He Gave Her My Home So I Took Back My Life Chapter 24
My mother’s necklace returned to Savannah in the spring.
When the restorer placed the velvet box in front of me, he pointed out two pearls that were a shade lighter than the others.
“The two missing from the garden were never found,” he said. “I chose replacements with the closest age and size I could find. The antique clasp was badly damaged, but the camellia engraving was preserved.”
I touched the clasp lightly with my fingertip.
A fine crack still ran across the silver surface.
“Why not polish this smooth?”
“We can,” he said, “but it would erase some of the original detail.”
I looked at it for a long time.
“Then leave it.”
He seemed surprised.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I used to think that unless it could be restored to exactly how it was before, I hadn’t truly gotten my mother’s legacy back.
But some marks could not be undone.
Erasing the evidence would not erase the memory of that night.
And keeping it didn’t mean I was trapped by it.
I lifted the necklace and, in front of the mirror, tried to fasten it myself.
Mateo stood a few feet away, watching, but didn’t move to help.
On my wedding day, Graham had fastened it for me.
Later, without realizing it, I had come to believe this string of pearls only mattered if some “person who truly cherished me” was the one to put it on.
I fumbled with the clasp for a moment.
Then it clicked softly into place.
I had done it myself.
In the mirror, the pearls no longer matched perfectly. The two lighter ones were almost invisible among the layers of luster unless you looked closely.
“How does it feel?” Mateo asked.
“A little heavy.”
“Then don’t wear it for too long.”
He didn’t tell me I looked beautiful. He didn’t mention my mother.
He simply picked up the velvet box, ready for whenever I wanted to take the necklace off again.
I laughed suddenly.
“Come with me somewhere.”
I took him back to the garden at Hale Manor.
The ground that had once been filled with white roses had been replanted. At my direction, the gardener had restored the beds of camellias my mother had loved.
The first bloom had just opened.
I stood on the spot where I had once knelt to gather pearls. The soil was dry now. The broken glass had long since been cleared from the stone path.
“I was afraid to walk here for a long time,” I said.
Mateo stopped half a step behind me.
“And now?”
I looked down at the new petals.
“Now it’s just a garden.”
The wind moved through the trees. The pearls clicked softly together.
The sound no longer reminded me of breaking.
It sounded more like a door finally closing.