Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
scuttlebutt (n.): rumor, gossip
“I started to text you earlier,” Ian says when I arrive at Sweet Reads that evening.
He leans closer. “But the thing is . . .” He thrusts his chin toward the Mystery section, and I follow him around the tall aisle overstuffed with books.
“Thing is,” he says conspiratorially once we’re out of anyone’s line of sight, “what I’m about to tell you must be held in the strictest confidence. Messaging you was way too risky.”
I pretend to zip my lips. Whatever this is about, I’m down for a good secret. Especially if it relieves Ian’s conscience about ghosting me yesterday. “Leave no trace,” I whisper, a touch overdramatically.
“Right.” He shimmies his eyebrows. “Exactly. You get it, Lucy. So, here’s what happened. I’m on my way to meet you yesterday when I see this woman getting out of her car over in front of All the Feels. Fiftyish. Long, graying hair. Dark glasses. About your height or a wee bit taller.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, curiosity taking root. Ian isn’t a particularly demonstrative kind of guy. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him so worked up. This must be good.
“At first I think maybe I’m hallucinating, right? Because I’m pretty convinced I’m looking at . . . wait for it . . . Steph Stoneback.”
My chest deflates. Whatever expression I wore a second ago is now frozen in place.
Ian misreads this. “I know—crazy, right? And I think to myself, no. No bloody way. I’m simply imagining things because I was just placing a reorder for her book. Steph Stoneback just happens to be on my mind, I tell myself.”
“Oh, sure. Imagination can do that,” I say dismissively, because all of a sudden I’m an actress. “Could happen to anyone.”
“Well, yeah. So then I follow her.”
I swallow a bubble of uneasiness. “You . . . follow her.”
“Mind you, it’s not that I go stalking her—not precisely, because of course I could always use a gift for my gran back in Nottingham. A little early Christmas shopping never hurt, you see what I’m saying? Gran loves all those lathery things. Oils, scrubs, all of it.”
“Right.”
“So anyway, I go in, and, you know, examine a few bars of soap, and all the while I’m trying to get a better look at this woman.
She’s got her head down, sniffing candles.
I still can’t be sure. So very casually, I move closer”—Ian sidles nearer to me, as if there’s a need to illustrate—“and comment on the loveliness of a particular candle. She looks up. And that’s when I know for sure. ”
“You know . . . ?”
“That there is a New York Times bestselling author shopping three doors down from my bookshop.”
Oh man. This tracks. Meg has several activities lined up for Stoneback this coming week. No word on whether I’ll get to meet her myself.
“Lucy, can you even?”
Oh, my flabbers are definitely gasted, but not for the reason Ian thinks. I drum my fingers across my mouth.
Luckily he isn’t awaiting a response. He only wants to gush.
Next I’m informed about how graciously the author responded when he introduced himself. How she requested secrecy about her visit to Charity Falls but took Ian up on his offer to deliver a cup of tea to her car.
“And Lucy, she said, and I quote, she’d be delighted to do an author event at Sweet Reads the next time she visits.” Ian’s grin is so big I’m afraid it’s going to crack his face.
“Well, congratulations,” I say.
Between a pair of book lovers, no further explanation is required about why this development took precedence over our coffee date—er, non-date. This is Steph Stoneback.
“Wait!” I all but hiss when Ian makes a move to leave. I hold my palms out, suddenly hungry for the good stuff. “Most importantly, what kind of tea does she drink?”
He grins. “Black. Heavy cream. Very Agatha Christie.”
I knew it.
When Ian and I emerge together from behind the aisle, some members of the writers group are already assembled in the adjacent room. Billie takes notice. She eyes us from the red settee, looking utterly pleased with herself.
Fiddlesticks. The last thing that woman needs is more grist for the rumor mill.
Wyatt’s last to arrive.
“I can see he’s quite taken with you,” Billie whispers as I zip off my puffy jacket.
Three chairs to my right, Wyatt is shedding his coat. But Billie is eyeing Ian, directly across from us.
“It’s nothing like that, Billie.”
“Mm-hmm.” She pats her glossy white helmet of hair.
I can well imagine Billie in 1970, all hot pants and go-go boots, gossiping with the other flight attendants and flirting her perm off. She’s kind of a lot, but she makes me smile.
I wonder if my mom will ever go silver-haired. It’s hard to imagine. But like Billie, she could own it.
Something has shifted in our group over the past several weeks. Familiarity has replaced formality. Even Sunny appears if not exactly happy, then a bit more relaxed.
Hence, Ian has to work harder now to break through our lively chitchat and get the meeting underway. Our leader is positively glowing tonight, and I’m happy for him. I betrayed no one’s confidence, and yet he managed to benefit from the whole Stoneback thing. Fate moved all on its own.
“How many of us will be reading tonight?” he asks. Briefly I flick up my hand. Heat prickles my cheeks, but I’m committed now, and I won’t be deterred. Around me, more hands go up. Bernard (no surprise). Nytasha. Wyatt. And Billie.
Billie’s arm remains lifted after the others go down.
“Looks like we have a volunteer to go first,” Ian says.
“Well, yes, I do have something to read.” Her eyes are mischievous. “But first, speaking of writing and writers and famous authors . . .”
“Were we?” Nytasha says.
“You will never guess what I heard on my way over here tonight from Jan at the hardware store.” She waits a beat, clearly relishing the spotlight.
“Well, I’ll tell you. Jan said that Bill Buck—you know, that ornery fellow who raises longhorns out past Daisy’s old place?
—well, he told Jan that his nephew, who’s a private pilot and as straight a shooter as they come, got to yakking with another pilot while they were refueling, and that other pilot happened to mention that he had just transported a certain celebrity client to Charity Falls.
” Billie shakes her head to herself. “Oh, the tales Buck’s nephew could tell.
I’ll have you know, that adorable cowboy actor everyone around here is so gaga about isn’t the only famous person to ever grace our town. Did you know that—”
“Who, Billie? Who did he transport?” Ian’s tone is uncharacteristically forceful.
“Yeah, tell us who, Billie,” Nytasha says.
“Oh. Right. Yes.” Billie pauses long enough to ensure all six pairs of eyes are on her. She draws a breath. “Steph. Stoneback.”
And so it goes with secrecy in a small town.
Ian shoots me a glance. He looks like he’s going to be sick.
“Who?” This, from Nytasha.
“What do you mean, who?” Billie says. “Steph Stoneback. You know, the author.”
Bernard squints. “Is she the one who wrote Delta Deception? Fairly good book. A little light on the romance for me. Lacked spice, if memory serves.”
Billie shoots out of her chair. She bustles over to the New Releases display, snatches a copy of Pinot and Peril, and raises it high like it’s one of those laminated airline safety brochures.
“Steph Stoneback. See here?” She taps a manicured fingertip on the cover.
“See what this says? ‘New York Times bestselling author.’ Ian, I thought for sure that you, at least, would be thrilled at the prospect.”
Ian’s smile is tight. His face pale. “Of course, of course, Billie. It’s an intriguing rumor, for certain. Stoneback’s a top seller for us. Several of her books have been made into movies. I hear they’re not too bad. Would you all excuse me for a moment? Carry on, carry on.”
Without Ian anchoring the leadership role, the air in the room shifts. Everyone looks around, as if the purpose of our gathering is now unclear.
For reasons I may never fully understand, I take it upon myself to move things along. “Well,” I hear myself say, “I for one can’t wait to hear what you brought to read, Billie.”
Wyatt shoots me a grateful smile. “Me too,” he says.
He’s had a haircut, and I can’t decide how I feel about it. Also, I’m not sure why I should have an opinion on this.
Billie is still reading when Ian returns carrying a steaming mug and appearing more composed.
A round of kudos and minor critique of Billie’s chapter follows.
“Lucy,” Ian says, “did I see you raise your hand? Any wins on your Smith Corona this week?”
“I did,” I say, and it comes out super breezy, which makes twice tonight I’ve exercised my acting chops. “Smitty,” I add, to detract from the fact that my hand trembles as I distribute copies of my single-page essay. “I’ve nicknamed the typewriter.”
Not major trembling, but enough that it’s possible someone picked up on it. I press on.
Before I begin, I instinctively look over at Wyatt, knowing I’ll find strength there. I’m not sure if it’s due to our shared history or if it’s something else. I just sense he’s in my corner.
When I finish reading, there’s a beat of silence. Truth is, I like my piece. But I’m here to learn. “Any suggestions?”
Looking up, I’m met with tender smiles. Even from Sunny. I don’t know whether this means they like it or if they’re simply proud of me for making progress, and I’m not sure it matters. It feels nice.
Until the praise starts.
“Lovely. Absolutely lovely, my dear,” Bernard says.
Billie dabs her eyes. “Oh, Lucy,” she says. “Your beautiful writing transported me. I was there. I could see your Nana. Smell her kitchen. Feel her love. Thank you for sharing.”
And on it goes, and there’s nothing I can do to prevent the blush rising to my cheeks.
Finally, Nytasha chimes in. “But what is it exactly? I mean, it’s kind of sweet. I didn’t know my own grandparents. Well, except for my Grandma Hausenberg, but she was scary.”
Oof.
“No offense, Lucy,” she says. “But what’s it for?”
Ian shifts in his chair to face her. “Nytasha, not everything we do or create has to fulfill an assigned purpose.”
A fun conversation ensues about the function of art in society. But I keep thinking that maybe my piece of writing already served its purpose. Because in a way, grandparent-deprived Nytasha just spent time in Nana’s kitchen.
Wyatt reads the opening chapter of his new story.
He writes with a crisp, humorous tone that sucks me in right away, even though the story is meant for kids.
He asks our group for help with a plot problem.
“I’m trying to think of a plausible reason these kids would venture out into the forest without a grownup in the first place,” he says.
“They’re good kids, and they’re not stupid. ”
“Maybe they’re out looking for Sasquatch?” Nytasha offers.
“Hmm. Could be. But these boys are pretty nerdy. I doubt they’d buy into a myth.”
“What about geocaching?” I say.
Wyatt leans back. Taps his pen on his thigh. “You know, that could work.” After a pause, he says, “Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of thing these guys would be into. Man. Why didn’t I think of that?” He scribbles a note on his paper. “Thank you, Lucy. This is such a huge help.”
His smile sends warm tingles through me.
Ian taps my left arm with a stack of papers—copies of Bernard’s piece making the rounds. Absently I take a copy and pass the stack to Billie on my right. She winks at me. All night she’s been tracking my every interaction with Ian.
But in the fantasy I’m currently having, it isn’t Ian that’s taken with me. It’s Wyatt.
I don’t let myself look at him for the rest of the night.