Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lily
The following day, Lily watched her daughter from the doorway, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her fingertips clutching the soft knit of her sweater.
Anna sat curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, shoulders hunched, eyes trained on the untouched cup of tea in her hands.
Her face looked pale in the late afternoon light streaming through the windows, her expression drawn tight with a kind of grief Lily couldn’t begin to fix.
And God, how she wished she could fix it.
She had watched Anna grow into a mother, a wife, a woman of fierce loyalty and gentle strength.
And now she was watching her daughter unravel, thread by thread, in the shadow of fear and the unknown.
Lily longed to take it from her, to carry it on her own shoulders, to rewrite this pain into something manageable.
But all she could do was be here. Sit beside her when she allowed it.
Fold laundry quietly in the next room when she didn’t.
And take care of the children in the moments that became too much for Anna. There were moments when she’d drift off. Times when her mind was elsewhere, and Lily or Margot would quietly step in and take over so the kids didn’t notice.
That, at least, she could do.
Lily found herself at the studio more often these days, the children trailing behind her like ducklings, each carrying their small bags or backpacks, chattering about glazes and shapes, and whose pinch pot had exploded in the kiln last time.
She hadn’t realized how much they loved it there or how much she needed it, too.
The familiar scent of clay and earth grounded her, reminded her of what her hands could still do.
She could center clay on a wheel. She could show the twins how to roll coils, how to blend the seams together with their thumbs.
She could help Blaze smooth out his thick, lumpy bear until it looked like something that wouldn’t terrify a child.
They needed the distraction, the laughter, the tactile work of shaping something from the mess.
And truth be told, so did she. She hadn’t really realized how shuttered in she had been.
And in this strange pocket of uncertainty, she was letting herself take deeper breaths. Letting the world into her skin again.
She’d even gone to the farmer’s market.
The thought still startled her.
She had wandered through rows of wildflower bouquets, local honey, and plump, sun-warmed tomatoes with Blaze and Nora darting in and out of booths like a hummingbird.
She’d bought a jar of strawberry preserves from a woman named Marcia and actually chatted with her for a full three minutes about jam, about summer storms, about how the island air always seemed to carry a hint of salt and lilac at once.
Lily had laughed. And then promptly flushed with embarrassment.
But it felt nice. Strange and soft, but nice.
Still, nothing made her feel more herself than when she was with the children.
Anna needed space to breathe, to cry, to wait by the phone.
Lily could give her that by keeping the kids busy and happy.
Her daughter was trying so hard to keep everything inside, to stay strong for the kids, but she needed the quiet moments to make phone calls and to worry.
They had made wind chimes out of broken ceramic bits, something that David had loved to do when he did his woodworking—he loved combining the two things. When she had told the twins that, they were eager to use them in their works of art, too.
The pieces clicked together in soft music when the breeze picked up outside the studio, and the kids had insisted on hanging them from the porch for Anna to see.
And Lily had seen the flicker in her daughter’s eyes when she noticed them.
That brief second of something softer passing across her face.
She clung to those moments.
She’d never imagined Anna and the kids would be back here on the island, or that the two of them would be forging through the hard moments without their husbands by her side.
David was such a strength and presence, the one she leaned on for everything, and she definitely felt his absence in these moments.
But she was doing well to ask herself regularly what David would do, and that helped her to continue putting one foot in front of the other.
If you’d told her last month that she’d be cooking dinners, helping with homework, and entertaining her grandkids, Lily wouldn’t have believed it.
She could barely get out of bed in those moments, and now, she was functioning as if nothing had changed.
Lily couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
It was strange how fear could wake you up.
She had spent so long wrapped in her own silence, nestled in a routine that kept her safe but distant.
And now, she was waking up early to help Anna with breakfast and snacks for the kids, kneading clay until her hands ached, brushing hair, helping paint sloppy suns onto small bowls.
And when the kids were asleep, she sat at the kitchen table with Anna, sometimes in silence, sometimes sharing sips of wine and old memories, both too scared to say what they were really thinking: “What if he doesn’t come home? ”
But they didn’t say it.
Instead, Lily prayed quietly in the morning and again at night.
She prayed while mixing glazes and while slicing fruit.
She prayed while tying Blaze’s shoes and while Nora showed her a lopsided turtle she’d made from clay.
And in the quietest hours of the evening, after the house had gone still, she prayed for strength; not just for Anna, but for herself.
To stay strong. To stay soft. To hold them all together the best way she knew how.
Lily had been here before, in a way, when David had been deployed early on in their marriage.
But there had never been a man who came to the door to tell her about an injury or that he was missing in action.
She knew what it was like to be told your husband was dead, but she had no idea, really, what her daughter was going through with not knowing what was happening with her husband.
At the studio, the kids thrived in a way that made Lily’s throat ache with both joy and sorrow.
The mess didn’t bother her anymore. She let them get their hands dirty, let them run barefoot across the cool cement floor, let their giggles bounce off the rafters.
With them being there so much, Lily had started teaching more classes and allowing people to come in to shop around, something she wouldn’t have done without the gentle nudging and excitement of her daughter and the twins.
The kids were great salesmen, just like their grandpa had been. And the regulars who came by to pick up pottery or sign up for classes smiled at the sight of them, some of them bringing muffins or asking about Anna in hushed tones. They cared. The whole island cared, it seemed.
And when Lily returned home each evening with tired children and half-finished projects, Anna was always there on the porch. Sometimes standing. Sometimes sitting. But always waiting.
“Any news?” Lily would ask gently.
Anna would shake her head.
And Lily would just nod, usher the children inside, and start a pot of tea they both knew would probably go cold.
This was the rhythm of their lives now.
The space between worry and waiting, and the small, sacred acts that filled the in-between.
Lily wasn’t sure when the shift had started—when she’d begun to feel like herself again.
Maybe it was when Blaze had thrown his arms around her legs after making his first clay mug.
Maybe it was the first time Anna leaned into her, shoulders trembling, and let her mother hold her without pretending she was fine.
Maybe it was just the way love worked, quiet and steady, carving new space inside you when you thought you’d run out of the room.
Whatever it was, Lily was grateful, even in the fear. Even in the unknown. Because she was here. And Anna wasn’t alone.
None of them were.
The next morning, the bell above the studio door chimed on a breezy Thursday morning, and Lily looked up from the slab of clay she was helping Nora shape into a turtle shell.
“Mrs. Carter,” she said in mild surprise, brushing her hands clean on her apron.
The older woman entered with her usual flourish, her coral scarf trailing behind her, her smile wide and bright.
“Well, I’ll be! I saw the lights on and couldn’t help myself.” Her eyes danced as she took in the half-finished pots, the smears of glaze on the children’s cheeks, the earthy scent of wet clay in the air. “It’s good to see this place alive again, Lily.”
Lily returned the smile, a bit shyly. “It’s mostly for the kids right now. Keeps their minds busy.”
“It’s wonderful,” Mrs. Carter said, her gaze lingering on the wheel in the corner, the drying racks full of tiny, imperfect masterpieces. “Absolutely wonderful. I was worried it might stay closed all season.”
Lily shrugged lightly. “Anna needed the time. And I needed the distraction.”
Mrs. Carter nodded, her expression softening. “Of course. I heard what’s happening. Everyone has. We’re all praying. I just…wanted you to know that.”
Lily swallowed. “Thank you.”
“And listen,” Mrs. Carter continued, stepping a bit closer, “the art fair is coming up next weekend. Anna volunteered, you know. We thought we could talk you into coming, maybe showcasing some new work. I completely understand if that’s no longer the case, but I didn’t want to let it pass without saying something. ”
“She mentioned it once,” Lily said, glancing over at Nora, who was now painting a ceramic owl bright purple. “I think she’d planned to do something with the kids.”
“Well,” Mrs. Carter said gently, “if it’s not something she can do this time, that’s all right. But I do hope you’ll consider it.”
Lily blinked. “Me?”
“You’ve been working, haven’t you?” Mrs. Carter gestured toward the corner, where a few of Lily’s thrown bowls rested under plastic. “Don’t think I don’t recognize your hands in that shape.”
Lily gave a quiet laugh. “It’s been a while.”
“All the more reason to do it. No pressure, of course. But I think it might do you and this place some good. Even just a few pieces. People still talk about your glazes, you know. You’re always a hit at the auctions and fairs.
I know it’s a lot with everything going on and I don’t want to push you, but it would just be so great for the kids’ art and… ”
“I’m not sure anyone would even remember me,” Lily murmured.
Mrs. Carter leaned in slightly. “Oh, Lily. People don’t forget beauty when it comes from the soul. I’ve had at least a dozen people asking me if you would be showcasing anything, or if you’d be auctioning anything off this time around.”
Lily let out a long sigh. Last month, the thought would have caused a lot of anxiety for her, but as she looked over at the twins, who were giggling as they used their wheels, there wasn’t even a hint of anxiety.
“I’ll think about it,” she said with a smile.
“Good.” Mrs. Carter touched her arm. “And if there’s anything you or Anna need, anything at all, just say the word.”
“Thank you. Really.”
With a final smile for the children and a wave, Mrs. Carter stepped back into the sunlight and let the studio door swing gently shut behind her.
Lily turned back to Nora.
“Grandma, we should make a really pretty vase for the fair,” Nora said. “Me and Blaze can help.”
“That would be perfect,” Lily replied softly.
Lily grinned back at her granddaughter. The twins were helping her move through her grief, and she could only hope that seeing the three of them working together excitedly like this would help her daughter to be able to work through her fear, too.