“Then you have a cat.”

“Oh, no, I don’t,” Christy-Lynn countered firmly. “I’ve never even had a goldfish. But you could take him. The boys have been pestering you for a pet.”

“Yes, they have. They’ve been pestering me for a dog. And since there’s zero chance I can pass off an orange tabby as a golden retriever, I’m afraid he’s yours.”

Christy-Lynn glowered at the cat. “Don’t go getting comfortable, mister. I am not keeping you.”

Missy chuckled as she handed Christy-Lynn a gift bag brimming with silver tissue. “Maybe, but he appears to be keeping you. That’s how it works, by the way. You don’t pick them. They pick you. Now open your present.”

“I wish you hadn’t done this.”

“It’s no big deal but hurry up. I’m dying to know if you like it.”

Christy-Lynn reached into the nest of tissue, groping blindly until she located a small box. She felt self-conscious as she lifted the lid and then her breath caught. “Oh, Missy . . .”

Against the box’s black velvet interior lay a bracelet adorned with a trio of silver charms: a tiny house with a porch and chimney, an open book, and a to-go cup inscribed with the word latte.

“Missy, you shouldn’t have, but I love it. The charms are perfect.”

“They represent the pieces of your new life. There’s one for the bungalow, another for the store, and one for the café. It’s up to you to fill up the rest.”

There was no missing the unspoken message. It’s time to get on with your life. It seemed to be the general consensus these days. And she really was trying. She was a million miles from her life in Clear Harbor. But the ghost of that other self was still with her, anchoring her to the past, clouding the future.

She fingered the charms one at a time, carefully chosen symbols of the life she had begun to create for herself. “Sometimes it feels like none of it’s real, Missy, like I’m just pretending. I can’t let myself settle into it. There are still so many things I need to sort out, pieces of myself I haven’t been able to put back together.”

“I know, baby, but it’ll come.”

“When?”

“When you’re ready.”

“What if I’m never ready?”

Missy set down her mimosa, her expression suddenly stern. “I don’t believe in never, and neither should you.”

A tiny V appeared between Christy-Lynn’s brows. “How can you not believe in never? It’s just a word.”

“No,” Missy said firmly. “It isn’t. It’s all the doors we keep shut. It’s the places we won’t let ourselves go, the things we won’t let ourselves have or be, because we don’t think we’re good enough or strong enough for more. I know because that used to be me. And then I became a single parent, and I realized I didn’t have time for nevers.” She paused, her smile thin and tremulous. “All I’m saying is don’t live a smaller life than you deserve.”

Christy-Lynn nodded, the appropriate response when a friend gave you good advice. And it was good advice. For most people. But then most people knew what they wanted—and what they deserved.

THIRTY-TWO

Christy-Lynn crossed the street when she spotted the sign for the Moon Maiden. After three straight nights of waking up in a cold sweat, she had decided to take Missy’s advice and talk to Dar.

A set of brass bells jangled as she pushed inside the dimly lit shop. The space was cool and quiet, the air scented with sandalwood. Dar appeared from the back, pale haired and nymphlike in a flowing skirt of hyacinth-hued silk and a filmy white blouse. She deposited an armload of incense packets on the counter and reversed direction when she saw Christy-Lynn.

“Hey there! What brings you by?”

“Missy said I should come see you for something to help me sleep.”

“Ah.” Dar’s expression morphed into something more clinical. “Then you’ll need to tell me a little bit about the kind of trouble you’re having. Do you have trouble falling asleep? Or staying asleep?”

“The latter mostly.”

“Are you on any medications?”

“No. None.”

“Caffeine?”

“Well, I own a café, so I probably consume more than I should, but I’ve cut back over the last few weeks and haven’t seen any real difference.”

“What about your stress level? Anything new there?”

Christy-Lynn’s gaze slid to a nearby bookshelf. The title of a particularly thick volume seemed to jump out at her. The Language of Dreams. She’d never been much for all the symbolic woo-woo stuff, things like enneagrams, past life regression, and zodiac signs, but suddenly the subject of dream interpretation was an intriguing one.

“Christy-Lynn?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked if you were under any stress.”

“Oh, you know”—Christy-Lynn’s eyes strayed back to the dream book—“there’s always something going on at the store.”

“Are you interested in dreams?”

“Oh, no. I was just . . .”

“It’s a hobby of mine, reading people’s dreams. I’m fascinated by the whole inner landscape thing, how our deeper selves are always sending us messages.”