In a Word, Yes

Chapter 1

One

ennui (n.): a feeling of dissatisfaction

Lucy

Why not indeed.

Beyond the graveyard, clusters of the same blossoms edge the back steps of the old stone Presbyterian church. Yet somehow this little lady escaped the fold.

I tap pause on my earbuds. Gripping the cemetery’s wrought-iron fence, I crouch close and whisper, “Nicely done.”

Maybe as a delicate seed, she was carried here on a stiff breeze or the bottom of some child’s shoe. Sure, you could call the fact that she made it to safety, somehow finding her way into this speck of dirt, a thing of wonder.

But that’s not what has me transfixed.

I narrow my gaze at the brazen thing. And then you dared to bloom.

If a flower could talk, this one appears to be saying “You ought to try it sometime, Lucy.”

Rude. I mean, this morning’s decision to walk rather than drive the six blocks to work counts as a win, right? Something had to be done for this vexing unease.

Who knew that a person’s life could fit like a well-worn sweater one day and turn itchy the next? I need to change things up, is all.

Never mind that I can already see the day’s events playing out ahead of me, same as last Monday, and the Monday before, and, well yeah, the two hundred preceding Mondays . . .

Once I’m settled at my station in the front lobby of the newspaper office, I’ll fall into the mindless rhythm of answering phone calls and formatting classifieds.

No doubt by now old Samuel Peabody III’s dimly lit corner office is shut up as tight as a tomb.

Our grizzly bear of an editor in chief prefers to be left alone while scratching out his weekly opinion piece.

From three streets away, I can practically smell the acrid aroma of dark roast coffee sludge (Sam always brews the first pot), muted by the sweetness of whatever home-baked delicacy Dot brought to share.

Dot and I will swap Wordle scores. (I really tripped on today’s word. What was it? Oh yeah, moxie.)

Sheesh. This is getting personal.

At this precise moment, Mighty Meg is probably out running down some last-minute story. Monday mornings mean we’re all on deadline. Yet inevitably again today, some local will call or pop by in a frenzy, ad in hand, well past deadline.

Inevitably I’ll accept it.

From a career perspective, I suppose I’ve plateaued at the Messenger.

But hear me out. I cherish being part of something so essential to our town.

Something bigger than me. Furthermore, I don’t not enjoy my job.

I know the rhythm of its seas. My days hold few surprises—a feature I cherish.

Besides, what more can a girl expect after abandoning her journalism degree midsemester for a man whose secrets would scar her heart?

So go ahead. Mock me, little petunia. You’re not wrong.

I tip my Hydro Flask and give her a good drenching.

She’ll need it today. Early fall in central Oregon loves to deal out a few random days of withering temperatures before the cozy season arrives to stay, and today looks to be a scorcher.

For the moment, though, the sun’s rays are friendly, cresting the far tree line where national forest gives way to city limits.

Lord knows I appreciate my little speck of soil here, where Chase and I put down roots. It’s lovely. Peaceful. Safe. If God has more for me, he’s going to have to spritz me with Miracle-Gro Bloom Booster.

I eye the sky. No, that isn’t a request. I haven’t the audacity.

But then I smile inside. Audacity was Merriam-Webster’s word of the day, and already I’ve used it twice. So, there’s that!

Turning left onto Birch, I restart my audiobook.

This one’s a cozy mystery that requires I suspend my disbelief to the utmost. Come to think of it, when did I become a thirty-one-year-old who listens to stories about croissant heists in French bakeries and tabby cats that solve murders?

Sure, my tastes are broader than that, but still.

I make a very poor millennial.

Over at the redbrick school administration building, a pair of high-spirited fawns bounce across the lawn. Which is why I notice the marquee out front. Someone updated the large blocky letters to announce Parent-Teacher Confrences Oct. 21. Instantly the contents of my stomach curdle.

But why? I mean, beyond the egregious misspelling?

Sure, there was that fiasco last year with Chase’s second-grade teacher, an epic complication to my single-mom life.

But so far, his return to school is providing the kind of snug daily routine kids like my Chase crave far more than the average eight-year-old, and Mrs. De Los Santos hasn’t yet sent home a single dreaded yellow slip for behavioral issues.

So what’s this toxin gnawing at my insides?

When realization finally dawns, it clocks me. Like someone has, in fact, punched me low in the gut. My lungs constrict. October twenty-first. A sealed vault of unwelcome memories clicks open.

It’ll be five years on October twenty-first.

Oxygen. I need more oxygen. No, that’s not it—pine-scented fresh air extends as far as the eye can travel, and today that means clear to the last ribbons of snow glistening on the Cascades. I try to sink into the audiobook narrator’s tranquilizing voice. Because none of that matters.

The events of five years ago bear no resemblance to my life today. Chase and I are living, breathing, thriving proof of the psalm I’ve so often rehearsed. God has sheltered me with his wings. His faithful promises have been my armor and protection.

This funky disembodied sensation will pass.

Across the street, the butter-yellow Western facade of Sweet Reads Used Books & Tea beckons me like a friend. Yes. A million times yes. My feet knew to carry me here. Chocolate chai. That’s the antidote.

I step off the curb.

“Heads up!” A thundering voice. A blur of khaki. On two wheels.

“Sorry!” I yell, hopping back to the curb. After all, I wasn’t using the crosswalk.

And then, in slo-mo, comprehension dawns.

The broad-shouldered man on the bike, the one I nearly encountered quite violently just now, wears a stiff black vest with SHERIFF emblazoned across the back. In all caps! As in, someone deputized to maintain law and order.

To keep our streets safe from disoriented proofreaders who jaywalk.

The brown-haired officer arm-signals a left turn at the nearby intersection and glides out of sight—but not before tucking his chin and throwing a glance over his shoulder. What was that look? A raised brow. And was that a half-sneer? Or half-smile? Inscrutable. It all happened so fast.

With my luck, he’s circling the block for a return visit with his ticket book.

In line at Sweet Reads, I lay a hand over my heart. It prances all over the place like one of those fawns. The doorbell jangles behind me. Heat creeps up my neck. I’m about to be publicly interrogated by an official in uniform, I just know it. I turn, but it’s only one of the Grumblies arriving.

The Grumblies is what I privately call the coterie of balding gents who gather at the same table most mornings to sip hot beverages and air their grievances loud enough for all to hear.

Seems to me, whenever they run out of enough hell-in-a-handbasket current events to sustain their daily habit, they just scratch their chins and start over again.

I hitch my canvas tote bag higher on my shoulder. Since when do our local sheriffs don Bermuda shorts and patrol the town on bikes, anyway? Not that it isn’t a perfect fit for Charity Falls’ small-town neighborly vibe. Charming, really.

“Dang, Lucy,” my friend Savannah says, greeting me at the counter with her whitening-strip smile. “Lavender’s a good color on you. Missed you at church yesterday.”

I stare at her. Blink. I expected her to comment on my addled appearance, not my new thrifted top.

How could she miss the telltale eye twitch?

But it’s better this way. At least, this is what I tell myself.

I’m a lot of things, but a pity-seeking missile isn’t one of them.

Besides, I see no need to divulge my misstep with the cop.

Savannah knows all too well how checked out I get when I’m shook.

“Actually, I was there,” I say, pushing my glasses higher up on my nose. Sure, I can afford contacts now. But I stick with glasses, if only so I don’t look twelve years old. “Chase got off to a bumpy start. We came late.”

“Oh, boo!” she pouts. “Sorry. Sounds rough. But you should’ve come sit with me and Lucas.”

“It was fine. I needed to sit in back so we could leave early. I’d made a deal with Chase.”

True, and also not true. Some days I’m not entirely up for peopling. Plus, who wants to be a third wheel? Savannah’s new husband is great, but for his sake I need to bow out sometimes.

Don’t mistake me. It’s not that I feel sorry for myself.

But sometimes . . . well, sometimes I sense others do. Still, I came away from the service with a C. S. Lewis quote that bears contemplating. I’ll get around to it eventually.

What I’d never tell Savannah—and it pains me to even say it—is that, from my end of things, the minute she got serious with Lucas, our friendship became healthier.

She’s one of those people drawn to me, the ant to my sugar, someone who drains my emotional tank.

Thanks to the help of a wonderful therapist, I’ve finally learned to guard my boundaries.

Lately, though, I wonder if I’m so good at saying no that my mouth no longer remembers how to form a yes.

Savannah flicks a glance behind me. A line must be forming there. She helicopters her fingers over the register. “So, what can we get started for ya?”

Before I can answer, Ian Witherspoon materializes beside her.

“I got ya, Lucy,” the owner says, raising a steam pitcher in salute.

“Chocolate chai, extra chocolatey.” The oat milk container sits open on his counter.

He even remembers my milk preference? “Oh, and don’t run off. I have something for you.”