Chapter 7
Present Day
It had been three days since Wren’s return to Bluebell Cove.
After being cooped up in her room for the majority of that time, that afternoon, she zipped herself into an old rain jacket—one that very well might have belonged to her mother, although it was impossible to say—and traipsed into the sprinkling rain.
She walked past the Eco-Lodge, watching Celia through the front window as she spoke to a new guest, then continued toward downtown.
After feeling unwell for the better part of the day, it felt good to stretch her legs and feel her heart rate lift.
Something was strange about walking through your old hometown when you wanted to be anywhere else.
Everything felt haunted by memories she didn’t want to experience.
There was the telephone pole against which she’d once kissed her middle school boyfriend, Alfie.
There was the ice cream parlor where she and her old best friend Sandy had asked for extra-extra-extra sprinkles and made an enormous mess, and the owner had made them clean it up themselves.
There was the library, the old elementary school, the playground where, she knew, her mother had taken her sisters and Wren before Wren was old enough to remember.
Before Wren knew what to do with herself, before she knew where to turn, she found herself on the corner of Ivy’s flower shop.
Through the window, she could see her sister making a bouquet and chatting with Elliott, who’d apparently come in for a visit.
Ivy smiled and laughed as he spoke, acting natural in a way that Wren had never seen her.
Wren remembered how heinous Ivy’s first husband, Daniel, had been.
She’d lived with them for a while and had always walked on eggshells.
She knew that Ivy was damaged not only by Daniel’s ill treatment of her but also by Daniel’s surprise and accidental death.
It was a miracle Ivy could smile at all.
As though Ivy could sense Wren’s swirling thoughts, she raised her chin and spotted Wren outside. Her smile immediately fell, and she whipped around the counter and opened the front door with a jangle. Behind her, Elliott looked surprised, his eyes enormous.
“What are you doing here?” Ivy asked. She sounded accusatory.
Wren stuttered. “I’m going on a walk.”
“Did you lock the door behind you?” Ivy asked.
“Of course,” Wren said, although she wasn’t entirely sure if she had.
Ivy’s shoulders relaxed. She opened the door wider and said, “You can come in if you want to.”
Wren hadn’t been to the flower shop since before Elliott had refurbished it.
She’d heard rumors about its beauty and its newfound success, but seeing it in person was a different story entirely.
The ornate shop was painted a deep blue, and the flowers were lush and free-wielding, speaking of a creativity in their florist that Ivy didn’t immediately show in conversation.
Wren knew it was there, though—that creativity, that artistry, that heart.
But now, Ivy continued to look at her as though she were a nail in her shoe.
“How does the town look to you?” Elliott asked Wren. “The same or very different?”
Wren didn’t know how to answer this. Her initial instinct was to lie and say it looked the same.
But the truth was, it all felt different to her, especially after so many of her life circumstances had changed.
It now felt more like a prison than it ever had before.
She’d always seen it as a haven, rather than something she couldn’t escape from.
“It’s beautiful as always,” she said.
“I met a photographer at the Eco-Lodge the other day,” Elliott said. “He said he’s trying to sell photographs of Maine. They’re going like hotcakes, apparently, but he doesn’t have a very good portfolio. I thought of you.”
Ivy raised her eyebrows at Wren. “Wren always has a ton of projects. That’s how she travels all over the world.”
It seemed almost like an accusation or a question. Wren didn’t know what to say.
“Of course! I get it,” Elliott said brightly. “But hey, I’ll leave you ladies to it. I have a bunch of work to finish up this afternoon.” He snapped his fingers, then added, “Ivy, did you tell Wren about the family party?”
Wren’s stomach chilled. Nobody had told her about the family party.
“I don’t know if Wren will be around for it,” Ivy said.
“It’s this weekend.” Elliott shrugged. “You can stick around till this weekend, right, Wren?”
Wren hesitated. On the one hand, all she wanted in the world was to run for the boundary line of Bluebell Cove and never turn back. On the other hand, she literally couldn’t. She was too exhausted. She was too broke.
“I’d love to join,” she said meekly.
“Fantastic! I just needed to know how many burgers to buy,” Elliott said, kissing Ivy goodbye and heading out the door.
This left Ivy and Wren facing off in the flower shop.
“So,” Ivy said, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.
Wren willed someone, anyone, to enter the flower shop and distract Ivy so that she could slip away. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess I’ll, um, head out?”
“Wren,” Ivy said, worry fluttering over her face. “You really don’t look well.”
Wren rolled her eyes. “I’m really fine,” she said.
“You know that coming here and immediately collapsing in front of the whole town does not mean you’re fine,” Ivy stammered.
“I keep picking up the phone to call your doctor. I want to. So badly. But I also don’t want to step on your toes.
I’ve been to therapy for years at this point.
I’m trying to overcome this insane desire to fix everything all the time. ”
“Have you worked on your anger issues?” Wren snapped.
Ivy’s eyes widened.
Wren knew she’d gone too far. “I’m sorry,” she said, lowering her eyes.
Ivy was quiet for a moment. Wren tried to will herself to leave the flower shop, but she felt frozen to the spot.
“I was so worried about you,” Ivy said finally. “And then I convinced myself that I didn’t need to be worried, that you were all right out there by yourself. And now, I’m hating myself for whatever’s happened to you.”
“You shouldn’t,” Wren shot back. “I’m fine. Really. I’m just…”
“Resting. I know. You keep saying that.” Ivy turned around and went back behind the flower shop counter, where she continued to fix up a bouquet of lilies and roses.
For a moment, Wren thought Ivy looked remarkably like their mother, or like the version of their mother that Wren had gotten to know in photographs.
She’d spent her life missing a woman she didn’t know.
“I’ll leave next week,” Wren told Ivy.
“You can stay as long as you want,” Ivy said darkly. “You know that.”
But it was difficult to know what lay beneath her words. Wren felt as though she had laid a trap.
Finally, as there was nothing else to say, Wren turned on her heel and left the flower shop, waiting for Ivy to call her back.
The door closed, dividing them again, and Wren charged down the road, through a heavier rain.
Eventually, she found herself in front of a new coffee shop, one she didn’t recognize, where she entered and ordered herself a decaf coffee with plenty of cream and sugar.
She needed the sustenance. She needed the comfort.
Once she was settled into a chair in the corner, Wren searched on her phone for photography jobs—anything from freelance to full-time.
It was true that she had a great deal of experience.
But it was also true that since that night in Antiparos, Max had spread rumors about Wren to other magazine editors, besmirching her good name.
Sometimes that was all it took in a field as unsteady as travel photography.
Wren hadn’t made a single dime with her pictures since Max had ended their contract.
It made her head spin, especially when she considered how hard and how far she’d traveled for him.
She now understood that her instincts had been right.
She shouldn’t have brought Max and Angelos together like that.
They’d immediately begun to compete. But why should she be blamed for the difficult emotions of men?
Why was she struggling now, while Max was just fine, maybe even flirting with another of his photography clients and putting her in a difficult position?
Plenty of poorly paid photography gigs could be found online, mostly in New York City.
She had a few friends in the city, but the truth was, she couldn’t afford any kind of living arrangement there, not till after she got paid.
Even then, it was probably a ridiculous idea.
Some people she knew paid two-and-a-half grand for a single-bedroom apartment.
Some paid that for just a studio, depending on where they lived. It was criminal.
Eventually, in some back corner of the internet, she found a listing that called out for photographs of coastal towns in Maine.
The pay per photograph was decent, and she just happened to be in the right place.
She sent along her portfolio, imagining that she’d take a few pictures here in Bluebell, get paid, and be on her way again. Maybe.
Of course, she knew not to get her hopes up.
When the rain cut out, Wren took the opportunity to leave the coffee shop and head back to Ivy’s.
When she arrived, she found that she had, in fact, locked the door—and she thanked her lucky stars that she could rely on herself for something so trivial.
Upstairs, she found her camera case, but when she dropped down to unzip it, she was overwhelmed with nausea and dizziness so profound that she had to lie down for a while.
By the time she finished napping, it was early evening, and she felt groggy and weak. She needed food. But as she hauled herself out of bed, she reached for her phone to find an email from the coastal Maine project.
Hey, Wren! We love your photographs and would love to hire you for a trial run. The pay is five hundred per photo for the ones we accept (we’re looking for anywhere between three and six). Could you send us a hundred or so photos by the end of the week? Thanks a lot, Randi.
Wren sat up straight with surprise. She hadn’t expected a response so quickly, and she certainly hadn’t expected it to be a positive one.
She wrote a confirmation right away, then got to work making lists of where she wanted to photograph and under which weather conditions.
Nobody knew Bluebell Cove better than the Harper sisters.
Nobody knew how the light played over the turquoise waters, or made the rocks shine, or highlighted the vintage beauty of downtown, like someone who’d grown up there and knew it like the back of her hand.
Wren was excited. When she heard Ivy, Elliott, Lily, and Tyler downstairs, getting ready for dinner, she considered running down and announcing her new assignment to Ivy.
She imagined saying, “See? I’m not going to run off as quickly as you thought. I’m going to help Bluebell’s tourism!”
But just as she turned the doorknob, another feeling of reticence passed through her. Bragging about some inane photography project felt silly and childish. Maybe it was better to keep it to herself.
The following morning, Wren got up early, made a cup of tea to avoid irritating her stomach further, packed her camera and all her lenses, and headed out into the world to take photographs.
This was the most delicious feeling she knew, and the mission at hand brought a spring to her step.
For hours, she took photographs, walking along the coast, raising her face to the Atlantic winds.
It was still August, but the temperatures had been dropping all week, and by the end of her walk, she was wrapped in a sweater and dreaming about where to get a hot bowl of soup.
It was then she heard a bark. Turning, she traced a line along the rocks to find a little Frenchie dog, adorable and light gray, its head poking out from behind a rock.
“Hello?” she called to the dog. But when the dog tried to leap over the rock, it whimpered terribly and hung back.
Wondering if it was caught on something, Wren did her best to maneuver over to it.
Once there, she saw that its paw was somehow tucked under a boulder, and there was a terrible gash along the right side of its body.
The dog’s eyes were earnest and loving, and Wren had the overwhelming urge to wrap her arms around it and take care of it.
It wasn’t wearing a collar, so where was its owner?
“It’s going to be okay,” Wren breathed, tears springing to her eyes. “I’m going to make sure you’re okay.”