Chapter 30 #2
She led me to narrow staircase, and I climbed up to a small studio above the shop. The space was cluttered in the best way: canvases leaned against walls, jars of brushes and paint tubes scattered across tables, and a faint smell of turpentine in the air.
Merrill was perched on a stool, a walking stick nearby, painting an old acoustic guitar with steady hands that defied her age. Her brush moved with precision, creating intricate designs that wound their way across the wood. She was painting the mountain.
“Merrill?” the shopkeeper called softly. “You have a visitor.”
The old woman turned, her face lighting up with a warm smile. “Oh, hello there! Come in, don’t be shy.”
I stepped into the room, taking in the details around me. “Hi,” I said, feeling a little awkward but charmed by her talent. “I was just admiring your paintings downstairs and the lady thought I might like to meet you.”
She waved a hand. “My daughter.” She laughed heartily. “She’s always sending poor folks upstairs, thinks I don’t get out much and need the social interaction.” She tapped her head. “Keeps the mind working, apparently.”
I smiled. “Well, your work is incredible. It feels…alive.”
“Thank you,” she said, gesturing for me to take a seat on a worn-out armchair near her. “I try to capture the things most people miss. The quiet moments. The little details. Life moves so fast, don’t you think?”
“Too fast,” I admitted, glancing at the half-painted guitar she was working on. “That’s beautiful. Is it for a special project?”
She looked at the guitar, her hands resting gently on her lap. “It’s for me. Something I’ve been tinkering with for a while. Music and painting, they’re both ways to tell a story.”
“That’s quite true,” I said.
Merrill observed me for a moment, studying me with curious eyes. “You have the look of someone carrying a story of their own. Are you a painter too?”
“Not a painter,” I replied. “I…I write.”
“Writing is just painting with words, dear. Do you find it helps? With whatever’s weighing you down?”
Before I could respond, I saw it—a small, worn business card sitting on the edge of a cluttered table. My breath caught in my throat. I’d recognize that card anywhere. It was Lucy’s business card.
I stood, and picked it up with trembling hands. “How did you get this?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Merrill looked at me with her brow furrowed, but then softened when she noticed the business card in my hands. “Oh, a lovely young woman from New York gave that to me a couple of years ago. She came in after reading about my work in a news article. What was her name…Lucy, I believe?”
My heart dropped. “Lucy, you said?”
Merrill nodded. “Oh yes. She was so enthusiastic about my art. She said she had read an article by a local reporter, now what was her name…” She paused, squinting as though thinking.
“Olivia Piroso,” she finally continued, “and so she just needed to come see it for herself. Said she’d email me about buying a piece.
But I never heard from her. Such a shame. ”
The air felt heavy around me as I tried to force my words out. “What was the piece?”
She gestured to a painting propped against the wall. It was of a wren, its feathers rendered with such detail it popped from the canvas. The background was a soft, muted blend of blues and greens, the forest below the mountain.
“Is it still for sale?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Merrill smiled. “Oh yes, dear,” she said. “It’s been waiting for the right home.”
I bought the painting on the spot, cradling it in my arms as I made my way back downstairs.
There was one person I knew who would marvel at this seeming work of fate, and that was Henry.
I hurried down the street toward the library, not knowing exactly what I was going to say to him, or how he would react to seeing me after I’d disappeared with only a note.
But I knew I had to show him the painting.
Weeks ago, when the snow had finally melted, Henry and I had planted pansies in window boxes, the flowers’ petals soft against the lingering chill of early spring.
As I approached the library, I saw them blooming—bursts of purple, yellow, and white reaching eagerly for the light.
A pang of warmth and guilt hit simultaneously. Oh, I loved this library.
I spotted Henry outside. He was at the book return box, hanging up a sign that read: Poetry Evening Tonight.
There were no odd items shoved into the return slot this time, no fireworks, no giant sticks, no birthday cakes, no items of clothing—just Henry, focused on his task.
His expression shifted from concentration to surprise as he noticed me approaching.
“You’re here,” he said. “Emerson…she…she said, well…” he trailed off, shuffling his feet awkwardly.
“I’m so sorry I ever left,” I blurted. “And I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you who I was.”
Henry sighed gently, his usual warmth returning to his face. “I took it personally, you know. That you couldn’t tell me your secret. I thought perhaps it was because you didn’t trust me. It was silly, really.”
“Henry, that isn’t why I didn’t tell you…” I began.
“I know,” he replied, smoothing the tape over the edges of the sign so it laid flat.
There was a beat of silence before he spoke again.
“A few days after Winnie’s funeral, I wasn’t having the best day.
So, I just walked out of the library. Imagine that, Everston Library with no librarian!
I was gone the whole day. I went up to the Overlook and just sat there, staring at the mountains, trying to make sense of everything.
Lana kept calling, even Emerson texted me, Where the hell are you? But I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.”
I watch him thoughtfully, listening.
“I was just so lost,” he admitted. “And I have a secret of my own, Wren. I’ve sold you all some fabricated story that the state was paying for free grief sessions. But the truth?” He smiled sadly, shaking his head. “It’s been me. I’ve been footing the bill, and I can’t keep up with it.”
I stared at him, a mixture of admiration and disbelief flooding my chest. “Henry, why didn’t you say anything? Why go through all that alone?”
He sighed, glancing at the sign he’d just hung as it fluttered in the slight breeze.
“Because I wanted to help. I thought maybe if I just kept going, I’d figure it out.
I had tried to get funding—reached out to a few local organizations, talked to a few people in town, emailed some places—but it didn’t pan out.
It turns out grief isn’t exactly a line item most budgets want to cover. ”
“Is that the real reason for the poetry evening?” I said. “To raise funds? To impress the mayor so much that you can finally secure proper support?”
He nodded, his gaze distant for a moment. “Yes, originally. But it’s turned into more than that. It’s about showing people what we’ve built here, what it means to the community. If they can see that, maybe they’ll understand why it’s worth saving.”
“I’ve worked with all kinds of people, Henry. Business types, artists, donors…” I let out a small breath. “I’ve been to those funding galas, the kind where you raise more in one night than some people see in years. And even then, it’s never easy.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, tilting his head.
“It’s a whole song and dance. You make your case, hope they care. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don’t. But you just keep going. Because if it matters to you, then it’s worth it.”
Henry paused, gathering his thoughts. “Yes, well, as I sat up there at the Overlook that day, quite literally having absolutely no idea what my next steps should be, mourning Winnie, still thinking about Jacob, wondering if I should just disappear into the mountains and become a caveman—you texted me.”
He smiled at the memory.
“First, you sent me a meme—something about renovations—and then you sent me a poem you were working on for the book.”
I blinked, trying to recall. I truly had hundreds of renovation memes at that point.
“If I remember it right, it went something like,” he went on, “In the murmur of the leaves, in the quiet of the sky, in the clouds that form and the rain that falls, hope is born again each day. In the laughter of a friend, in the warmth of a smile, in the love that never ends, we will always find our way.”
His words hung in the air, in the way poems do, especially when they catch you off guard.
“You wrote about finding hope in delicate things, Wren. In little, everyday moments. Even in all the crappiness that life can offer sometimes, there’s always a reason to come back.
There are always people worth coming back for. ”
He stepped forward, and hugged me, squeezing lightly. “You just need to find people worth coming back for,” he said softly. “And Wren, just so you know, you’re worth coming back for.”
I tried not to let the hot sting of tears well in my eyes as I hugged him back, clutching the painting between us. “You really are the glue of our group, Henry,” I murmured.
He pulled away, his eyes suddenly lighting up with barely contained excitement. “You know,” he said, practically bouncing on his heels. “It’s April.”
I tilted my head, watching him with amusement. “Yes,” I said slowly, waiting for the punch line.
“It’s poetry month!” he exclaimed.
I let out a soft laugh. “Of course it is.”
Henry clapped his hands together. “Do you know what this means?”
“That you’re about to suggest something dramatic?”
He gasped, feigning offense. “This is the perfect excuse for more poetry readings, themed library displays. We could even get one of those cardboard pop-ups of you, and brace yourself, you could host a town-wide haiku contest!”
I laughed. “Let’s just start with a poetry evening by Misery Loves Company?”
He nodded, still in thought. “How do you feel about an impromptu sonnet battle?”