Chapter 38
38
Eleanor
“Will you want the apple crumble at the end of your meal? Let me know now so I can thaw it for you.”
“That would mean a lot, thank you,” I say.
When neither Carson nor Tatum answered their doors, Rita’s seemed like the next logical place to go. So here I am, escaping the rain and planning my next move.
“Where’s the troublemaker?” Denise asks, pouring hot coffee into the mug I’ve overturned.
“Wish I knew,” I say. “Is Tatum here?”
“She called out. Didn’t say why.” She leans a bit closer. “You wouldn’t happen to know a June, would you?”
“June Lightbell?”
“That’s the one. She used to be a regular here. But she stopped coming in after Tatum went with her to New York. Tatum won’t tell me what happened, even though June showed up here last month during one of our bingo Sundays. Do you know anything about it?”
There might be some fundamental issue with Tatum’s manager gossiping with me, but hand on my heart, I am not the one who will mention it. Of course I know about it. June and I are friends. We meet up for coffee a few times a month. And Carson’s filled me in on Tatum’s side. I might be as close as one person could get to being an expert on this very subject.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
Denise smacks her hand on the table, somehow delighted. “I knew it.”
“Don’t tell her I told you.” My eyes widen, realizing that even in saying very little, I’ve still admitted something is going on. Tatum is the type of person to take this as a betrayal.
Denise fakes zipping her lips and throwing away the key. It’s as good an NDA as I can get from a woman like her, and I accept it with an appreciative nod. “Whatcha eating?” she asks. “It’s on us.”
“You guys give away a lot of food. It can’t be a sustainable business model.”
“This place hasn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in twenty years. These floors are probably older than you are, and our cash register is still analog. The overhead on this place is less than you pay for meals in a month where you live. I promise we’re okay.”
“Fair enough. I’ll have the veggie omelet with sourdough toast.” There’s a small TV perched in the upper corner of the diner, right near the door. “Can we turn that on? My friend is on a daytime talk show today.”
Denise hands me a remote. It takes a few tries, working with a technology that’s older than anything I’ve used in solidly fifteen years, but I find my way to the right channel.
Sipping my coffee, I sit back and watch, appreciating the quiet simplicity—a hot drink in a small town, with the soft patter of rain tapping against the windows. Tatum was right. The fall is beautiful here.
Dawn’s segment begins, and I turn the volume up, leaning forward. She didn’t take any of my calls this morning, which isn’t unusual. She’s probably upset at me for ditching her right before her return to the public eye. I hope one day she’ll understand.
The interview starts with a lot of gushing. It’s all appropriate fanfare, and Dawn takes it in stride for once, following my advice to be grateful instead of defensive. She talks about her time out of the spotlight and all the ways she convinced herself she’d never be able to come back.
“Then I met three lovely young women who changed my mind,” she says. “And it just so happens one is a publicist by the name of Eleanor Chapman.”
It catches Denise’s attention. She’s leaning over the counter, watching the TV with me from a distance. She only knows me as Eleanor, not my full name, but I’ve already told her my friend is on this show. She looks between me and the TV a few times, wanting me to confirm I’ve just been mentioned.
I keep my face composed, giving away nothing, even though inside, my heart is pounding. No one’s ever mentioned my work in public like this. Not the actors. Not the crew. Not the press.
“Let me tell you, a lot of things have changed about this business since the last time I worked, but one thing has stayed the same—a good publicist is going to find a good angle,” Dawn continues.
“Eleanor certainly did her job well,” the interviewer says. “We’re so happy to have you on today. As I understand it, one of the other women who helped get you back out there is here with you too.”
“She is,” Dawn confirms, smiling.
“And I understand she has someone else with her too,” the interviewer says.
It must be June. But why are they discussing this in the first place? It’s a random talking point for any interview, even a fluff piece meant to generate renewed public interest in Dawn’s presence. This is what happens when I don’t vet the questions beforehand.
Tatum walks out to join Dawn. Tatum was instrumental in getting Dawn back on this path, though no one mentioned her flying out for this interview. Not Dawn, not Tatum herself.
Denise claps. “Oh my god! Maurice! Peanut! Tatum’s on TV!” she yells. I watch as two cooks come out from the kitchen, joining Denise in leaning over the counter to see the screen. “And Carson!”
Carson.
Carson is on the screen now.
Which means Carson is in New York.
And I am here, in Trove Hills.
I have to laugh at the absurdity. For months we’ve been connected only through a screen. And somehow, some way, we’ve both decided to do something about it, at the exact same time.
“It’s very generous of you to want to share your moment with these two,” the interviewer says.
“I had to,” Dawn tells her. “This is Tatum. She’s the one who showed up outside my apartment a few months ago making so much noise I thought I was going to have to activate the building security.”
Tatum waves.
“Next thing I know, she’s changing my life for the better. I owe her everything for that.” A wave of emotion almost overwhelms Dawn, but she does her best to tamp it down, squeezing Tatum in a quick hug, then continuing, forcing the warble out of her voice. “So, when I learned that her sibling here, Carson, needs to reach someone we all know is watching, I was happy to offer up my time and platform for the cause. And your producers also agreed, after much negotiating. Thank you to them.”
The interviewer smiles. “We couldn’t turn you down.” Then she angles herself toward Carson. “The floor is yours, Carson. Who is it you need to reach?”
“Eleanor,” they say.
The whole diner turns their attention to me. Denise, the cooks, the other patrons here for a Monday morning meal.
“Oh my god ,” Denise says, placing her hand on her heart.
The cooks shush her, not wanting to miss a word.
“I came here to find you, and you’re gone,” Carson says, looking right at me, knowing I am looking right back, feeling my presence through the screen the same way they always do, even if this time it’s like one-way glass. “I know you won’t want me to say too much in a place like this, so I will only say this—anywhere you go, that’s where I want to be. Tell me where you are, Eleanor, and I will come find you. Please.”
Pin-drop silence doesn’t even cover the quiet that follows, even as the TV keeps blaring, the interviewer closing out Dawn’s segment. Everyone in Rita’s Diner is waiting for what happens next.
I decide to laugh again. How can I not? Carson Ward just went on national television to say they’ll find me anywhere I go.
Except actually, I’m crying.
“You better call Carson right now,” Denise says.
“Sorry,” I tell her, wiping my tears away. “I will. I am.”
The phone rings and rings, heading to the voicemail I’ve spent the last month memorizing. You’ve reached Carson. I’m not here right now. Leave a message if you need to.
I’d say I need to.
“Hey.” My voice is quiet, but it’s in a staged way, knowing full well that everyone here believes they’re owed the details of this moment. In some ways, they are. If nothing else, none of this would be possible without them. “We keep missing each other. I’m in Trove Hills. I wanted to, you know, sweep you off your feet, I guess. But it seems like you and I had the same idea. We tend to do that, don’t we? Call me back when you get this. I’ll be enjoying some apple crumble in the meantime. On the house.”