Chapter 11
Eleven
gaffe (n.): an unintentional act or remark causing embarrassment
You’ve just walked by a bookstore. Is there something wrong with you?
The chalkboard sign propped outside Sweet Reads draws my smile. Time to shake off the musings that have preoccupied me ever since this afternoon’s interview with the lieutenant and get to the bottom of the text Savannah sent.
I’m president. Pleeeez come by tonight and talk me through this.
Like, what? Tell me this isn’t perplexing.
Savannah’s a solid friend, and Lord knows I have precious few.
It’s just that my feelings about our friendship are .
. . complicated. I will never not be grateful that within days of arriving in Charity Falls—in the middle of a pandemic, no less—Savannah invited me to her book club.
Meeting with five other ladies outdoors under a wide and moody autumn sky, I rediscovered the kind of female camaraderie I’d forgotten existed.
The kindness and generosity those ladies went out of their way to show me and Chase was so tender I almost couldn’t let it in.
The whole thing felt like a God-wink, echoing the whispers I heard in my spirit telling me this was where Chase and I were meant to stay. One of the women immediately recruited me for her vacation rental cleaning crew, and between that and some help from my folks, we had our first month’s rent.
And to think I’d only meant to stop long enough to wait out a thunderstorm in the tea and used books shop we happened upon.
But here’s the tricky part. I’m still learning to manage Savannah’s special brand of neediness. In a way, she acts as my test subject. Can I sustain a friendship without becoming sucked into another person’s emotional vortex? Can I encourage without enabling? It’s a tightrope walk.
Learning to police my boundaries is the best work I’ve done over the past five years. It has saved me. Sometimes, though, it has also isolated me.
Again, the window display of Steph Stoneback’s new book, Pinot and Peril, snags my attention. My stomach swoops. How much longer will I have to lug around this burning secret about a certain New York Times bestselling author whose arrival to our small town is imminent?
If Ian Witherspoon, as proprietor of the only bookshop in town, knew she’d soon be here in the flesh, he’d positively flip.
According to Savannah, Ian sank quite a sum into updates on the place and an expanded inventory of new releases, and his high hopes for summer business didn’t quite pan out.
What a win if Sweet Reads could host Stoneback for a book signing.
Imagine the draw from surrounding towns!
And a win for Sweet Reads is a win for Charity Falls.
Savannah. Will she forgive me when she learns I’ve harbored such valuable information? Also, Ian has been unbearably kind to me. But tipping off either of them about this? No way. Titillating as the scoop may be, my loyalty is to the Messenger. And a certain somewhat cantankerous editor.
Savannah’s top half appears at the forest-green Dutch door, and I flush with the weight of guilt. “Lucy. You came,” she says. “I’m surprised you, you know, had time.”
“Of course,” I say a little breathlessly. “Your text. It sounded . . . important.”
Maybe it’s because this side of the street is veiled in late-day shadow, but something about my friend seems off. Savannah lacks her usual ebullience. She even looks a bit . . . splotchy? Not like someone looking to celebrate a win.
I gulp. Because as true as it is that I need to maintain boundaries, my reputation as a wishy-washy homebody of a friend is also valid.
Also, Savannah’s not wrong. I did have plans.
Plans to curl up on the sofa with a novel while catching up on laundry.
Alone time is a rare treasure not everyone values to the same degree.
Confession: Instead of jogging down here, I was tempted to phone her instead.
I know. Bad friend. Bad, lazy friend.
So here I am, hoping to make up for my initial hesitancy by asking the obvious follow-up question in person. President of what (other than the Lucas Gordon fan club)?
“Sooo,” I coo, “tell me about your news!”
“I . . . what? I already told you. In the text. Hey, do me a favor and grab that sandwich board, would you?” While I heft the sign inside, Savannah crouches to unlock the wheels on a metal cart filled with paperbacks on a BOGO sale.
“Here, I’ll get the door. Am I too late to order a drink?” I help her across the threshold with the cart. Six o’clock may be closing time for Sweet Reads, but any time is chocolate o’clock for me.
“What kind of loser-ish friend do you think I am? I invited you, remember? Anyway, Ian asked me to keep the tea bar open a little later. There’s an event here tonight.”
“Oh, sorry,” I whisper. “In that case, I can be quieter.”
“No worries. I don’t think anyone’s shown up yet. But you’re being weird, Lucy. I expected you to be more, I don’t know, more excited, I guess.”
“I am, of course!” I say over the loud hiss of the milk she’s steaming. “I mean, I’m just a little surprised is all.” To my knowledge, Savannah’s never expressed interest in any kind of leadership position.
She turns a crank, cutting the hiss into silence. “You think you’re surprised? Tell me about it.”
“So, where did this happen? At book club?”
Savannah blinks twice.
“At Bible study?” I say to be helpful. “I mean, you never mentioned you were looking for more responsibility.”
Her eyes round in an expression that looks like . . . horror. What did I say? “But you’ll do great,” I hurry to add. “I’m sure! It’s just that I didn’t even know you were looking for that sort of thing.”
“Lucy, what is the matter with you? Why would you even say—”
I seem to be completely botching this. “Sorry. Sorry. I guess I should have led with president of what?”
“President?”
“Your message.”
“What are you even talking about?” Savannah scans the place, as if for some reason privacy is required.
There are no lingering customers, and Ian is busy arranging chairs in the adjacent reading room, a soft-carpeted space anchored by an ornate red velvet settee and surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
“President . . . that’s not what I . . .” Savannah snags her cell phone from under the counter. “Oh my gosh—stupid spell-check! I’m not president of anything, Lucy.” Again she looks around, then shout-whispers, “I’m pregnant!”
“You’re . . .” I slap my hand over my mouth. “Wait, what?”
She nods.
“Really? You’re . . . going to have a baby?”
In contrast to Savannah, who’s weirdly subdued and suppressing a smile, the joyous shriek that comes out of me next is shocking. Didn’t even know I could hit such a high note. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, Savannah, can I . . .” I blaze around to her side of the counter. “I have to hug you!”
Savannah’s going to have a baby. The possibility would never have occurred to me. She and Lucas have only been married for, what, six months?
We descend into laughter, and Savannah’s color returns.
“I’m just in shock,” I say.
“How do you think I feel? You’re right, we weren’t trying. Not at book club, and definitely not at Bible study.”
Our next round of snickers draws Ian to my side. “Pardon me, ladies,” he says with his playful British lilt. “What are you two going on about? More importantly, can I get in on it?” Savannah and I break apart with a shared smile. I can’t stop staring at her and shaking my head in disbelief.
Ian looks adorably expectant. But when I eye Savannah—oh, fiddlesticks. I doubt those flushed cheeks are already the glow of pregnancy. More likely, she hasn’t yet shared the news with her boss.
Based on the way Savannah stumbles over her response, things around here are about to grow even more awkward. I begin to excuse myself, but just then the door opens, and a petite, elderly raisin of a woman bustles inside. Ian excuses himself instead.
She’s not much for eye contact, I notice as Ian escorts the woman past the counter. Her pinched features would seem to indicate that she’s in some kind of pain, or maybe that she’s been disappointed with life since 1975.
“Savannah,” Ian says, “mind starting an Earl Grey Bouquet for Sunny?”
“The one with no caffeine!” the woman squawks over her shoulder as she follows Ian into the reading room.
“Sunny?” I whisper. “Her name is . . .”
“That’s Ian’s next-door neighbor,” Savannah says with a small shrug. “She’s mostly harmless.”
I watch not-so-sunny Sunny arrange herself on the red settee in the other room, then remove a notebook from her purse. Poor woman. Whatever tonight’s meeting is about must be grim. Definitely not the Red Hat Society. Homeowner’s association?
“I still can’t believe you’re pregnant,” I say, turning back to Savannah. “How are you feeling?”
She removes a jar from the apothecary shelf on the wall behind her and measures out a scoop of tea.
The air blooms with citrus and florals. “To tell you the truth, Lucy, I don’t know.
” She adds hot water with the push of a button and steam rises.
She sets a digital timer. “It’s so surreal.
I mean, are we ready for this? Between you and me, Lucas and I had a plan, and this wasn’t it. I can’t help thinking . . .”
I wait.
Her chin trembles. “Lucy, look around us. You see how things are. What kind of world are we bringing a child into?”
I draw a deep, steadying, here-we-go-again breath.
What mystifies me about my friend is how regularly she bemoans the state of the world yet remains glued to cable news. I mean, I get it. There’s no shortage of stuff to fret about. But how will we ever get better at loving our neighbor if we live in fear?
Besides, if darkness is indeed on the increase, why not focus instead on bringing the light?
And raise up children who can do the same?
I can easily imagine what Nana Lucia would say to this. She’d say love is always an act of courage.