Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
SCOTT
The day I reveal my biggest secret to the entire town, I can't figure out how to knot my tie.
This is not a metaphor. I literally cannot remember how. I've been tying ties for thirty years. I did it yesterday.
But today, standing in front of the mirror in Hensley House's guest room, my brain has apparently decided that this is the moment to forget everything it ever knew about formal neckwear.
“You look like you're trying to strangle yourself,” Grayson says from the doorway.
“I'm trying to fix this stupid thing.”
“Is that what that is? Because it looks like a cry for help.”
I give up and let the silk hang limply around my neck. “I've made a terrible mistake.”
“The tie? Yes. Clearly.”
“The reveal.” I turn to face him. “What was I thinking? I'm about to stand up in front of everyone I know and announce that I've been lying to them for years.”
“You weren't lying. You were maintaining a pen name, which is very different.”
“I let the librarian recommend my own books to me. Multiple times. I nodded and said 'I've heard good things' and then borrowed copies I already owned.”
“That's not lying. That's...method acting.”
“I once sat through a two-hour book club discussion of The Lighthouse Keeper's Daughter and pretended I'd never read it.”
“Okay, that one's a little weird.”
“Grayson.” I meet his eyes in the mirror. “I'm not ready for this.”
He walks over, takes the tie from my hands, and starts knotting it. “You're not ready to be honest? Or you're not ready for people to see you?”
“Both. Either. I don't know.”
“Let me tell you something.” He finishes the knot—perfect, of course—and straightens my collar.
“A year ago, I was the guy who thought vulnerability was a weakness.
I had walls so high you couldn't see over them with a ladder.
And then Michelle crashed into my life and made me realize that the walls weren't protecting me—they were just keeping me alone.”
“Is this a pep talk? Because it feels like you're describing my entire personality.”
“It's a mirror, Scott.” He steps back. “You've hidden behind V. Langley because you were scared people would see the real you. The guy who writes about feelings and believes in happy endings.” He pauses. “Who's in love with his tenant and wrote an entire book about it.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds—”
“Romantic. Because it is.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Now get out there and let people see the real you. The one Jessica fell in love with.”
“What if they hate me?”
“Then they do. But at least they'll despise the real you instead of loving a version that doesn't exist.”
I take a breath. Then another.
“That's surprisingly wise.”
“Michelle's influence. She's making me emotionally intelligent against my will.”
The Hensley House has transformed into a romance novel personified.
Hazel has outdone herself. There are fairy lights strung through the backyard and enough flowers to make a florist weep with joy. A small stage has been set up with a podium and a large easel covered by a velvet cloth—the cover reveal.
The whole town appears to be here. I spot the mayor and his wife—Penelope, who's wearing an expression of barely contained anticipation, like she's hoping for another public meltdown to record.
The book club is clustered near the front, saving seats.
Mrs. Ziegler from the library is chatting with Mr. Sanders from the hardware store.
Even Harold Brix showed up, probably hoping to network.
And there, standing near the rose garden with Michelle, is Jessica.
She's wearing a green dress that makes her hair look like fire, and she's laughing at something Michelle said, and she's so beautiful it physically hurts to look at her.
She catches my eye across the crowd. Smiles. Mouths something that might be “breathe.”
Right. Breathing. I should do that.
“Scott!” Grandma Hensley appears at my elbow like a tiny, terrifying fairy godmother. “There you are. We're starting in ten minutes. Are you ready?”
“No.”
“Perfect. That means you're taking it seriously.” She adjusts my tie—which Grayson already adjusted—and brushes invisible lint from my jacket. “I've waited fifteen years to tell people my honorary grandson is V. Langley. Don't you dare chicken out now.”
“Honorary grandson?”
“You're one of us now.” She pats my cheek. “That makes you family. Now go make me proud.”
Something warm blooms in my chest that feels suspiciously like belonging.
“Your snickerdoodles are the only thing keeping me alive,” I manage.
“I know, dear. That's why I always make extra.” She winks. “Now go.”
She pushes me toward the stage with surprising force for someone who barely reaches my shoulder.
The next ten minutes pass in a blur of handshakes and small talk and trying not to look like I'm about to pass out.
Michelle corners me near the punch bowl. “If you hurt her again, I'll make your life very uncomfortable.”
“I'm not going to hurt her.”
“Good. Because I like you, Scott. You're grumpy and emotionally constipated, but you make her happy.” She pauses. “Also, your books made me cry on a plane once. So there's that.”
“Which one?”
“When the Tide Returns. The scene where he finally tells her about his father? I sobbed so hard the flight attendant brought me extra napkins.”
“That's...actually very flattering.”
“Don't let it go to your head. You still have terrible taste in furniture.” She pats my arm. “Good luck up there.”
Hazel appears next. “Jessica told us about the throw pillow intervention.”
“It wasn't an intervention. It was an observation.”
“We're taking you shopping next week. The whole book club. We've already made a list.” She shows me her phone. The list is extensive. It includes items like “art that isn't beige,” “blankets that look like someone actually uses them,” and “literally anything with color.”
“I don't need—”
“You do. Trust us.” She smiles. “Welcome to the family, Scott. It's aggressive and opinionated, and we're going to redecorate your entire apartment whether you like it or not.”
“That sounds...invasive.”
“That's love. Get used to it.”
She wanders off, and I'm immediately ambushed by Amber, who informs me that she's already pre-ordered five copies of the new book and expects a dedication in at least one of them.
Then Jo, who tells me she's glad I wrote a hero who cries.
Then Caroline, who doesn't say much but hugs me with fierce determination like she's decided I'm worth keeping.
By the time Grandma Hensley taps the microphone and asks everyone to take their seats, I've been welcomed into the book club, threatened with throw pillows, and hugged by more people than in the past decade combined.
It's overwhelming but wonderful and the closest thing to family I've felt since Grandma Vera died.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Grandma Hensley says, her voice carrying across the yard with the authority of a woman who's been running this town since before most of its residents were born, “thank you for joining us for this very special evening.”
I'm standing at the side of the stage, trying to remember how to breathe. Jessica is in the front row, right next to Michelle. She gives me a small thumbs up. I give her a small nod that probably looks more like a nervous twitch.
“As many of you know, this spring we launched something very special—the Letters to Local Authors program.
Anonymous correspondence between readers and the writers who've touched their lives.” Grandma Hensley beams at the crowd.
“Tonight, we celebrate those connections by bringing our pen pals together face to face for the very first time.”
Applause ripples through the garden.
“Let's start with our first pair. Will 'Coastal Carolina Reader' please stand?”
A woman in her sixties rises near the back, clutching her program nervously.
“Coastal Carolina Reader, your pen pal has been 'Magnolia Ink.' You've exchanged twelve letters about everything from plot twists to peach cobbler recipes.” Grandma Hensley gestures toward the side of the stage. “Please welcome local cookbook author Betty Anne Harmon!”
A round of applause as Betty Anne—who runs the bakery on Main Street—waves and crosses to meet her pen pal. They embrace like old friends, which I suppose they are.
“Our next pair—'Sunrise Reader,' please stand.”
A young man rises, looking sheepish.
“Sunrise Reader, you've been corresponding with 'Saltwater Stories' about your shared love of maritime adventure novels. Your pen pal is...Captain Jim Weatherby!”
The crowd gasps in delight as the retired fisherman who gives boat tours hobbles up to shake the young man's hand. “Didn't know you were so young!” Captain Weatherby laughs. “Thought I was writing to another old salt!”
The audience loves it. More applause, more laughter.
“And now,” Grandma Hensley says, her voice dropping to something more dramatic, “we come to our final pair. The one you've all been waiting for.”
The crowd goes quiet.
“For months, one of our most dedicated readers—known only as 'Between the Lines'—has been corresponding with a mysterious author. Someone whose letters revealed a thoughtful, romantic soul hiding behind a rather grumpy exterior.”
I see Jessica shift in her seat. Michelle squeezes her arm.
“Between the Lines, will you please stand?”
Jessica rises slowly, and the crowd's heads turn toward her. She's beautiful in that green dress, her red hair catching the fairy lights.
“Jessica Wells,” Grandma Hensley says warmly, “your pen pal signed their letters 'Coastal Quill.' But Coastal Quill has another name. One that millions of readers around the world know very well.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. I see Penelope lean forward, phone already in hand.