Chapter 12
Rebecca greeted Wednesday with a sense of sheer determination.
She stayed out of her grandmother’s office this time, focusing instead on the rest of the apartment.
She sorted through most of the boxes Sabrina had taken out of her room and culled her books substantially.
Because, she told herself, she had shelves upon shelves of books at her apartment in Toronto, many of them doubles of what she had here.
She worked systematically, packing platters, plates, dishes, and cookware in newsprint.
It wasn’t always easy—she still found herself starting a pile for items she wanted to keep, no matter that she had no space for them in her apartment.
She couldn’t let go of everything. Like the small oak-leaf-brown teapot that Lenore had kept upstairs, just for the two of them, to share a pot of tea—paired with cookies or cold slices of pie—after a long day at the diner.
The blue knit cozy she always nestled over it to keep the tea warm.
The apple-blossom Tiffany lamp by the window—Rebecca left that where it was and didn’t allow herself to imagine what it might feel like to unplug it, to wrap it in newspapers and put it in a box.
Midmorning, Rebecca pulled on a taupe alpaca wool sweater that had been a gift from Sabrina and began carrying the many boxes she had filled down the apartment stairs and out to her car.
When she opened the trunk, she saw the box she had left in there, containing all the succulents Tom had given her.
She winced. Why did she always manage to forget about plants?
She carried them to the garbage and dumped them in without looking at them again.
She waited to feel sad about this, but instead, she just felt free and light.
She got in her car and drove toward the opposite end of town, to the Bramley Hollow Give & Live, a thrift shop where people in town donated used goods.
The proceeds went to a food security charity in the community, and it was all run by Nasreen Klune, Crispin’s wife.
Rebecca had admired Nasreen in high school, remembering her as the girl who wore Princess Leia–style buns in grade ten and, when mocked, came back the next day wielding a plastic lightsaber along with her schoolbooks.
And now this ultracool woman was married to Crispin Klune. Life was strange.
Nasreen was at the cash register when Rebecca walked in, sewing what appeared to be a very large leather apron.
“Rebecca! Crispin mentioned you were back.” Then she grimaced.
“I’m really sorry about him. I’m sure he’s driving you up a wall with all his bylaws and regulations. I’m working on him, really.”
“Yes, well,” Rebecca said, but didn’t know where to go from there. What Nasreen saw in Crispin was a mystery to both her and Sabrina. There’s a lid for every pot, Lenore had said when the invitations went out for Crispin and Nasreen’s town square wedding.
“How are you, Nasreen?” Rebecca asked, deciding to abandon the topic of Crispin altogether.
“I’m great.” She lifted the apron she had been working on and patted her swelling stomach. “We’ve got our first Baby Yoda due in the winter. And I’ve been keeping even busier than usual constructing bespoke pieces for cosplayers, LARPers, and the occasional local theater troupe.”
Rebecca hesitated. “LARPers?”
“Live-action role-players. People who fully embody their characters—knights, elves, paladins—in staged scenarios. It’s a lifestyle,” she said with a smile and a shrug.
“It’s so…you,” Rebecca said.
“Crispin loves it, too. He’s served as Quartermaster in the Greywood Campaign for the last three seasons. I designed his pauldrons.”
Rebecca tried to imagine Crispin, with his starched shirts and stiff khakis, wearing armor and role-playing.
Lid for every pot indeed. “As you likely know from Crispin,” Rebecca said, trying to keep her tone light as she said his name, “I’m here in town cleaning out and fixing my grandmother’s building.
And I have my first round of items to contribute to the Give and Live. ”
“That’s great,” Nasreen said. “I really appreciate you thinking of us. Just put the boxes here by the cash register. Today’s volunteers are already here, and they can help put everything away.”
Soon Rebecca had all the boxes from her car piled inside—and the volunteers had gathered around, all familiar faces.
Mr. Patel had been her high school music teacher, Mrs. McGill the town librarian, and Ms. Abrams had delivered the mail.
They all insisted Rebecca call them by their first names—Parth, Aileen, and Janet, respectively—but Rebecca found that hard to do. “It’s just habit,” she said.
“Lenore did raise you with the most impeccable manners,” said Mrs. McGill. She had opened one of the boxes of books. “And to be a wonderful reader. Look at all these! Such a wide range, and all in excellent condition.”
“Shall I make some tea?” Mr. Patel asked. “Rebecca, do you need to rush off? Can you stay a little while?”
“I can definitely spare some time for tea with you all, and I can stay and help get things shelved if you’d like.”
Soon, Mr. Patel was back with a tray containing a chipped teapot and mismatched cups.
He served everyone a cup of tea, then opened a box of dishes.
“I remember this platter from our book club nights,” Mr. Patel said fondly, lifting a tray from the box.
It was robin’s-egg blue, with birds flying across the surface.
“For her oatmeal cookies,” he said. “The woman could turn anything into an absolute delicacy.”
“Why don’t you keep the platter?” Rebecca suggested. “I’m sure Lenore would have loved for you to have it.”
“I’ll buy it,” Mr. Patel said. “So I can make sure the money goes toward the cause. But, yes.” He set the platter aside. “I will take this one home with me. Nice to have something to remember her by. Lenore is so dearly missed, as you know.” He patted her hand. “She was so proud of you.”
Rebecca smiled. Her heart felt sore, but there was comfort there, too. It was nice to be around people who had known and loved Lenore—it had been far too long since she had been.
Now Ms. Abrams was looking at her thoughtfully. “You look so much like your mother,” she said with a smile.
“The very image of her,” Mrs. McGill agreed.
“Your mother spent a lot of time at the library, Rebecca. Like you, she was an avid reader as a child. I remember as a youngster she just loved the Baby-Sitters Club series. She waited outside the door in the morning, the day she knew the latest copies would be arriving. We both agreed that our town needed its own bookstore and not just a library.” She continued lifting books from the box, while Rebecca considered this piece of information, filed it away where she kept the little things she learned about her mother.
“I like hearing things about my mother,” she finally said. “Thank you for telling me that.”
Ms. Abrams’s eyes lit up. “She loved music, too, as I recall. Your mother used to wait for me on the side porch, so excited for the CDs she had ordered to arrive. The smile on her face when I had what she was waiting for would brighten my entire day—as would the cookies she would slip me to enjoy on my mail route.”
Now Mr. Patel chimed in. “She sure did love music, didn’t she? Not that I’d ever heard of any of the bands she liked—the Smashed Pumpkins? What kind of a band name is that?” Rebecca suppressed a smile. “But her enthusiasm was beautiful. She had such passion. She really was special.”
Rebecca’s heart felt warm as she listened to stories about her mother, then her grandmother and the diner, and passed almost an hour drinking tea and happily assisting with the shelving of the books.
“She takes a leave from her job as a professor in the city, only to come to her hometown and be forced to shelve books,” Mr. Patel finally said. “We shouldn’t be putting you to work!”
“I really don’t mind,” Rebecca said, and found she meant it. “I feel like I could do this all day.”
Nasreen had come over to inspect their work.
“People, this is amazing. It looks like an actual bookstore display. Rebecca, you should be a book merchandiser.” Then she frowned.
“I mean, obviously you’re a professor, but in another life, you’d have been great at it.
This town doesn’t even have a bookstore. ”
“Which is a true shame,” Mrs. McGill said. “Rebecca and I were just discussing this. Perhaps you can talk to that husband of yours, Nasreen, about trying to attract a book merchant to Bramley Hollow.”
“I’ll add it to the list,” Nasreen said.
“We all know how much Crispin loves the idea of perking up Main Street.” She turned to Rebecca.
“Although really, your building is the only vacant one right now. You never know what the new owners will want it to be, I guess. Maybe even a bookstore.” The bell at the cash register dinged then, indicating someone was waiting to check out with their pile of thrifted items, so Nasreen headed back the way she had come.
Rebecca turned back to Mr. Patel, Mrs. McGill, and Ms. Abrams and found they were all looking at her expectantly.
Finally, Mr. Patel spoke. “So, you really are selling the place, dear.”
“We did assume, but we didn’t know for sure,” said Mrs. McGill. Ms. Abrams just smiled, but sadly.
“That’s the plan,” Rebecca said. “I wish it could be different. That building has been in my family a long time.”
“Right! Of course. And we shouldn’t be making the young lady feel sad about it, should we?
” said Mr. Patel, his tone overbright. Just then, the trilling of the shop’s cuckoo clock rang out, reminding Rebecca she was due at the orchard soon.
“I should go. I told Sabrina I’d help with the hay maze,” she explained.
“You won’t believe it when you see it this year,” said Ms. Abrams. “She’s outdone herself, and that’s saying something. We’ll see you soon, dear. Welcome home.”
These words stayed in Rebecca’s mind as she walked outside and drove toward the diner to drop off her car.
Then she walked down roads so familiar it felt like there was a map of them on her heart.
Home. And yet, she couldn’t stay, and she knew it.
Whatever her heart was trying to tell her right now would grow quiet once she was back in the city.