Chapter 16 #2
I had called Olivia the night I returned from the hospital.
We’d stayed on the phone for hours: talking, listening, trying to devise some sort of plan for Emerson, anything at all we could think of.
It was the first time in such a long time that I had relied on someone else for an answer.
Lucy was always practical; she always knew what to do in the moments I was afraid.
Since she had been gone, I’d relied on only myself.
But perhaps, slowly, I could allow myself to rely on Olivia.
She reached over and squeezed my hand. Her thumb lingered, tracing lightly against my skin, and somehow that small touch settled me. “I’m okay,” I said softly.
Henry suddenly cleared his throat. Now that he was under the lights in the library, I could see the circles under his eyes, the blotchiness of his face, and his ruffled hair. He had clearly not slept very well.
“I have some news that might be a little hard to swallow,” Henry said. “But Max is here, and we are all here to support each other, so I am just going to come out and say it.”
I felt Olivia move closer to me, so that our shoulders were touching.
“Winnie is sick,” Henry said.
“Oh.” Rita sighed. “She probably got the flu from me I’m afraid. I dropped some recipes over the other week, but I’d had this nasty cough.”
Henry smiled faintly. “She doesn’t have the flu,” he replied softly.
“Do you think we should drop some soup over?” Gill offered. “Edith always said chicken soup could cure anything.”
Henry’s shoulders slumped. “She isn’t going to be cured from this,” he said.
Silence enveloped our little corner of the library. A corner I had grown to love, to look forward to, to feel safe in.
“I see.” Gill was the first to speak. “And Emmy?” he asked.
“Is with her,” Henry said. “At the hospital.”
“Oh dear.” Rita sighed again. “She’s grown quite attached to Winnie.”
“She will be here for the poetry evening, right?” Julian asked. “I mean, she has to be, she just has to.”
This seemed to spark the group into chatter, deliberating on how to get Winnie here, dedicating poems to her, even some sort of PowerPoint presentation.
Max cleared his throat. “It will be quite impossible for Winnie to make it.”
Everyone fell silent again.
“This doesn’t mean she hasn’t given strict instructions to pass along,” he added, with a gentle smile. “Instructions being that the show must go on.”
“Exactly,” Henry nodded. “We will carry on,” he said. “So keep working on your poems, and we will keep organizing the event.”
There was a murmur from everyone, as they slowly dispersed. Rita and Bobby headed over to Max to discuss something and Gill and Julian bowed their heads to talk in low voices.
I felt Olivia gently stroke the back of my neck as Henry walked toward us.
“Tea?” he asked.
“None for me,” Olivia replied. “My stomach is churning.”
“Mine too,” he responded. “I suppose it won’t quite be the same without Winnie’s baked goods,” he said dismally.
“Have you been in touch with Emerson?” Olivia asked.
Henry shook his head. “Not since I saw her at the hospital.”
“We can’t seem to reach her either,” she sighed.
Olivia’s phone rang, and she stepped aside to answer it, in between the aisles.
“Are you okay?” Henry asked me directly.
“Me?” I replied.
“Yes,” he said. “You are as much a part of this group as anyone.”
Something about the way he said it, with such sincerity, made me feel like I really did belong. I hadn’t expected to meet someone like Henry when I moved to Everston, but that was the thing about friendship: it blossomed when you least expected it.
“I’m worried about Emerson,” I said, my voice low so the others couldn’t hear. “About everyone, really. Haven’t we all endured enough grief?”
“We certainly have,” Henry said thoughtfully. “You know, I’ve been thinking even more about the poetry book. It’s going to be really special, and I think it will resonate with a lot of people.”
“I hope so,” I agreed. “Poetry has a way of making sense of things.” It felt like an old friend, the kind you stop calling when you’re distracted and life gets too heavy.
I’d turned my back on poetry a long time ago, convincing myself I couldn’t face the words, when maybe the words were what I was missing all along.
Henry was looking at me curiously. I felt my cheeks redden. I suddenly couldn’t stand the idea of maintaining a facade with someone who had become such a good friend.
I cleared my throat. “Let’s see how it turns out, anyway.”
He shrugged lightly, grinning. “We can stumble through it together.”
Henry informed me that Everston was hosting its annual Last Leaf Festival on Saturday as something of a farewell to fall.
The air had turned, and everyone knew it was only a matter of time before heavy snowfalls became routine.
The festival marked that in-between period, after the leaves had mostly fallen but before the first winter storm.
A carnival rolled into town, with a caravan of trailers loaded with rides, games, and stalls selling everything from mulled cider to cinnamon popcorn.
Henry handed us printed flyers for the poetry evening and assigned Olivia and me the task of not only distributing them around town but also handing them out at the festival.
“You know, he could have just made a post on social media,” Olivia remarked as she stapled a flyer to an electrical pole.
“I think he’s doing that too,” I replied with a small smile. “And anyway, aren’t you supposed to be covering the story for HCB?”
She grimaced in response. “I’m working on that,” she said.
“Maybe you could bribe them with one of those giant teddy bears,” I teased.
Olivia looked back at me. “Are you suggesting that I wouldn’t be able to win one of those things?”
I handed a flyer to a couple walking by us. “I’m not suggesting anything,” I replied, trying to hide my smile.
The fairgrounds were small, but they were bustling with activity, pockets of crowds surrounding food stalls, rides, and market stands.
Folks pushed strollers, held hands, munched on corn on the cob and cotton candy, while teenagers paraded around with oversized stuffed animals slung over their shoulders.
Laughter weaved its way through the crisp air, rising above the music and chatter.
Suddenly, a small child dashed past us, squealing with delight as she clutched a warm paper bag full of cinnamon donuts, sugar dusting her fingers and cheeks.
As we watched the scene unfold, Olivia’s eyes lit up as she spotted a ring toss stall amid the bustling fair.
The stall was decorated in colorful banners and twinkling lights.
Giant brown teddy bears hung from the roof, and a carnival worker beckoned people to try their hand at winning one.
“Okay, Wren,” Olivia declared, handing me her stack of flyers, “I’m going to get you that bear.”
She stepped up to the booth, and the worker smiled. “Five dollars a turn or twenty for five.”
“Twenty bucks?” Olivia asked incredulously, and the worker just shrugged, adjusting his hat.
She pulled out a twenty dollar bill and handed it to him. “How many rings do I need to get that bear?” she asked.
He looked up at the bears on the ceiling. “Three in a row,” he replied.
She eagerly picked up the rings and sized up the rows of bottles arranged against the back wall.
“You know, for twenty bucks we could have just gotten another bottle of wine,” I protested.
She shushed me and sent the first ring sailing through the air. It missed completely and the carnival worker grinned. “Come on,” he encouraged her. “Flick your wrist.”
“What if I had carpal tunnel?” she responded.
She sized up the bottles again and sent the second ring into the air. It landed squarely around one of the bottles, to the surprise of both Olivia and the worker, and I squealed in response.
Olivia looked at me. “Did you just squeal?”
“Go again!” I insisted.
She lined herself up, threw the next ring, and again it looped straight around the neck of the bottle.
By now some kids had also joined the booth, watching Olivia.
“Maybe make it four rings,” the worker said sheepishly, but Olivia shook her head.
“Nope! A deal is a deal, bud; if I get this, I get a bear.”
She threw another ring, and somehow, it landed around the bottle. We both cheered as the carnival worker presented her with a giant brown teddy bear.
Olivia grinned at me as we moved on, handing the bear to me.
“Thoughts?” she asked.
“I’m impressed,” I responded. “I’m also calling him Freddy.”
Later, as the sun set, we ordered cider from this little van near the cluster of pop-up bars. I took a sip and scrunched up my nose at the tart flavor.
“No good?” Olivia asked, and she sipped hers. I watched in amusement as she grimaced at the taste too.
“Definitely no good,” she agreed.
A young group of teenagers passed us, accidentally knocking into Olivia, and the cider cup sloshed, spilling liquid all over the teddy bear.
“Oh, come on.” Olivia sighed. “Really guys, I’m standing right here.”
I laughed. “Somehow Freddy copped most of the cider.”
She tossed our cups into a nearby trash can.
“I’ve always been more of wine girl,” she said.
“Three years ago, we did a segment on one of the wineries in the area. They’d won some awards that year, but our coverage helped boost their profile, so they sent me some of their best bottles.
Do you want to have a glass at mine, while I wash poor Freddy?
” She paused a moment, unsure. “Unless…you need to go?”
“No, I want to stay,” I replied.
“At the fair?”
“With you,” I said, and Olivia’s eyes lit up.