Chapter 20
Twenty
pilgrimage (n.): journey to a shrine or a
sacred place
The following morning brings more blue skies but still no word from Ian about his mysterious nonappearance.
It’s one of those hot-cold days Dickens described as “summer in the light, and winter in the shade,” and despite my sage beanie (which, contrary to my delusional coworker’s assertions, is not in any way elf-like), I’m dying for the cozy warmth of Sweet Reads.
Not so much the dreaded mission that brings me here.
The drink line extends to the door. I squeeze inside. No choice but to hover only inches from the Grumblies’ table.
Behind the counter, Ian serves up ready smiles and chats as easily as ever, all while measuring and steeping those ambrosial teas he creates. He wears no visible bandages. No limbs set in plaster casts. No obvious signs of a sudden medical emergency requiring heli transport to parts unknown.
I can’t help but think that when it came time for our little non-date at the Trading Post, he just plain forgot about me.
And here’s what’s astonishing. I’m not even offended. I’m . . . relieved. How elucidative. Ooh, now there’s a great word. It even contains my name.
Clearly, where I’m concerned, Ian Witherspoon’s heart is one hundred percent uninvested.
We get to continue residing in the friend zone, and I’m more certain than ever this is where I want to remain.
Only one thing stands in the way: the requisite awkward convo.
One teensy-weensy, infinitesimally brief moment of discomfort, and then, poof, the air will be clear in time for writers group tonight.
But first I have to endure today’s hot takes from the Grumblies. And there is a whole lot of rehashing going on. Gravelly voices rumble behind me.
“. . . intersection must’ve been engineered by the same brainiac responsible for the Hindenburg.” I don’t need to look to know that’s the stocky one with a white beard who’d be a shoo-in to play Santa Claus.
“. . . that bunch ’a ninnyhammers down at city hall . . .”
“. . . what in the Dickens can they be thinking . . . ?”
“. . . someone put stupid juice in their sippy cups . . .”
Finally, Ian’s eyes catch on mine. His shoulders slump. He whispers something to Savannah, rushes around the end of the tea bar, sidesteps a number of patrons, apologizing to each one, and lands squarely in front of me.
“Lucy . . . I’m so sorry.” He hovers close, smelling like all the things. I catch smoked black tea, cinnamon, and something bright. Bergamot perhaps. His volume is too close to normal for my comfort. I hate being on display.
“Are you miffed?” he says. “You should be miffed.”
A woman two spots ahead of me in line pivots slightly, angling for a better hearing trajectory. Ack. That’s no random woman. It’s Billie.
“I can explain,” he says more discreetly. “I wanted to call, but—can you believe it—somehow I don’t have you as a contact.”
I grant Ian a soft smile, eager to put him out of his misery. Still, there remains the niggling question of why he didn’t ask Savannah for my number.
“No worries,” I say. “Really, none whatsoever. It all worked out. I ended up having some time to myself with a book.” And a mutual friend, I don’t say.
“It turned out lovely.” In my eyes, Ian will always be a stand-up guy.
He just clearly had other priorities. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” I add.
“You’re okay, right? I was worried that—”
“Yes, yes, I’m good. All good. It’s just that—” He sweeps a glance around us and for the first time notices Billie, who has dropped the ruse. She openly watches us, lips curled in a smug little half-grin as if we’ve invited her to participate.
“Let’s talk later,” he whispers. “Can we talk? Would you be comfortable giving me your number?”
“You’re welcome to get it from Savannah.”
“Actually, I try not to share my private business with employees.”
Ah. So, see, Ian’s character remains intact. Moral policy guided him. Turning his back to Billie, Ian furtively shimmies his brow. “I have got amazing news.”
Minutes later, insulated by sips of sweet chocolate chai and with that distasteful chore behind me, I continue on foot to the office, feeling a million pounds lighter.
If Ian ever tries to resurrect the idea of a coffee date, I’m prepared to shut it down.
There’s no place in my world for male companionship.
But just as I think this, a montage of café scenes ticks by. Hazel eyes. A shared scone. Easy laughter.
A disparity, I confess. One I’ll table for now. Which should give me something actually worth stewing over the next time I find myself writhing sleeplessly in the middle of the night.
And anyway, circling back to the Ian situation, whatever went on in his world that took precedence is no reflection on the recently more accurately redefined Lucy. I’m very okay. Because I rocked my writing sesh last night.
But first came two rounds of ginger tea, an untold number of stare-outs with Smitty, and vowing to never again think of myself as any kind of real writer.
At which point I discovered the beginnings of a breakout on my chin.
So, I figured, well, here I am, up at 1:00 a.m. with nothing to show for it; may as well try that acne home remedy Vanessa swears by—coating my face in honey. I even had honey.
I’d give my face a small treat while staring at Smitty and not writing.
Except that when I consulted Google, I learned that the honey with the most antiseptic, anti-inflammatory properties derives from the nectar of the manuka bush, which only grows in New Zealand. So I placed an order from .
Which of course led me to a killer deal on a two-pack of my favorite deodorant, so . . . yeah, got that ordered too.
Somewhere during this whole process, I also refilled the salt and pepper shakers.
As procrastinators go, I’m nothing if not productive.
But then at long last, I recalled something Billie said. I could approach my story gently. No need to go full trauma right from the beginning. This freed me.
And as experiments go, Billie’s suggestion felt far preferable to Bernard’s go-to cure for writer’s block: writing in one’s birthday suit.
So, while Chase slept, I finally let the words be what they wanted to be.
Oh, I don’t know that they’re ever meant for anyone else’s eyes.
I’m no longer sure it matters. I’ve come to grips with the fact that the person I first need to write for is me.
My younger self. There are things I need her to understand and things I need to understand about her.
But I’ll begin by simply befriending her, and then I’ll tiptoe gently up to the life events that painfully shaped her.
I get to paint a balanced picture of the landscape of my life.
Messy as it is, hard as it sometimes was, my story contains layers of sweet along with the bitter. Like this chai.
So, I went back to writing about Nana. About the things that woman could do with a tub of ricotta. About the Smith Corona and the rain, and the scent of anise and pungent herbs, and pungent, youthful confidence that the One who made me was writing a meaningful story for me.
And still is.
It broke my heart a little, this longing to go back and tell my earlier self to never, ever stop hoping. Because life disappoints, but hope never fails.
The words are unfussy and maybe a little dewy-eyed, but every one of them is true.
And I feel elated.
It’s no accident I chose a different route to work this morning.
This girl is on a quest. And now I’ve arrived at a corner where a trio of giant sunflowers, mostly bloomed-out and faded, angle their great heads over the top of someone’s fence like an octogenarian greeting committee.
Leaning against the fence, I fish out my phone from the bottom of my bag (I’ve switched to the one that says DON’T JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS MOVIE ADAPTATION).
What I’m about to do will never happen if I allow myself a single second to overthink it. No shilly-shallying allowed, Montgomery.
Jumping on a group text thread I’ve neglected too long, I offer to share the latest writing exercise with Mom and Dad. No shilly. Not a shred of shally.
With that done, I pick my way diagonally through an empty field in the middle of a neighborhood of small older homes.
I follow a narrow deer path through thigh-high brush.
And there it is. That single tamarack, with its explosion of yellow-gold needles rising higher in the sky than every neighboring tree, jubilating.
Ha! Knew I could find a use for Merriam-Webster’s word of the day.
Ah, I can’t wait to bring Chase here before it sheds its needles. Before the show’s over. Won’t my boy be impressed that his boring old mother found what I’m pretty sure is the only deciduous conifer in downtown Charity Falls?
And to think this glorious tree wouldn’t have come to my attention if things went to plan and Ian showed up at the Trading Post the other day. If I hadn’t been left to my own devices . . . and the words of Amy Carmichael.
The best training is to learn to accept everything as it comes, as from Him whom our soul loves.
A clump of sage to my left moves. Out scampers a fat gray cottontail.
He side-eyes me, and for a magical moment we just look at each other.
Two simple creatures doing our best to figure things out as we go.
You and me, pretty bunny, we’re in this beautiful, unpredictable story together, I think, before bidding him a silent farewell.
Because if the forecast is to be believed, my walk-to-work season has arrived at its bitter-cold end.
My bag vibrates.
Dad
Yeah, tiger! Mom says send it to her email. Same goes for me.
Before I can even return my phone to my bag, another text comes in, this one from Vanessa. Which is super random, considering we haven’t connected much lately.
Send it to me too!
Send . . . what? I scroll up. Fiddlesticks!
I chose the family thread that includes all of us.
My body tenses. I scour my memory for anything in the piece I wrote last night that wasn’t meant for my sister’s eyes.
Anything that might draw her judgment or that she might take offense to.
Had she resented the closeness of my relationship with Nana? I never thought to wonder about this.
And then I cluck my tongue and, one by one, dismiss these concerns. I was never designed to run interference for everyone else’s feelings, all the time, every day. Can’t even begin to get myself hyped up for it. Even for family. It’s too much work. I’m exhausted.
But that doesn’t mean my sister and I can’t be close. In fact, maybe this isn’t a bad place to start.