Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
The breeze off the water was cool against Cora’s skin as she walked along the River Walk, the soft glow of string lights overhead bathing the evening in a warm, golden haze.
She picked up dinner from a food truck—grilled shrimp tacos and lemonade—and found a quiet bistro table near the edge of the path. Now she sat overlooking the slow-moving river, the scent of citrus, charred shrimp and river air weaving around her.
The River Walk was a relatively new addition to GraceTown—new within the past decade, maybe. She’d been so young when she and her mother had left that she barely remembered what this area had looked like before.
During the festival, the walkway had been packed with shoulder-to-shoulder people. She preferred it like this—a sleepy Sunday night with just enough people to keep the merchants happy but not so many that she had to weave through noise and laughter.
She didn’t want crowded.
But she didn’t want quiet either.
After stopping by the library three times today and having the door not open, the thought of going home to a silent house made her chest tighten.
Better, she thought with a rueful smile, to be alone here, surrounded by the soft drift of passing voices and the faint clinks of dishes from the riverside cafés.
Across the water, the current caught the last of the sunset and tossed it back in ripples of gold. Her heart ached—not sharply, but in a quiet, stretching sort of way.
If she’d learned anything these past weeks, it was that there was still so much to learn. So much to uncover. Not only about what might have been, but about herself.
Her phone rang, cutting through the tranquil air. She answered quickly before the sound could disturb nearby diners. “Hello?”
“Cora.” Her mother’s voice, steady, familiar and unexpectedly warm.
A flicker of surprise passed through her. They usually spoke once a month, and her recent call about Lenora had already checked that box. Still, it was good to hear from her.
“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
“Does something have to be up for a mother to call her daughter?” The light reprimand carried a thread of humor, but also a faint edge that Cora recognized.
She smiled into the phone. “Of course not. I just didn’t expect to hear from you tonight. Everything okay?”
“Everything is excellent.” Pride brightened her mother’s tone as she launched into a story about a recent business success.
“That’s wonderful,” Cora said sincerely. “I’m happy to hear that.”
Her mother worked hard—always had—and deserved every bit of her success.
“How about you?” Sheila asked, her voice gentling. “What have you been up to?”
“Me?” Cora hesitated. She’d always wanted her mother to take more interest in her life, but now that she was, it was hard to know what to say.
“Yes,” her mother prompted, a faint smile audible in her tone. “I assume you’ve been sending out résumés.”
“I have.” Cora traced a finger around the rim of her glass. “A few nibbles. No bites yet.”
“It can take a while.” The firmness in Sheila’s voice softened to something more reflective.
“I still remember the panic I felt when I lost my job in Wilmington. You were in fifth or sixth grade, I suppose. It took me three months to find something—and even then, we had to move halfway across the country.”
“I remember the move.” Actually, what she remembered most was starting at a new middle school, all of it awkward and unfamiliar. She’d assumed then that the move was for a promotion, not out of necessity.
“I was hard on you,” Cora admitted quietly. “I was so angry about leaving my friends.”
Her mother’s sigh was a whisper over the line. “I probably should have explained more about our situation.”
Something in her tone told Cora that Sheila, too, was lost in her own memories tonight.
“Why didn’t you?” Cora asked, her voice gentle, almost curious.
“I’m not sure,” her mother said after a pause. “I guess I didn’t want you to worry.”
“That makes sense.” Cora smiled faintly. “I did tend to worry as a kid.”
“I know we haven’t had the closest relationship,” Sheila said, her words careful, deliberate, “but I’d really like that to change.”
“Me, too,” Cora replied, surprised by how much she meant it.
“I also know how unsettling uncertainty can be,” her mother continued, the compassion in her voice unexpected. “But if you need anything—financially or otherwise—I’m here.”
For a moment, Cora felt the old urge to lean into that offer. But she realized she didn’t need to—not tonight, anyway. She was holding her own. “Thanks, Mom. I appreciate that.”
“If you change your mind…”
“I think what I need right now,” Cora said softly, “is to be honest with myself—and figure out where I go from here.”
“I understand,” her mother murmured.
“There is one thing, though.” Cora hesitated, her voice thoughtful. “I’m still trying to find out more about Lenora Summerbell. Are you sure you don’t remember anything? You said her name sounded familiar.”
Sheila paused, the faint rustle of papers in the background. “She was some relative of your father’s, though I don’t know exactly how. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”
“Okay,” Cora said, swallowing her disappointment. Summerbell wasn’t exactly a common name, and Lenora looking so much like her in the photo she’d seen, Cora assumed they must be related somehow. Still, her mother had tried. “That’s something to go on. Thank you.”
They talked a few minutes longer before saying good-bye.
When the call ended, Cora leaned back in her chair, the light from the string bulbs reflecting off the river in soft, broken bands.
Did it matter that she and Lenora were related? Maybe not. But maybe it did.
She didn’t understand much of what was happening at the old Carnegie. But she believed—deep down—that Lenora had something to do with it.
And for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, the thought that she and Lenora might be related, steadied and comforted her.
On Monday, Cora returned to the library.
The sign about the weekend closure was gone. The door opened easily.
She stepped inside and let the familiar hush settle over her like a soft shawl. The stillness steadied her after the storm that had raged inside her all weekend.
“Good morning, Adelaide,” she called as she passed the front desk. “Give me a second to check something out.”
When she reached the corridor leading to the Possibility Wing, she stopped short. The velvet rope was up.
After only a moment’s hesitation, she slipped it free and crossed the short distance to the door, reaching eagerly for the brass knob. It refused to turn.
Access denied.
Disappointment surged, sharp and immediate. She’d been so hoping…
Cora blinked hard, pushing back the sting of frustrated tears. It will open again, she told herself. I just have to be patient.
She returned to the front desk to find it deserted.
“I’m back here,” Adelaide called, her voice carrying from the archive room. The paper-scented mix of storage and time capsule was lined with Bankers Boxes and metal drawers that whispered of long-forgotten stories.
Cora found Adelaide at one of the long tables, her silver hair twisted into its usual knot, gloved hands moving with patient precision through a stack of yellowed programs. A shaft of light cut across the room, dust flecks turning in its path like tiny, suspended stars.
“The Wing was closed,” Cora said, her voice low, the words heavier than she’d meant them to be.
Adelaide’s gaze lifted, full of quiet understanding.
“It will open when it’s meant to,” she said simply, then motioned toward a nearby table where a box labeled “Town Events 1950–1965” waited.
“Until then, there’s work to be done. There’s more to an archive than names and dates.
Sometimes what’s tucked between the pages tells the truer story. ”
They worked side by side in easy silence, the only sounds the whisper of paper and the lazy creak of the ceiling fan. Cora eased open a binder of clippings. A faint scent of age and ink rose from the pages, as bittersweet as memory.
After a while, she murmured, “There’s something about this work, sorting through the lives of people who came before… It makes your own life feel a little less heavy. A little more connected.”
Adelaide gave a quiet hum of agreement, eyes still on the fragile pages before her.
Sunlight slanted through the high windows, laying long golden stripes across the tables.
Cora brushed her fingertips over a 1961 Founder’s Day program.
A faded Polaroid slipped free, its corners curled, the ink on the program where it had rested nearly vanished.
She set it aside, her fingers trembling.
“I keep thinking,” she whispered, “about how easy it felt to step into a life with Aaron. How right it felt.”
Adelaide’s head lifted, her eyes steady and knowing.
“I didn’t have to pretend with him,” Cora went on, voice unsteady. “I knew him. I loved him. And he loved me.” Her throat tightened. “I keep wondering if there’s a way back. Not to the Wing, but to him. To that life.”
“There are some paths,” Adelaide said gently, “that open only once—a gift, not a guarantee.”
Cora stared down at her hands, palms pressed against the brittle paper. “But he was real.”
“He was,” Adelaide agreed softly. “If you had stayed in GraceTown, you’d have met in high school. If you’d returned for college, you’d have crossed paths in that lecture hall. But you didn’t. Your life—and his—unfolded along different lines.”
“So that’s it?” Cora’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I just go on…without him?”
Adelaide was silent for a long moment, the ticking wall clock filling the space between them. Finally, she said, “There are some choices we make that cannot be undone. Rewriting history is not possible. Of course, GraceTown has always been a place of impossible happenings.”
Hope sparked low in Cora’s chest. “Are you saying there might still be a chance? For Aaron and me?”