.

He took the book from her and held it for a moment, then picked up his pencil, not a pen, and wrote in the margin beside her father’s note in his small handwriting.

It’s nice to meet you, David. Your daughter found me. I’m glad she did.

He handed the book back.

Liza read it and pressed her lips together.

She closed the book and held it against her chest.