Chapter 14 #2
She grinned. “They’re good, aren’t they?
” she replied, reaching out and giving my shoulder a friendly squeeze, her touch lingering just long enough to make my thoughts scatter like a stack of papers caught in the wind.
I’d found her catering company, Sweet Moments, online, when I’d been scrolling through pages of businesses, desperate for something that felt, well…
right (but also affordable). Her pastries had caught my eye—soft frosting swirls, buttery croissants, flaky cheddar-and-chive scones.
There was nothing particularly flashy about what Lillian did, but her food seemed honest, made with care.
I was as enamored with her as I was with her quiches.
“You know, Henry,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye, “I could probably make you that triple-layered chocolate cake. Might cost you your soul, though.”
She winked, and I grinned, feeling a pull again, one I hadn’t felt in a really long time. Before I could even consider what might be happening between us, I suddenly felt a hand tug at the hem of my shirt and a small voice say, “Where would I find the adventure books?”
It caught me off guard, and I let out a startled yelp.
I looked down to see a sandy-haired, pint-sized little girl standing in front of me, her head tilted up expectantly.
She looked all of eight—possibly seven—wearing a yellow sundress, floral socks, and brown loafers and clutching a well-loved book under her arm.
“What kind of adventure book are you looking for?” I asked, straightening up.
She stared at me blankly. “The kind that has adventure,” she said, like I was dense.
Lillian and I exchanged amused glances. “Well, we have plenty of adventure books,” I said. “What about Where the Wild Things Are?”
The girl looked at me as though I’d spoken in a different language.
“I read that book when I was, like, five.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling my cheeks grow warm. “I suppose you’re looking for something a little more advanced then?”
“Yes,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
Today was not my day.
“Well, I’m Henry. I’m the librarian, so I can definitely help you.” I craned my neck, hoping Lana might appear to bail me out.
“I know,” the girl replied.
I frowned, surprised. “You know my name?”
“Your picture’s on the wall,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Of course, the staff photos on the library noticeboard. I kept forgetting about those.
“I need a book that will take someone to a different place,” she said earnestly. “You know, when someone doesn’t want to be here anymore, so they go somewhere else.”
I stilled slightly. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lillian’s expression shift, a flicker of concern crossing her face.
“What’s your name?” I asked gently.
“Bailey,” she replied.
“Well, Bailey,” I said, crouching slightly to meet her eye, “why do you want a book like that?”
“It’s not for me,” she replied. “It’s for my mom. Her friend is sick, and she is sad about it, so I want to get her a book. Then she doesn’t have to think about her friend for a while and can take a break.”
I let out a small breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and smiled at her. “I see,” I replied, gently. “That’s a very thoughtful thing to do.”
“Well, when I read books, they make me forget about everything else. So, I want to do that for my mom.”
I glanced at Lillian, whose expression had softened as she watched Bailey.
“You know, I might have something for your mom,” I said, standing and leading Bailey to the poetry section. I plucked three titles from the shelf and handed them to her.
“Are these adventure books?” she asked, inspecting the covers.
“They’re poetry books,” I explained, “but you’ll go on a journey when you read them.”
Bailey cradled the books in her arms, seemingly pleased. She glanced down at my shoes briefly. “Henry,” she said, with a hint of mischief, “did no one ever teach you to tie your shoelaces?”
I watched in mild amusement as she trotted off toward the library desk, where Lana was checking out another patron.
I found my way back to Lillian. “Sorry about that,” I said.
“Don’t be,” she replied, smiling. “I bet you get all kinds of questions all day long,”
“You wouldn’t believe half of them,” I said.
She studied me for a moment. “I think this poetry evening is going to be important to your town, Henry.” She smiled. “You’re doing a great job.”
Jacob used to say that. It didn’t matter if I was mowing the lawn, orchestrating some sort of community event, or overhauling the library shelves, he’d always tell me I was doing a good job with the same enthusiasm and encouragement.
I could almost picture him now, jumping into the planning with both feet, pushing me to go big or go home.
I hired Lillian on the spot, and after she left, I took the rest of the finger food into the staff room for Lana and me to indulge.
I was halfway through my third mini quiche, thinking about how good a glass of wine would taste right now—and debating whether it would be inappropriate to follow Lillian on Instagram—when the front desk phone rang.
I almost let it ring out. It was probably the same man attempting to settle his overdue fines with “art”—he was now offering owls made of papier-maché.
But something told me to answer, so with a sigh, I picked up the phone.
“Everston Library, this is Henry.”
“Would it shock you right now if I told you I was calling from the top of Mount Everest?” Winnie’s voice, warm but raspy, crackled through the line.
I felt my legs buckle slightly, because for Winnie this wouldn’t be entirely beyond the realm of possibility.
“Winnie, you’ve been on my mind!” I replied, my grip tightening around the phone. “Are you feeling better?”
“Oh, well, silly old me has been without my phone,” she replied breezily.
“Would you believe the only number I know off the top of my head these days is the library’s?
” She cleared her throat. “I do wonder if you could help me with something, Henry?” she continued.
“But best not to tell Emerson just yet.”
“A surprise party?” I guessed, racking my brain as to when Emerson’s birthday was.
She paused. “Not quite,” she said softly.
I stopped searching for the late fees, glancing toward the staff room. The mini quiches and stuffed mushrooms I’d consumed earlier suddenly felt like lead in my stomach. “Everything okay?” I asked.
There was another pause. Then, softer: “I’m in Norvale.”
I straightened. “Norvale?” My mind was already cycling through reasons—an errand, a day trip, a bookstore visit?
“I’m in the hospital, Henry,” she clarified, and this time, she wheezed, one of those deep, raw coughs that rattled her chest. The way Jacob sounded in those final weeks. My heart dropped.
“I came this morning,” she continued. “And the doctors keep blabbering on about a whole lot of nonsense. I’m quite high on something—” she paused and giggled, “—morphine, I think, but I figured you’d be able to help me make sense of it all.”
I swallowed. “Winnie…”
“I just need you to come up here,” she said lightly, as if she were asking me to pick up a carton of milk.
“No need to alert the cavalry just yet. Emerson will fuss, and I don’t have the energy for fussing right now.
It’s Norvale Hospital,” she added, and I felt chills run down my spine, all the way to the tips of my toes.
I hadn’t set foot in that hospital since Jacob had died.
But this was Winnie.
“I’m on my way,” I whispered, my pulse roaring in my ears, drowning out everything else.
Thirty minutes later I pulled into the parking lot and switched the engine off, yet kept the radio playing.
I had been so unprepared for all the tasks that came with Jacob’s death.
It was a strange thing, to tie up the pieces of someone’s life.
It was unbearably painful. And every task was a constant reminder that he was no longer with me.
While Jacob had still been alive, he wanted to map as much out together as possible.
We planned his funeral: minimal flowers; double-crusted pizza had to be served; Tim McGraw’s greatest hits album was the only thing allowed to be played, specifically the song “Live Like You Were Dying” (Jacob was not a subtle person); and the pastor had to tell at least six jokes throughout the service.
But there were things Jacob and I couldn’t do together.
Between the will, and the life insurance, and all his belongings, it was the little tasks that set me off.
Like the night I logged into his Netflix account to cancel it, and I saw the last thing he’d watched was End Game, a documentary on terminally ill patients and their families.
I drank an entire bottle of red wine that night and cried myself to sleep.
I can admit that. I had tried to block out the things I felt in that hospital—the fear, the agony, the deep ache—and yet there I was again.
A song played on the radio, and I recognized it: the same rich, gravelly vocals that had played on repeat as I said goodbye to my brother, on a warm July day, among all the people who loved him. The lyrics filled the car, Tim singing about living as though you were dying.
I ran my hands down my face. Good one, Jacob, I thought.
I’d always been very practical; I could usually find an answer for just about anything…
but sometimes there’s no answer to be found.
This was one of those moments. I wondered if perhaps my brother was trying to tell me something from wherever he was.
Winnie needed me, and that was a good enough reason to go inside the place I swore I’d never step foot in again.