Chapter 19
Eloisa
“True freedom comes not just from breaking chains, but from discovering the strength within never to let them bind you again.”
—Eloisa Hobby
Eloisa Hobby believed in magic, but not the mystical kind found in dusty spell books or wand-waving theatrics.
Her practical magic was the stuff of everyday miracles.
The perfect cup of tea on a rainy afternoon.
The way a stranger’s smile could brighten her whole day.
Or how a well-timed pun could diffuse a tense situation.
The magic of human connection, of finding joy in life’s footnotes rather than headlines.
This belief in everyday enchantment was why she stood in her living room, attempting to juggle silk scarves. The scarves—marigold yellow, sea-foam green, lavender, purple—seemed determined to obey gravity rather than her will.
“Come on, Eloisa, if you can create an island paradise, you can do this.”
But her heart wasn’t in it this morning after Demetra’s memorial service that Athena and Calista chose not to attend.
She tossed the scarves higher, letting them float down like colorful rain.
Her dear friend’s last wish echoed in her head, a melancholy refrain that became the soundtrack to her days.
Bring my daughters to your magical island. Please heal them, Eloisa. You’re their only hope.
The yellow scarf escaped and drifted to the floor. The other scarves followed suit, surrounding Eloisa in a sea of silk and sadness.
“Oh, Demetra.” She bent to gather the scarves. “I’m trying, my friend. But your girls . . . they’ve got walls higher than Clare’s hairstyle, and trust me, that’s saying something.”
She collected the slippery scarves, cool against her palm, and fretted uncharacteristically.
Was she really the right person for this solemn task?
Her own life was less a well-plotted novel and more of a choose-your-own-adventure book where half the pages were stuck together with jam.
Who was she to guide two wounded souls toward healing?
But then she remembered Demetra’s unwavering faith in her.
Her friend had seen something in Eloisa that she sometimes struggled to see in herself.
A strength that went beyond her ability to ride a unicycle and knit at the same time, a wisdom that wasn’t limited to knowing which ice cream paired best with ugly crying.
(For the record, it was Chunky Monkey, although Rocky Road was certainly a contender.)
“All rightee, Universe. I hear you. No more juggling acts. Time to face the judge and jury. Or, in this case, two golf prodigies who seem to think ‘fun’ is a four-letter word. So intense, both of Demetra’s girls, but each differently.”
Eloisa folded the scarves and settled them into a special box she bought on her travels to Morocco. A frantic knock on her front door interrupted her. Rap-rap-rap-rappity-rap.
Hmm, something urgent afoot?
She opened the door to find Luna on her doorstep, holding her side and panting as if she’d run the entire way from the Lavender Lark. “We . . . you . . . problems.”
“Come in, come in.” Eloisa ushered her inside. “Now, slow down, catch your breath. Let’s have a seat in the living room.”
“No time.” Luna gave her head a vigorous shake and clutched the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her vertical. “It’s Athena. Benjamin Dempsey’s chauffeur showed up at the Lavender Lark. He’s here to take her home!”
Eloisa’s heart plummeted. “What? She can’t leave now.
We’re so close to . . . well, I’m not entirely sure where, but I know we’re close!
It’s that feeling when you’re sure you’ve forgotten something but can’t remember what.
Except this forgotten thing might heal years of family trauma and fulfill a dying woman’s last wish. So, you know, no pressure.”
“Athena is in her room packing.” Luna’s words tumble out like a waterfall.
“I tried to stall. I told her about our world-famous Sunday night bingo game—which we don’t actually have, but I was improvising.
Did you know I can name the capitals of all fifty states in alphabetical order while standing on one foot?
Because apparently, I can, and Athena now knows this useless fact about me. ”
Oh goodness. These days, Eloisa rarely became flustered about anything, but she’d promised Demetra she’d set her daughters on the path to healing, and she couldn’t accomplish her goal if one of them left the island.
Not that she would try to hold anyone hostage, but it was time to deploy her persuasive powers.
“Here, dear.” She placed a hand on Luna’s shoulder and guided her to a comfy chair in the living room, where her calico rested on the plush, wide arm. “Sit down and rest with Felena. I’ll handle this situation.”
“What will you do?” Luna asked.
“Implement part of Demetra’s plan a little sooner than expected.
” She hurried to a small wooden chest beside the fireplace, its surface covered in enough seashells and glitter to decorate a mermaid’s boudoir.
Demi and her girls had such fun when they’d made this box together on that long-ago visit.
Kneeling, she drew in a deep breath to center herself before flipping back the lid.
“Are you sure?” Luna didn’t sit in the chair with Felena as Eloisa instructed but instead came closer to peer over her shoulder.
“Desperate times.” Eloisa raised a hand and waved like a beauty pageant hopeful, all swivel and thrust. “Desperate measures. Ahh, here we go.”
She unclasped the leather strap, pushed open the box, and looked down at journals, letters, scrapbooks, cards, and gifts, all addressed to either Athena, Calista, or both, most of them stamped with RETURN TO SENDER in red ink.
With her tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth, Eloisa removed a scrapbook with a letter inside addressed to Athena. In her hands rested the weight of years—of secrets kept, of love unexpressed, of a mother’s desperate hope for her children.
Eloisa’s mind churned a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. Was this right? Was she about to cross a line that couldn’t be uncrossed? Or was she coloring outside the lines in a way that mattered?
“Oh, botheration,” she muttered, borrowing one of Dot’s pet phrases. “What would Demetra do?”
But she knew the answer. Demetra would move heaven and earth for her girls, and now it was up to Eloisa to do the same, even if moving heaven and earth felt a lot like trying to parallel park a tank while blindfolded.
Eloisa turned to Luna. “I need you to do something for me.”
“What do you need?” Luna said. “Anything. I mean, except skydiving. Or eating cilantro. Or—”
“Luna, focus. I need you to gather everyone. Dot, Vivian, Clare, Paul, Orion, Artie—the whole Hobby Island gang—and tell them . . .” Eloisa paused, savoring the moment like the last bite of a yummy cheese slice. “It’s time for Operation Prodigal Daughters.”
Luna’s eyes widened, her face lighting up like she discovered the secret to turning water into wine. “You mean . . . ?”
“Yes.” Eloisa nodded. “It’s time to bring out the big guns.”
“On it!” Luna took off to complete her tasks.
“Well, Demetra,” Eloisa said to the empty room, “here goes nothing. Or everything. Possibly both. Your girls are about to get a crackerjack course in Hobby Island magic, whether they like it or not. Let’s just hope they’re better students than I was in my brief stint as a fire-eating apprentice.”
Clutching the scrapbook to her chest, she strode from her cottage, her azure maxi skirt swishing around her ankles in a way that she thought looked dramatic and purposeful.
Her heart pounded with equal parts terror and exhilaration, a feeling she associated with trying new hair colors or experimenting with fusion cuisine, but this was neither. Far more was at stake here than a messed-up dye job or a ruined Swedish paella.
Eloisa did not like to think ill of anyone, but Benjamin Dempsey sorely tested her goodness. Gritting her teeth, she quickened her pace. The Lavender Lark loomed before her, its purple paint a royal beacon in the early-afternoon sun.
On the wide veranda, rocking gently in a wicker chair that had probably seen more drama than a soap opera marathon, sat Cantu. She hadn’t laid eyes on him in twenty years, but she instantly recognized the long-suffering man who did Dempsey’s dirty work.
She straightened her back and channeled her inner Joan of Arc.
“Good afternoon, Cantu.” She kept her voice warm but firm, like a hug wrapped in barbed wire. “Lovely day for dirty deeds done dirt cheap, isn’t it? Though I hear the traffic on the road to emotional rescue is terrible this time of year.”
Cantu stood, removing his cap with all the gravitas of a man disarming a bomb. “Ms. Hobby,” he said, his tone respectful but guarded. “I’m here on Mr. Dempsey’s orders.”
“Of course you are.” Eloisa’s kindness was unwavering, though it might have a slightly maniacal edge.
“And I’m sure Mr. Dempsey would want his daughter to have all the information before deciding, wouldn’t he?
After all, nothing says ‘I respect your autonomy’ like sending a chauffeur to whisk you away from an island paradise. ”
Cantu lifted his shoulders and looked embarrassed.
Eloisa sailed past him and into the Lavender Lark. Outside Athena’s room, Eloisa paused and cocked her head. She heard movement inside—the rustle of clothes, the zip of a suitcase, the sound of dreams packed away.
“Demetra . . .” She looked heavenward. “If you’re out there, now would be a great time for some ghostly intervention. I’m talking full Swayze in Ghost. Although maybe skip the pottery wheel part. That might be a bit much.”
She knocked on the door. “Athena? It’s Eloisa. May I come in? I promise I’m not here to stage an intervention.”
There was a pause, then Athena’s voice, strained and distant like she was speaking from the bottom of the ocean. “It’s open.”