CHAPTER 19
JONATHAN
Our oyster side quest, which should have been brief, ran longer than planned once we kept ordering and eating more.
But eventually, we wound our way down from the lighthouse, slipping through familiar backstreets and sharing quiet memories of the town we’d both known so well, but in different ways, while growing up.
By the time we reached the heart of Everwick, the square was already glowing with lamplight.
Dusk had thinned into evening, leaving the sky painted in streaks of indigo and gray.
Shop windows along the square flickered with warmth, cafés still spilled coffee-scented air, the corner bakery was now drawing the last of its crowd, and the glassblower’s studio across the way still pulsed with faint amber from its furnace through one of its windows.
Blanche walked silently beside me. I watched her in spurts—that wild strand of hair had fallen loose again against her cheek, the way her hands brushed against the soft fabric of her maroon shorts, the shape and micro-expressions of her mouth.
The streets gave her a glow softer than city neon.
More painterly. Everwick’s light just suited her better in a way that Graymore didn’t.
The square lay ahead, cobbled and with its old stone fountain bubbling softly.
Benches curved beneath the ring of Acacia Whisperthorn trees, their pale blossoms just beginning to fall in the evening breeze.
The place had always been Everwick’s pulse—the Moonshade Berry Festival, the Summerlight Festival, the weekly farmers’ market, neighbors gathering to gossip.
To one side stood the library, its whitewashed walls catching lamplight, leaded glass glowing faintly from within, and above it the iron weathervane shaped like a quill turning slowly with the wind.
We stopped near the old bulletin board at the corner of the square, next to the fountain.
Its planks were warped with age, plastered over with layers of faded announcements and notices, but a newer flyer caught my eye.
The Moonshade Berry Festival. Even though it was a festival in the fall, Everwick was already advertising it.
Blanche noticed it and leaned in closer, reading the dates aloud under her breath.
The same festival she’d attended as a girl, though I knew she hadn’t been back in years.
Her lips curved faintly, then softened into something more bittersweet.
I found myself wondering what memory had passed through her then.
“Well now,” came a familiar voice behind us, cracked but warm.
I turned to find Wendell Oatley, leaning on his cane, smiling at us. The man had once been the town mayor, but even retired, he carried himself with the ease of someone still permanently belonging to every inch of this Everwick. His eyes softened when they focused in on Blanche.
“Blanchette Redfield,” he said, shaking his head in a kind of fond disbelief. “Don’t you look like June, standing there. Spitting image, just a tad taller.” He chuckled to himself, proud of the line, as though he were letting her in on a secret about herself.
Blanche’s expression softened, and before I knew it, she stepped forward to give him a big hug. “Mr. Oatley,” she said with a grin, pulling back to study him. “I remember you from when I was little. You and your cat, Baxter! How is Mrs. Oatley?”
Wendell’s smile gentled. “She passed a few years back,” he said softly.
Blanche’s face fell. “Oh, my gods…I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
He patted her hand kindly. “You’ve been busy with your own life away from here, so I don’t expect you would.
It’s okay, child. The process of life…we come, we go, and we try to carry each other in between.
” His eyes brightened a little. “But Baxter’s still with me.
Old rascal’s still holding on after that witch’s longevity spell.
Between the two of us, we’re just a pair of ancient artifacts, waiting to see who goes last.”
Blanche laughed quietly at that, mist in her eyes but warmth in her smile.
Then Wendell pressed on, his eyes catching on the flyer that had caught our attention.
“Your grandmother…ah, she’ll be sorely missed this year.
Just last summer, she won the pie baking contest. Brought down the whole tent when the judges announced it.
In fact, this year’s contest is being dedicated in her honor,” he said firmly.
“It’s the least we can do for all she gave to this community.
She was such a big part of this, and even if she’s not here in person, she’ll be here in spirit. ”
Blanche’s smile thinned. “That’s so kind. Thank you.”
Wendell nodded, his gaze bright with memory. “She was a pillar of Everwick. Made us all proud. And you—you ought to be here. Enter yourself. Not to win, mind you, but so folks can see you, know you’re here. We’re proud of our girl from Everwick. We’d be honored.”
I glanced at Blanche, her eyes wide and uncertain, then nudged the moment along. “You should think about it,” I said, tone gentler than I meant it to be. “I think you’d surprise them.”
We moved on after Wendell bid us good-night, but the quiet stretched between us, heavier now. Blanche kept her gaze low, her steps measured.
“Are you okay?” I asked finally.
Her answer came with a sigh. Her eyes lingered on the square, but I could tell she wasn’t really seeing it.
“Everything here is a reminder of her. Every stone, every smell, every corner—it’s like she’s still walking beside me…
and then it hits me that she’s not. Sometimes it feels like I can’t turn a corner without seeing something she touched. ”
I stayed quiet, letting her have the space to continue.
She gave a small laugh, but there was no humor in it.
“I thought Graymore was what I wanted. The job, the grind, the noise. But being here again, it makes all of that feel smaller. Hollow, even. Like I traded real memories for empty ones. Like I left behind something that mattered more and forgot how much I’d miss it until now. And that’s on me. That was my choice.”
Her voice softened then, breaking slightly. “I’ve been thinking about making a moonshade-berry pie, just to remember her. But…it’s been years since I’ve baked anything. Not since I left.”
I looked at her then. Really looked. Her eyes glistened with grief that hadn’t seemed to dull.
Before I could stop myself, I reached for her hand.
Not out of impulse, not out of anything selfish.
It was merely to let her know that I was here and she wasn’t alone.
My fingers closed gently around hers, warm against the chill of the sea air that swept throughout Everwick, even during summer.
She startled, slightly, then just held on.
Blanche turned to me then, her gaze a mix of certainty and a silent plea. “I want to make that pie,” she said softly. “For me. For her.”
I nodded easily, then gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Let’s make it,” I said. “We can swing by the cottage and grab the moonshade berries from her garden.”
Her mouth curved into something warmer. “And I have her recipe.”
We both smiled at each other and for a moment, the heaviness between us lifted.
The kitchen in the reception cabin wasn’t much by city standards, but I’d always liked it.
My father had built most of it, and then much later I’d added the finishing touches until May finally declared it done.
Wide-planked counters, a cast-iron stove that still breathed heat like an old dragon, shelves lined with jars of herbs May had dried herself.
A set of copper pans hung above the sink, catching sunlight by day and lamplight by night.
It smelled faintly of smoke and lavender soap.
May’s touch was everywhere if you knew how to spot it—the dark patchwork curtains, the enamel pie tins stacked neatly by size.
Blanche stood at the counter, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, studying June’s recipe on her phone with the focus of a lawyer dissecting a brief.
Her brow furrowed in concentration, her mouth pressing into a line every time she read a step twice.
I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t dare. The moonshade berries sat in a bowl between us, dark and glistening, picked only hours ago from June’s garden.
They were less than I had hoped for—wasn’t quite the season for them yet—but enough for one pie. Or, at least, I hoped.
“You’re taking this awfully seriously,” I said, rinsing the flour dust off my hands, my lips quirking.
“I’m nervous. I haven’t baked in years,” she admitted, eyes glued to the recipe book. “The last thing I want to do is ruin my first attempt.”
“I’m just hoping we have enough berries,” I said as I reached for the rolling pin.
That earned me a look of fear.
She tipped the bowl of berries toward me, arching a brow. “These came from that bush you planted for Grandma, right? I hope they’re good, or we’re in trouble.”
“She won with these,” I said as I popped one into my mouth. “Hm. A little bitter.” I pretended to grimace. “Might be able to mask it with enough sugar.”
A small, shaky laugh slipped out. “Great. My big return to Everwick society and I end up sending half the judges into a sugar coma.”
I leaned in with a grin, wanting to get her out of her head a bit. “All right, bigger question…the age-old one. Top or topless?”
She shot me a mock glare before pointing at the recipe card. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those who thinks a proper pie doesn’t need a top.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those that strictly adheres to the ‘wholly encased in pastry’ rule?” I countered.
Her chin lifted. “That’s how my grandma made them. She was a purist. She topped all her pies and won. Many times.” She emphasized her final line.
“I don’t think it matters. It’s a preference, not a rule. Besides…” I added, “I’ve always kind of liked being able to see the filling.”