Chapter 10 #2
Time was ticking by. She had to ask—this might be her only chance.
Fighting not to sound desperate, she plunged ahead.
“This may sound strange, but I used to know someone from GraceTown. His name was Aaron. I can’t recall his last name, but I remember he mentioned his good friends Daniel and Jenna. Could that…be you?”
Jenna’s brows knit briefly before smoothing. “Afraid not.” She glanced at her husband, and Cora’s heart sank when he shook his head. “We don’t know any Aarons.”
“Sorry,” Daniel added, his voice kind. “Does he still live around here?”
Cora was saved from answering by loud laughter from the corner of the tent that momentarily captured everyone’s attention.
“What did you say your name was?” Jenna asked when they turned back toward one another.
“Cora,” she said. “Cora Summerbell.”
At her name, Daniel’s expression sharpened with recognition. “Wait. Any chance you’re related to Lenora Summerbell?”
He gestured toward a nearby board.
“She is a relative,” Cora said carefully, moving toward the display he’d indicated. “Though I’m not sure of the exact connection.”
The photograph there, framed by a faded floral border, showed Lenora Summerbell, her dark hair swept back, her green eyes steady and unflinching. She didn’t just look directly at the camera, but she seemed to see through it.
“Lenora Summerbell (1882–1978),” said the label under the photo.
Lifelong librarian. Mentor. Founding member of the GraceTown Readers Guild. She believed in the transformative power of story and often said, “Books are how we remember who we are.”
The words settled over Cora like soft rain. Her gaze lingered on the photo, a flicker of something rising in her chest. Recognition? Longing?
“You really look like her,” Jenna said, awe in her tone. “It’s not just the eyes. There’s a stillness about you, the same quiet gravity.”
“Uncanny,” Daniel added, grinning. “Even the chin. You both tilt it like you’re about to ask a really good question.”
Jenna laughed. “We’re not usually this creepy with strangers, I promise.”
Daniel’s grin deepened. “She means we try.”
“I feel honored to be connected to Lenora,” Cora said softly.
Jenna’s smile warmed. “It’s a beautiful legacy to share.”
Cora’s throat tightened. Her past seemed filled with blank spaces and unfinished stories, a puzzle missing too many pieces. But here, something clicked into place.
She wasn’t sure she believed in fate, but something about this moment—standing in GraceTown, looking into the eyes of a woman who’d shaped the town’s soul—felt meant to be.
As did meeting Jenna and Daniel.
It appeared they didn’t know Aaron in this life. Was that because their connection had originally been through her? Or maybe, without her, Aaron had left GraceTown altogether.
Toward the end of the row, a banner fluttered over a display titled “More Remarkable Women of GraceTown.” Black-and-white photographs lined the boards—teachers, nurses, librarians, shopkeepers—all with the same determined light in their eyes.
A handwritten sign beneath them read, Ordinary women. Extraordinary impact.
The words lingered long after she stepped away. Her head spun with possibilities as she drifted back into the sunlight, the festival music and laughter rising around her like the pulse of a story still being written.
At the far end of the square, a small stage had been set up for community announcements.
A banner overhead read “Volunteers: The Heart of GraceTown.” Cora joined the cluster of onlookers as a speaker thanked local groups for their efforts—the literacy program, the food pantry, the Paint-A-Thon that brightened porches and fences across the community.
When a clipboard made its way down her row, she hesitated only a moment before writing her name.
Later, Cora paused before an arch near the center of the square, its frame draped in fluttering ribbons. A wooden sign overhead read “Voices of GraceTown.”
Each strip of fabric carried someone’s words:
My first kiss under the bandstand.
The sound of church bells on Sunday mornings.
A sunrise that made me stay.
A volunteer smiled and offered her a pen. “Write a memory. Or a hope. Something that ties you to GraceTown.”
Cora nodded, but the ribbon felt heavier than she’d expected, like it was asking for more than she was ready to give. What truly tied her here?
“You’re overthinking it.”
She turned, startled, then relaxed when she saw him. He stood beside her, hands in his jeans pockets, eyes glinting with quiet amusement.
“You have a tell,” he said. “That little crease between your eyebrows.”
Cora huffed out a breath, both flustered and oddly warmed. “Well, great. I’ll try to be less obvious next time.”
“No need.” His gaze lingered on her. “Makes you look like you’re solving the world’s problems.”
“I’m just…not sure what to write.”
Eli’s eyes swept over the arch, the fluttering bits of other people’s lives. “GraceTown doesn’t care where your story began,” he said. “If you add even a line to its pages, it becomes part of you. No matter where you go.”
“You, Eli, have the soul of a poet.”
He chuckled. “Don’t tell my construction crew. Ruins the mystique.”
Cora smiled, uncapped the pen and wrote on the ribbon,
Living the life that’s meant to be mine.
Eli tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “That’s a bit cryptic, but it’ll do.”
Together, they tied the ribbon to the arch, the fabric fluttering in the breeze. It felt like a quiet communion of ink and hope.
“Heading anywhere in particular?” he asked.
“Just wandering.” She glanced around, the sounds of laughter and music curling through the air. “Where are your friends?”
“I came alone.” He shrugged lightly. “They’re not into history.”
“Sad for them.”
“Exactly.” His grin flashed, quick and boyish. “Huston Ford has a vintage-car display near the old train depot—Model Ts to Mustangs. Perfect if you like cars, chrome and nostalgia.”
Cora’s smile tugged up. “I like stories,” she said. “And I have a feeling every one of those cars has one.”
“Then come on.” His voice held an easy invitation. “Let’s go chase a few.”
Cora fell into step beside him, the ribbons fluttering behind them, one of them now holding her words—and her hope.
The scent of kettle corn still clung to her coat as Cora made her way home, the buzz of the festival fading behind her like the soft closing notes of a song.
Eli had offered her a ride home, but she’d chosen to walk. There was too much to think about, too much she wasn’t quite ready to let go of.
Inside, the house was quiet. But instead of empty, it felt companionable, as if it had been waiting for her.
Tomorrow would bring more boxes to go through at the library—more dust, more questions—but tonight, there was only stillness.
And the faint, certain feeling of a page about to be turned.