Reader TTS

“Because it _is_ in Ollie’s best interest to learn how to swim.” Confused, I stared at him. “Whose side are you on? Because I’m getting mixed signals.” “I’m not taking sides. I’m trying to

help.” “Well, you’re not.” I kept my voice low, tame, as to not alert Ollie that there was tension in the air. She seemed oblivious, however, as she stacked blocks only to plow them over

with her new toy. “Don’t you see, Natalie? You allowed fear to make the decision. You weren’t thinking about what you knew, as Ollie’s mama, was best for your little girl, because you_ do_

know that Ollie learning to swim is a good thing. You let fear take away your voice.” His words, and knowing he was right, cut like a jagged, rusty knife. I turned away from him, unable to

look at him a moment longer without bursting into tears. I’d sworn off crying long ago. Tears did nothing at all except make me feel like I was drowning too. “The blame,” he said, “for that

argument last night isn’t on your mother, and it’s not on you. It’s on the accident that killed someone you loved deeply. It might be a good thing to talk to someone about that, a bit more

in depth.” He reached around me, a business card in his hand. I stared at it through blurry eyes before taking it. “Grief can change a person to the point where they become someone they

don’t know, or even like very much. I don’t want that to happen to you. Or to Ollie.” I had the feeling his message was more than advice—it was an explanation. My mother had changed

completely after AJ died, but she had never sought help to deal with her grief. Would life have been different for me if she had? Or was there no turning back after experiencing the pain of

losing a child? He gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You’re not going to find healing in a piece of pie, Natalie. The healing’s got to come from within you. Make the appointment, please?” Unable

to talk, I nodded. I’d call. “We’ll be leaving in five minutes,” he said. “Are you walking over to the courthouse with us?” If I was going to back out of going to the movie, now was the time

to do so. As much as I wanted to stay home, my father’s wisdom had hit its mark. What was best for Ollie? My gaze drifted to my daughter, in her Tinkerbell outfit, with that scarred toy

tractor clutched in her hand as if it were the most priceless object in the world. Maybe it was. I closed my hand around the business card and found my voice. “I need to pack a few things,

so it might take a minute. You don’t have to wait for us if you need to get going.” “We’ll wait for you, Natalie,” he said quietly as he walked to the door. “Always have. Always will.” ANNA

KATE Saturday at almost midnight, I sipped my hot tea and tried not to stress. Today, I’d sold four kinds of blackbird pies, twelve in total. I’d increased the pie output because of a tip

from Mr. Boyd late yesterday afternoon. He’d mentioned how word of the blackbirds had spread throughout southern birding groups and many were headed here this weekend for a glimpse of the

rare birds. They’d arrived in full force this morning, and not a crumb of pie remained by noon. All those pies had held a secret—a teaspoonful of mulberry syrup, which on its own was pretty

terrible, but it was practically undetectable in pie filling to those who weren’t looking for it. The flavor of the mulberry came across boldly to me, as if my taste buds had been searching

for it all along, and I hoped the syrup would be enough to get the blackbirds to sing. I had the feeling the proper secret ingredient was a fully ripened mulberry, but I still didn’t know

how Zee had managed to use them in pies year-round. For now, the syrup would have to do. Whether the syrup had worked its magic, I’d know tonight. Looking out the window, I saw that the

birders gathered seemed just as anxious as I was—fidgety and oddly quiet. Unable to stand still, I itched to cook something, anything, but I didn’t want to mess up the clean kitchen. I’d

already made another twelve pies for tomorrow: apple, peach, blackberry, and rhubarb. They sat in the pie case, their flaky crusts the perfect shade of golden brown. Instead, I washed my

teacup and busied myself by neatening rags in the laundry room, triple-checking inventory, and making sure the restroom was spotless. Finally—finally—the clock turned over to twelve. I shut

off all the lights inside but kept on the outdoor lights that dimly illuminated the backyard. I stood at the screen door. Crickets, katydids, and frogs vied for volume, and fireflies were

like sparks of magic in the garden. The thick, humid air stilled as the blackbirds emerged from the leafy tunnel, and it seemed to me that they took extra time tonight in the sky, soaring

and circling in rhythm like some sort of dance only they knew. An aerial ballet. The night silenced as the blackbirds landed, the fireflies dimmed, and the blackbirds … began to sing. Tender

notes, sweetly melodious. Even with no lyrics, the songs told stories of love, of life, of laughter, of sadness, of hope. Harmonies rose, then fell as if in conversation, the emotional

tones eliciting in me memories of my mom and me standing side by side at the sink, doing dishes together as we talked of weekend plans. It reminded me of Zee and me, holding hands as we

walked along dense wooded pathways, the air heavy with the scent of the earth. It seemed as though time stood still as I listened to the ethereal symphony, my chest aching, my throat

tightening as my soul found peace for the first time in a long while. When the blackbirds finished their glorious songs, the birders erupted in applause. I closed and locked the door, and

climbed the stairs with tears in my eyes. I waited up for a while longer, hoping for another visit from the two rogue blackbirds, but they never came. Still wrapped in that feeling of peace,

I fell into bed and closed my eyes, and tried not to worry about how hard it was going to be to leave the magic of Wicklow behind. 12 ANNA KATE The following morning, I crouched in the

garden, a basket at my feet as I filled it with the day’s bounty. “I see you’ve forgiven me,” I said to the zucchini plant closest to the deck steps. I tugged a small zucchini from its stem,

its beautiful green skin seemingly more vibrant in the hazy morning light than it would be in full sunshine. “Aren’t you pretty? What shall we make with you? Frittatas? Fries?” Anything but

zucchini loaves was just fine with me. I’d decided to nurture the zucchini instead of curse it. The two plants were coming along nicely. In only a few days, they’d lost their sickly

appearance and had perked up. They were still on the small side, but I had faith they’d be full and healthy in no time. There were plenty of orange-colored blossoms peeking through the

leaves. As I worked collecting more zucchini, cucumbers, squash, beans, and rhubarb, I tuned out the drone of birders camped in the side yard. Many had come to me yesterday for permission to

set up tents, which I allowed, or pop-up campers, which I had not. The yard already looked enough like a campground without any trailers parked there. However, Pebbles Lutz had offered up

her back field to recreational vehicles for the cost of only twenty dollars a night. The acreage was already on its way to being full. I halfheartedly pulled crabgrass as I walked around the

garden, noting that I needed to spend some time doing it right. Zee, I decided, must have spent hours out here every day just on the upkeep. I checked on the progress of the tomatoes and

two lonesome corn stalks and stopped in front of the yarrow. Doc Linden had stopped by the café again this morning to reissue his invitation to supper this afternoon. I’d declined, and he

said he’d be back in a few days to ask me to next week’s meal. He could ask until he was blue in the face. It wasn’t going to happen. I finally made my way over to the mulberry trees and

smiled at the leaves, seeing that they were flat, not curled. Some brown tips remained, but hopefully after a few more songs, the trees would flourish once again. I picked a cluster of

mulberries—the pinkest ones I could find—to make another batch of syrup. As I headed back to the café, I saw Summer Pavegeau coming up the path from the side gate, a basket on her arm. “Good

morning, ma’—Anna Kate.” “Hi, Summer,” I said. “You’re up early.” Today she wore a pale blue dress that highlighted her tanned skin and those big blue eyes. Her long hair shone in the

morning light, sunbeams glancing off natural highlights. On her feet were a pair of leather sandals, and she looked like she wanted nothing more than to kick them off and go barefoot as she

shifted foot to foot. “I usually come by early on Sundays, before church.” “Makes sense. Thanks for the eggs you’ve been leaving on the deck these past couple of days. Come on inside, and

I’ll get your payment. Would you like a piece of pie, too?” Hope bloomed in her eyes. “Is it fixed?” She followed me up the steps and into the kitchen. “I think so?” I wouldn’t know for sure

until Mr. Lazenby arrived. He was my test subject. “The blackbirds are singing again.” I set my basket on the counter and checked the crock-pot. I was making a salve to give to Natalie for

her blisters, and using the crock-pot to speed along the process. A faint sheen of moisture glazed her eyes. “Then yes, ma’am, I’d like a piece, if you have enough to spare.” I let the

“ma’am” slide as I glanced over my shoulder at the twelve pies in the case. “I guess that depends on how many pieces you’d like.” She laughed, then looked around. “Why does it smell like

marigolds in here?” “Calendula-infused oil.” I motioned to the crock-pot. _Calendula officinalis_ was best known as the common marigold. “Marigold petals have great healing properties for

skin ailments and injuries.” Among many other things. In tea, it helped with digestive issues. She smiled. “Cool.” I thought so too. Then her gaze narrowed as she looked in my basket. “You

do know that those pink mulberries are going to be sour.” “Oh, I know they are. I’m making syrup with them, using lots of sugar to sweeten them up.” “Syrup would taste better if the berries

were ripe,” she said slowly, as if wanting to correct my decision without coming off as critical. “I still have a good week or so before the mulberries will be ripe, and I need them now.” I

unpacked the rest of the basket, hoping she didn’t ask me why. I wasn’t sure I was allowed to share the secret ingredient to someone who wasn’t a family member. “Oh, for the pies?” I almost

dropped a zucchini. “How’d you know?” She smiled, a slow, sly smile. “For one, I can taste them. Also, for the last few years, Zee hired me on to help her gather the berries, remove their

stems, and process them.” She frowned. “The stems are a nightmare.” “Wait, process them?” “Sure. Zee has years’ worth stashed away in small jars. They’re adorable, the jars, but

time-consuming to assemble and steam. I’m surprised you haven’t been using those for your _syrup,_” she said, as though I were making cow pies, not something edible. “There’s no processed

mulberries. I’ve looked. Bow and Jena haven’t seen any either.” “Oh my word. I’m sorry. I didn’t even think—Zee claimed those mulberries were the most valuable thing in the café, and didn’t

like people knowing about them. She hid them. I should’ve thought to tell you, seeing as how you’re making the pies now. I’ll show you where they are.” I immediately thought it odd that Zee

hadn’t told Bow and Jena of the mulberry cache but trusted Summer with the information. She’d told the couple about me, as she had with Summer, so why not share the mulberries with them too?

I followed her into the pantry, and she closed the door behind us. “Just in case.” Baffled, I went along, not entirely sure why she was taking me into the pantry when I’d already told her

there were no mulberries to be found.