Page 78 of Wild Sanctuary

I look at the ice cream. Then at June. “Right now.”

Her smile brightens, and she nods as I pick up my spoon.

“He used to save the cherry for last.” I relish my first spoon. “Every single time. Said it was the only logical way to eat ice cream.”

“Was he right?”

I look at the cherry sitting on top of what’s left of my first scoop.

“Probably.” I eat it immediately. “But I never did inherit that particular patience.”

June shakes her head like she’s filed that away as entirely on brand.

“He used to wink at Rosie, like they were conspiring. And she’d pretend not to notice.”

“She noticed.” June grins. “Told me once Tom Monroe made her feel like a co-conspirator in something delightful.”

I press my lips together, then furrow my brow.

“I keep finding him. Parts of him I didn’t know existed. Parts I did.”

June turns her spoon slowly. “He was proud of you. Every single day.”

“Marcus said he printed my articles.”

“He did. Made people read them at Sunday dinner. Colt complained every time and still read every word.”

I laugh softly.

“West asked questions,” she adds. “Good ones.”

We eat in comfortable silence for a minute, the diner warm around us.

“June,” I start softly. “Thank you. For all of it. The dress. The boots. The tea.” I pause. “Wyatt’s office.”

She looks at me sideways. “Don’t make a thing of it.”

“I’m trying to say thank you.”

“Well, stop. You’re family.” She says it the same way West did, like it’s a fact that doesn’t require defending. “You always were. We were just waiting for you to come back and remember it.”

I look at my ice cream. “I’m leaving next week.”

She nods. “I know.”

Neither of us says anything else. We finish our two scoops, and the jukebox plays on, and outside through the window, Main Street goes about its Friday afternoon entirely indifferent to the fact that I came here for answers and I’m almost out of time to find them.

June leaves a tip that’s too generous and we head back out into the afternoon.

“June.” I stop on the sidewalk. “What was your errand?”

She’s already walking toward the truck, keys in hand. “I ran it.”

“You didn’t buy anything.”

“No.” She unlocks the door and looks at me across the hood with a smile that is entirely too pleased with itself. “I didn’t.”

I stand there for a second, running back through the last hour. The bookshop. Rosie’s. Two scoops of strawberry cheesecake and a conversation about my father that I didn’t know I needed.