Chapter 17. Lenore
Lenore
The next morning, I arrive at the Hidden Acorn at eight on the dot for my date with Shelby. It’s busier than it was the other day, people scattered around tables, reading or chatting or lit by the cold glow of their laptop screens.
I join the short queue at the counter and read through the seasonal drinks on the chalkboard menu while I wait. A willowy woman with bleached brows takes orders while Rain scrambles to fill them.
I order a hot maple pecan cappuccino before snagging a table near the window. The sky outside is a blank sheet of overcast.
I sit down again and check my watch, a delicate vintage timepiece with a pearlescent face and a leather strap, worn soft and pliable with age.
Unlike the emerald ring, this is something of my grandmother’s that I can wear without needing to get it resized.
By some stroke of luck, it was still ticking after all this time.
It must’ve been at least four or five years since she last took it in to have the battery changed.
Rain emerges from behind the counter carrying my drink. Today, she’s got on a fitted black long-sleeve shirt and low-rise jeans beneath her apron. “Saw your name written on the cup and figured, what are the chances of there being more than one Lenore in a town this small,” she says, grinning.
“You didn’t have to bring it out to me.”
She lifts one shoulder in a blithe shrug. “We’re about caught up.”
I lean back in my seat to see past her to where the line has dissipated. A few people linger near the counter, waiting to retrieve their orders. Her coworker has taken over drink prep. An espresso machine trickles. Steamed milk burbles.
I take the first sip. “Mm!” The cappuccino singes off my taste buds. A little bit dribbles out even though my lips are pursed tight, my body’s physical revolt against swallowing something this hot.
Rain pulls out the chair opposite me. “All right there?”
“Mm-hmm.” It’s like lava sliding down my throat. “This is delicious,” I choke out, tears pricking my eyes. A lie. The only thing I tasted was Fahrenheit.
“I thought you weren’t spending money on coffee,” she says without judgment.
“Oh, I’m not. This money is going toward friendship.”
“I’m flattered.”
My mouth opens to correct her, and in the same blink, I think better of it. The end result is that I gape like a brook trout.
Rain tosses her head back in a cackle. “I’m kidding,” she says, and reaches across the table to give my elbow a reassuring touch. “Though we can totally be friends, if you want.”
There’s something so refreshing about the playground simplicity in her offer.
It feels like the older we get, the more people dance around putting a label on things prematurely.
Making friends as an adult is a little like dating.
I’ve been entangled in a few friend situationships in recent years. “I’d like that,” I admit.
“Then friends we shall be.”
“You’re very chipper this morning,” I observe.
“Mornings are relative,” she counters. “I went to bed after my shift yesterday and woke up at three AM. Hi!” This last part is hurled at a customer walking through the door. Rain pops from her chair like a jack-in-the-box and heads toward the counter.
“And exactly how many shots of espresso have you had since three AM?” I call after her.
Without turning around, she says, “Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answer to!”
Smiling, I take another tentative sip of my cappuccino. It’s cooled enough to be drinkable.
Between the gold-leaf lettering that adorns the window, I spy Shelby stepping into the crosswalk on the other side of High Street.
Her long trench coat fans out behind her like a cape to reveal a pinafore dress with large front pockets, paired with ballet flats.
It’s a little bit elementary school teacher and a little “Elementary, my dear Watson.” A gust of wind twirls leaves across the asphalt.
A bell jingles as she pushes through the door to the Hidden Acorn.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says breathlessly, doffing her coat and draping it over the back of the chair.
“First, I couldn’t get Jackson to put on his shoes, and then once the shoes were on his feet, we had a total meltdown on our hands, and it wasn’t until we were in the car halfway down the road that Avery remembered she’d left her Trapper Keeper on the—”
I hold up my hands in a sort of surrender. “It’s fine, really,” I say, laughing. “It sounds like quite a morning.”
“Oh no,” she says with a sigh. “It’s just another Tuesday. What did you order?”
I look down at my drink. “A maple pecan cappuccino.”
“Any good?”
“I have no idea.” A crease appears in her brow. “I scalded my tongue. It’s possible I’ve lost my sense of taste altogether.”
“What I’m hearing is ‘Don’t order any hot drinks,’” she says. “Be right back.”
Right on cue, the rush picks up again. It always happens in waves back in the city, but here in Whitbury, it’s more like the gentle lapping of a lake against the shore. Shelby returns to the table a few minutes later. “I had no idea this place was so popular,” she says, finally taking a seat.
“You should see the place where I work. Our morning rush might actually be a fire hazard.”
“Sorry, wait.” Shelby closes her eyes and holds up a hand, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “You work in a coffee shop?”
A nervous laugh bubbles up my throat. “Yeah. Right now, anyway.”
“Do you like it?” she asks.
I stiffen and glance over at Rain and the other barista. Do they like it? Because I certainly don’t. There’s nothing wrong with working in a coffee shop, but it’s not why I left for college in New York. Latte foam art can’t fill the hole in my heart where passion used to be.
“Sure. It’s all right.” Not wanting to dwell on that particular line of questioning, I pivot. “What about you? What do you do?”
Her eyebrows disappear into her curtain bangs and she takes a deep breath. “Oh, I work in insurance. It’s not very interesting, but I get to work from home, at least.”
“What about Jesse?”
“He’s doing the stay-at-home dad thing,” she says, “which sounds a little redundant to some people since I’m already home, but it’s impossible to get any work done with the kids in the house. I have to shut myself inside my office and barricade the door with a chair.”
“What about—” With a finger, I draw a cross shape over the left side of my chest. It’s not until Shelby tracks the motion with a wide-eyed look that I realize it looks like I’m crossing my heart. “I saw he was wearing a T-shirt that said Whitbury Fire Department the other night,” I explain.
Her mouth forms a silent oh. “He’s a volunteer firefighter. It gets him out of the house, lets him do something meaningful, you know. Not that raising our children isn’t meaningful,” she rushes to add.
“Of course.” I don’t know how to ask what I want to ask without sounding rude. Whether she’s happy with Jesse, whether life panned out like she hoped. Avery wasn’t planned, so their marriage always struck me as more convenient than happily ever after.
“Do you like being the breadwinner?” I ask instead, then wince. It sounds like the sort of question that belongs on a sociological survey.
“Oh, definitely,” she says. “It feels good to have more than one side to me. There’s mom Shelby, and then there’s work Shelby. Plus, the kids love having Jesse home with them. He’s an amazing dad.”
There’s no missing the way her face lights up when she talks about him. I can’t help but smile. “You seem like you’re happy.”
“I am,” she says without hesitation. “There are hard days, sure, but it’s all so worth it.”
I guess I was wrong. Maybe Shelby and Jesse were always meant to be together—or maybe there is no meant to be, there’s only making it work. They’re happy together, which is more than a lot of people can say.
“And you? Are you seeing anyone?”
For some reason, Cal in my kitchen with his hair ruffled, holding out my mug of coffee, flashes through my head. I shake the image away. “I, um— I was engaged. Maybe you saw when I posted about it. It didn’t end on a particularly happy note, so I’ve been focusing on me for a while.”
“I’m sorry,” she says softly.
I give her a tight smile. “I’m better off now.”
“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.” She looks genuinely concerned for me, and I have to admit, it feels good to be sitting across from Shelby again. Maybe we can’t erase the past, but we can build something entirely new. A tentative friendship. Getting to know each other all over again.
“It was his timing that was worse than anything,” I say.
“In the weeks after Gran passed, he got more and more fed up with my grief. You knew this was coming. You had three years to come to terms with this after moving her into the care home. Haven’t you already mourned enough?
Things like that. He expected me to pull myself together, to go out to dinner with his colleagues and laugh and smile like my whole world hadn’t shattered.
He said—” I look down at the paper cup clutched in my hands.
“He said I wasn’t the same girl he asked to marry him. ”
That was his explanation for why he’d started to see someone behind my back. I didn’t want to break things off with you while you’re in such a fragile state.
“I’m so sorry, Nore.” Shelby reaches across the table and covers my wrist with a reassuring hand. “What a dick. Around here, you mourn for as long as you need. Especially when it’s someone as unforgettable as Gabrielle fucking French.”
I snort out a laugh and give her hand a grateful squeeze. “Thanks, Shelby.”
“You know, it’s funny,” she says after a beat, the corner of her mouth pulling into a smile. “I thought maybe there was something going on between you and Callan.”
Just the mention of his name plucks at my heart strings. “What made you think that?”
“Well, you both signed your name on the gift for Avery,” she says thoughtfully. “But it’s also the way he looks at you. He’s always had a thing for you, you know.”
I breathe a humorless laugh. “Not really.”
Shelby observes me with a curious tilt of her head, a squint in her eyes, like my skepticism amuses her.
I debate telling her about the wedding. That he had his chance and didn’t take it.
Not to mention the other night, or the near kiss outside his truck, or that moment in the bookstore.
I don’t go after the things I want. All these fragments that piece together to reveal the bigger picture: Nothing is ever going to happen between me and Cal, because it would’ve happened already.
“What about your art?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, sighing.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You were so talented.”
“It’s not that simple,” I say, doing my best to tamp down my frustration.
It’s the same line everyone gives me. You’re talented, like that’s any guarantee that it’ll work out in the end.
Like talent—which is actually hard work and dedication—is some golden ticket to success.
“Everyone expects artists to just tough it out, to starve in the name of their art, like we don’t deserve to be paid a living wage like everyone else. ”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I quit.” My mouth is dry. I gulp my now-lukewarm cappuccino. “I stopped painting because I was tired of putting my whole heart into something and getting nothing in return.”
“Iced caramel macchiato for Shelby?” Rain stands over our table, eyes ticking back and forth between us.
“Right here,” Shelby says, casting a concerned look at me before accepting the drink. “Thanks.”
Rain lingers for a moment, hesitant. “You didn’t mention that you’re an artist,” she says at last.
“I’m not, really.” Discomfort prickles beneath my skin at the unearned title. I’ve failed to do the one thing an artist is supposed to do, which is to create. “I used to be one. Not anymore.”
“Don’t listen to a word she says,” Shelby interjects. “She’s brilliant. My daughter has a watercolor painting she did almost eight years ago still hanging in her bedroom.”
A sliver of pride wedges itself beneath my skin like a splinter. Maybe my work hasn’t landed in any galleries, or paid my rent, but I’ve painted worthwhile things. “It was gouache,” I mutter, because I don’t know what else to say.
“We should hang some of your work on our art wall,” Rain says brightly.
I blink. “Here?”
“Sure. I know it might not seem like much, but people love supporting local artists. We’ve sold quite a few pieces.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Shelby says.
“Oh, I’m not local,” I say.
Shelby makes a dismissive sound. “Sure you are.”
“I live in New York.”
“Yeah, but you grew up here,” she says. “I’m pretty sure that makes you a local.”
We both turn to look at Rain, who shrugs. “Local enough for me.”
I hesitate, that splinter working itself deeper. “I don’t really have anything worth showing.”
“There’s the bunny painting,” Shelby says.
“No,” I say immediately. “No, that was a gift.”
“You could paint something entirely new,” Rain suggests.
Maybe. For the first time in a long time, I think maybe I could.