Chapter 30 #3
Before I could answer, there was a commotion on the opposite side of the street, and suddenly Julian appeared, a small child in tow, and half the members of Misery Loves Company trailing behind him. Their faces lit up when they saw me.
“Wren!” they called in unison.
“Hi, everyone,” I replied, and I felt as nervous as I did that very first time I sat in the corner, listening to them all.
Bobby was carrying an enormous water dispenser, balancing it on his hip like it weighed nothing. He grinned. Julian stopped in front of me and placed a hand gently on my shoulder.
“I guess I should’ve asked you for advice, shouldn’t I? When I was writing my poem,” he said, with a wry smile.
“Well, you know,” I replied lightly, “poetry is subjective.”
Julian chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “That’s exactly what Emerson said. Let’s hope the audience is just as kind.”
Before I could respond, Bobby shifted the water dispenser to one arm and wrapped the other around me in a hug. “Do you like being called Wren?” he asked, his voice low and sincere.
I nodded, the tears returning to my eyes. “Very much,” I whispered.
He nodded. “Then that’s all that matters.”
Gill stepped forward, rummaging through his oversized coat pockets like he was searching for treasure. Finally, he pulled out a small bottle of maple syrup and held it out to me triumphantly.
“I couldn’t shove any pancakes in my pocket,” he said, with a small wink, pressing the bottle into my hand. “Nothin’ no one can say, Wren. Don’t matter about your past. You’ll always be my favorite person to eat pancakes with.”
The knot in my chest loosened a fraction, and I clutched the bottle like a lifeline.
Rita popped out from behind Gill. She was dressed to the nines, her sequined black dress catching every bit of light, shimmering like the surface of a lake.
Thick gold bracelets jangled on her wrists, and an oversized necklace that looked like it belonged to a queen from some ancient dynasty rested on her chest. Her heels clacked on the pavement as she approached.
“Well, don’t just stand there gawking,” she said, smoothing down her dress with a flourish. “I know I look stunning, but we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully at me. “Wren, do you have any idea what Us Weekly would pay for an exclusive interview with you?”
I blinked, unsure how to respond. “I…what?”
She grinned, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’m joking,” she said. “No tabloid in the world could ever truly know you, but we do.” Her voice softened as she placed a hand on my arm, her bracelets clinking. “And we support you.”
A loud bang interrupted the moment, as a car bumped against the curb with a slight skid.
The door swung open with a creak, and Emerson emerged, adjusting her sunglasses and inspecting the front of the car.
She was wearing an outfit that screamed Winnie—a slightly oversized blazer, a colorful scarf, and boots with just a hint of scuff.
Her thick, wavy black hair bounced as she shook her head.
“Man, my brother would kill me if I damaged his car,” she muttered, sighing dramatically.
Henry’s mouth was wide open. “You’re driving,” he said, blinking at her in disbelief.
“Duh,” she replied, rolling her eyes playfully. “How else do you think I got Wren back?”
She sauntered over, wrapping me in a tight hug.
“Sorry I couldn’t hang this morning,” she said, pulling back slightly.
“My mom wanted to have this long talk about New York and leaving Winnie’s car there.
I mean, technically she gave it to me but—do you think I’ll get a parking ticket outside your brownstone, or—? ”
Henry’s expression shifted from gobsmacked to something verging on apocalyptic. “You drove!” he shouted. “To New York? In Winnie’s rusty old Bug? I thought you flew there and back. Are you kidding me?”
Emerson shrugged nonchalantly, hooking her thumbs into the pockets of her blazer. “Relax, Henry. I’m here, Wren’s here, and the car is, like, mostly fine.”
He was still spluttering indignantly and peppering her with questions as she led the way toward the library doors. “Are you kidding?” I heard him exclaim as they disappeared inside. “Driving all that way—you could’ve—you what—you took her ashes—did you bring them back?”
I pushed the doors open and followed them inside.
The familiar warmth of the library enveloped me like an old sweater, soft and comforting.
The faint scent of books and polished wood lingered in the air, and the marigolds caught the afternoon light, glowing like tiny flames.
It felt unchanged, constant, despite everything that had happened.
There was still so much to do before people started arriving for the poetry evening.
But, as I looked around at the people bustling about, the ones who stood by me, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in a long time—hope.
Perhaps Henry was right. Perhaps I was worth coming back for.
Perhaps Olivia would eventually think so too.
I was in the middle of helping Lillian from Sweet Moments unload her pastries onto the serving table when I heard someone call my name.
“Brooklyn?”
I turned, and there, standing with his usual air of quiet confidence, was Archie Beecher from The New York Times.
He’d written several profiles on my books and career over the years and was a friend in the professional sense.
Unlike so many others, Archie had never written about Lucy’s death. For that alone, I was grateful.
“Archie,” I said, surprised to see him here, of all places. He stepped forward and hugged me warmly.
“I’m so glad to see you,” he said. “I was at your press conference in New York, hidden in the back, of course. I wanted to try and catch you afterward, but I couldn’t manage it. Did you get any of my emails?”
I paled. “To be honest, it’s been a difficult time. I haven’t been great at keeping up with correspondence. But I am working on opening that back up again.”
He flashed a smile. “I presume that young woman in the crowd at your press conference has something to do with that?”
I laughed. “Yes, you would presume correctly.”
His expression hardened, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “I lost my father a year ago. Ended up spending three months in the Himalayas at a retreat, just trying to find my footing again. You do what you have to.”
“What brings you here?” I asked.
His face brightened. “Well, when I heard about this exclusive poetry evening—something you’ve been involved in, no less—I had to see it for myself.
The intersection of grief and creativity, particularly in a small-town setting, is a fascinating concept.
What this town is doing here is remarkable, truly.
Poetry as a means of healing…it’s inspiring. I wouldn’t miss it.”
Before I could respond, he squeezed my shoulders affectionally. “I’ll go find a seat,” he said. “But I’d love to catch up afterward. It’s good to see you back.”
With that, he slipped into the growing crowd, leaving me standing by the table, a tray of pastries in my hands, wondering how far this tiny event had reached, and how much further it might go.
The library was aglow, soft, twinkling fairy lights casting a golden tinge over the walls from where they were draped over the bookshelves.
Chairs were arranged in neat rows facing a small makeshift stage, complete with a microphone.
Henry had even draped curtains from the ceiling to create a side stage for us all to huddle behind.
Guests had been filtering in steadily, and I could hardly believe so many people could fit inside the space.
At seven p.m. sharp, Henry walked onto the stage and addressed the crowd in the way only Henry could—with enthusiastic clapping.
“Welcome, everyone!” Henry began. “I’m so thrilled to see you all here tonight. As many of you know, this is our first unofficial poetry evening, and I do hope we can host many more in the future, here at the library.”
The audience clapped, the sound mingling with the soft chatter and laughter that had filled the room moments before.
“Everston Library has always been a place for stories, community, and knowledge,” he continued. “But tonight it transforms into a house of poetry. I wanted to thank our wonderful Mayor Ashcroft for joining us this evening.” He gestured toward the mayor, who gave a polite nod.
Henry’s face softened as he took a small breath.
“Many of you know about our grief group that meets here regularly. Perhaps what you don’t know is that we have been using poetry to express and process our emotions, to find a way through our grief together.
We wanted to share a bit of that with you this evening, in the hope that we can continue this work here at the library for others. ”
As Henry spoke, the room seemed to breathe with him, the atmosphere thick with understanding. Somehow, it felt like people just got it; that pain, while deeply personal, was also a source of togetherness we so often left unspoken.
Henry concluded with a beaming smile. “So, sit back and enjoy some delicious snacks and refreshments from the lovely Lillian of Sweet Moments, and let’s celebrate the power of poetry.”
As he began adjusting the microphone, I slipped away behind the shelves to find Emerson huddled in the reading corner with the rest of the group, but still no Olivia.
“Wren,” Gill said, reaching out a hand. “Emerson is helping us warm up our voices.”
“You’re a vocal coach now, are you?” I asked, and she smirked.
“Haven’t you heard? I wear many hats—vocal coach, poet, social media assistant…” she replied.
“Just how many reporters did you contact?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, like ten?” She coughed. “Or maybe it was more like fifty.”
“Emmy!” I hissed. “We agreed on three!”