Chapter 42
Forty-Two
peripeteia (n.): a sudden or unexpected reversal of circumstances or situation, especially in a literary work
On Thursday, after eating lunch on my favorite library bench, I return to the office just as Sam is leaving.
“Oh, hey, Montgomery,” he says. “Do me a favor and go ask Meg if there’s something you can take off her plate. She’s got an impending interview that’s way more your speed than hers.”
“And what speed is that?”
He doesn’t respond. Only chuckles on his way out the door.
Okay, weird. But whatever.
I find Mighty Meg in her office, hurriedly zipping up her down jacket as if she’s about to head out. “Hey, cubby,” she says distractedly.
Ever since our Smith Rock adventure, Meg and I are on new footing. Meaning, most days she actually acknowledges my presence. Dubbing me a cub reporter? High praise, coming from her.
“Anything I can do to help?”
Meg snaps to attention. She comes around to my side of her desk, grabs me by the shoulders—a little roughly. “Seriously, Lucy? Are you available? I mean, I’m totally buried, and there’s some kind of hokey thing going on over at the library. Puff piece. You know . . . the kind of thing you dig.”
Up my alley indeed. Not to mention within walking distance. “Sure, I’ll handle it.”
Within minutes, Dot has taken over the reception desk and I’m one foot out the door when Meg calls after me. “Lucy, wait! My bad. The thing at the library got moved.”
“No problem. Where is it now?”
“The sheriff’s substation.” She says this without a hint of undertone. Which makes sense, considering that Meg steers a wide berth around water-cooler conversation. She couldn’t care less about my history with Lieutenant Hayes. Not her cup of tea.
No hidden subtext here. Just a simple change of venue.
Dot, on the other hand, cough-laughs, then shoots me an apologetic look.
“Dot?” I say, turning to her. “Is something going on here?”
“Don’t look at me, heartbreaker. First I heard of it.”
I narrow a look at Meg. “Seriously, though, the sheriff’s station? You’re sure?”
“Yeah, so? That a problem?”
“No. No problem.”
“Good. Because they were expecting one of us ten minutes ago.”
So I aim my car in the direction of the last place I hoped to visit today. Some kind of “hokey thing” that got moved from the library to the sheriff’s office? Curious.
***
Is this even the same station? The vibes are way different than on my first visit. That moment when Wyatt and I first connected over C. S. Lewis, word nerdiness, and middle school memories.
For one thing, today there’s a strange comingling of floral scents, baked goods, and—I follow the jangle of voices and laughter into a conference room—grandmothers?
Around the long table is the oddest assortment of people. Uniformed deputies of both sexes are interspersed with women of a somewhat mature vintage. The table is littered with scissors and sodas and fabrics in bold colors and patterns.
“Lucy! I was hoping they would send you!”
“Billie?” What is my writing group sister doing here, holding court at the head of the table? “What’s going on?”
“Meet the Heartwarmers! We’re full of chatter and sass, but we also make tie-blankets for good causes. Our beloved sheriff’s lieutenant over there volunteered his crew to help us knock out enough blankets so that every foster child who attends summer camp next year will have one. Ain’t that sweet?”
Of course he did.
From the far end of the table, Wyatt smiles at me through gritted teeth.
Fiddlesticks. Mock chagrin looks way too cute on him. He appears to be receiving blanket-making instruction from a large woman with a very tall white updo who’s enjoying her tutoring role immensely.
“They’re sewing?” I ask Billie.
Billie sets down her scissors. “Not exactly. Pull up a chair, darling.”
I locate an open chair and scooch up to the table. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
She beams. “Shoot ’em at me. And then, of course, you absolutely must interview our friend Wyatt. I’m sure your readers would love to know whether the good lieutenant has discovered a new favorite hobby.” Billie raises her voice. “How are you doing with those knots down there now, Wyatt?”
Hoots of laughter ignite around the table.
Billie snags a neatly folded fleece blanket off the top of a stack and shakes it out. “Here’s the finished product. See, we just sandwich two squares of fleece together, cut fringe all the way around, and tie knots.”
The one she’s holding is covered in Star Wars characters.
I click my pen. “Super cute.”
“Mind if we take it out front?” Wyatt says when I tap him for the next interview. “It’s a little hard to hear in here.” To his point, another blast of laughter explodes from the opposite end of the table.
We move to the lobby. I hold my pen and pad between us. “So . . . hi.”
“Hi, Luce.”
Not fair. Why choose now to use such a term of familiarity? This is all so much harder than I expected.
“How’s Chase doing?”
Apparently I have to clear my throat before the parts of me involved in the talking thing will work. “Back to school, as of today. Thanks for asking. So, your team is making blankets for the . . . ?”
“For Camp Eagle Cap. It’s an incredible program.
Free summer camp for foster kids. They teach the kids to ride horses, then take them on a wilderness adventure in the Eagle Cap mountains, something I’m sure they’ll never forget.
I’m told a lot of the kids only have light sleeping bags.
They get to snuggle with these blankets around the campfire and at night in their sleeping bags, then take them home. ”
I take notes. “What a great opportunity for the kids. Also, what a cool thing to be involved in. I mean like, to go with them as a volunteer.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” Wyatt holds my gaze.
Is he imagining what I’m imagining? Him and me, under the stars in an alpine paradise, singing silly camp songs with the children?
Wyatt shakes his head lightly, as if he, too, could be dislodging the thought. “Anyway, maybe someday I’ll look into that. Meanwhile, this blanket thing isn’t particularly manly, but . . .”
Oh, Wyatt, if you only knew how very appealing I find this. Annoyingly so.
“You know, it isn’t super complicated—it’s not quilting,” he says. “A second grader could do it—probably better. My hot dog fingers are pretty fumbly. To be honest, it’s just a lot of cutting and tying knots.”
“It’s not like you’re in competition with the quilting forest rangers or anything . . .” I tease.
Wyatt guffaws. “If we were, and we’re not, I don’t think this would do the trick. Wait. This isn’t . . . we’re off the record, aren’t we? Never mind. I trust you.”
“Well, all that cutting and knot-tying is going to mean something to a bunch of kids.”
“I hope so. We all hope so. Oh, and speaking of hope, that piece you wrote in the paper this week?” He shakes his head incredulously. “It’s really moving. Really . . . important.”
I’m not sure what to say to this.
“We need more of that. Lucy, you have a real gift for . . . whatever that’s called. Short-form essay?”
“Thank you.”
A heavy silence envelops us. That is, if you don’t count the laughter drifting from the conference room.
“I see you got plants,” I say finally, a little too brightly. “Nice!”
“I don’t know . . . I think we’re slowly torturing some of them.”
“Uh-oh.”
Wyatt leads me to a corner where he’s grouped a trio of plants of varying heights and textures.
“This looks great,” I say.
“Really?” Wyatt looks eager to please me.
“Really. It’s so much less sterile.”
“Except, look how this spiky one is turning to mush.”
“Ah. That spiky one is a zebra. A zebra cactus.”
Understanding dawns in his features. “That might be the issue.”
“You could probably get away with watering her once a month.”
“Should I, like, repot her?” He turns to face me. Stuffs his hands in his front pockets. “Or should I . . . leave her alone?”
Are we still talking about plants?
I consider my answer carefully. “Maybe she only needs some time to recover.”
Wyatt swallows. “So, what you’re saying is I gave her too much attention too soon.”
“Not necessarily. I’m sure she knows you have her best interests at heart.”
“So . . . you . . . think eventually she’ll bounce back?”
And just like that, bright flecks reappear in his eyes. Eyes that hold all things autumnal. A spectrum of hues. The curl of chimney smoke. Storms. Spices. Sonnets.
“She probably already is.”
Wyatt’s gaze moves to my lips. A beat passes, and then—
Outside, there’s some kind of commotion building. Many voices. Wyatt straightens, resumes his professional demeanor.
The door opens, and he relaxes. Realization sets in for both of us. The Charity Falls sheriff’s substation is about to entertain another herd of guests.
This herd, entirely made up of elementary-age kids in Halloween costumes.
With every princess, martial artist, and diva who tumbles inside, Wyatt’s eyes grow wider.
“I sure hope you have a whole lot of candy hiding somewhere,” I say.
Wyatt jerks a nod at the desk behind us.
I grab the large orange plastic bowl filled with fun-sized candy bars and hand it to him.
Over the rabble a voice rings out. “Line up, kids!” It’s Mrs. De Los Santos!
“Lieutenant Mister Wyatt!” Out of the promenade bursts my son. He marches straight up to Wyatt, looking exceptionally smart in tweed jacket and pine-green tie, if you ask me.
His teacher rushes forward. “Excuse us, Officer.” She turns to address my son in a honeyed voice. “Show me your patience, Chase. I know it’s in there.”
“It’s all good,” Wyatt says. “Chase and I are well acquainted. Great to see you’re feeling better, buddy. Or, wait, no. You must be . . . let me see . . . forestry expert H.J. Andrews?” He offers Chase his hand to shake. “And who have you brought with you today?”
“Hey!” from the back of the class a half-pint WWE fighter, complete with muscle shirt and wild yellow wig, yells at Wyatt. “Do you actually know him?”
“Do I know Chase Montgomery? Are you kidding? Chase and I are good buds. In fact, he’s one of my favorite people in the whole world.” Wyatt pats Chase on the shoulder.
My son doesn’t even flinch. Arms stiff at his sides, he turns to face his classmates wearing a super-cheesy grin.
Mrs. De Los Santos explains to her students that it’s because Chase knows Lieutenant Hayes that she was able to arrange this special visit.
And for one delicious moment amid utter pandemonium, my son isn’t the special-needs child. He’s not the kid on the spectrum. If my son wears a label at all today, it’s this.
Hero.
With all the colorful bodies and the excitement and the candy-grabbing, only now do I recognize that one of the parent volunteers lingering at the back of the pack is Jen Moncado. And from across the room and over the children’s heads, Jen Number Two is smiling at me.
Her eyes glistening.
Mine too.