Chapter 33
Henry
Everston Library was bustling with activity.
To be fair, it had always been busy for our little town, but lately it was alive in a way I’d never seen before.
The tables were filled with laughter and conversations; the shelves practically hummed with movement.
Just a few weeks earlier, a couple from Switzerland came through after reading about us online.
It was wild to think about. The poetry evening had sparked something I don’t think any of us could have anticipated.
The evening garnered lots of attention from the press.
Mayor Ashcroft was so impressed, she allocated a portion of the town’s budget to mental health initiatives.
That funding made it possible for Max to come out of retirement and help me establish Everston Library’s first-ever officially run grief counseling group.
Misery Loves Company had grown. Tenfold!
We ran sessions four nights a week! Of course, our name had to be changed to something a little more professional, so we decided on The Winnie Group.
A fitting name if there ever was one. But Tuesday nights, twice a month, remained sacred.
No official timetables. No new faces. Just the ones who had been there since the very beginning.
It was still Gill, whose eyes lit up every time I handed him a chocolate bar; Rita, who was slowly amassing an impressive collection of Us Weekly magazines thanks to a certain head investigative reporter; Julian, who couldn’t stop beaming about the arrival of his new baby with his wife; Bobby, who now knew that the hardest acceptance is sometimes of yourself; Emerson, who carried her scars like badges of wisdom, not shame, and who also drove a certain Volkswagen through town with the music blaring; Olivia, who learned that leaning on others didn’t make her weak; and Wren, who finally stopped running and chose to stay.
And then there was me. I would always miss Jacob. I would always grieve the years I didn’t get to spend with him. But somewhere along the way, I learned that I could still live for him too. And, of course, perhaps most importantly, we still read poetry.
The library was particularly busy, filled with chatter and footsteps that blended into the comforting rustle of turning pages.
Kids sprawled on beanbag chairs in the children’s section, their noses buried in brightly colored books, while a group of teenagers chattered animatedly in the designated “talk zone” (much more preferable than scribbling in books).
Over by the computers, a woman was typing furiously, her headphones firmly in place, while someone else was playing solitaire (excellent choice).
I had fully embraced fall: paper leaves draped over bookshelves, a Cozy Mysteries it offers possibilities.
Grief and love, endings and beginnings—they all coexist. And no matter how mismatched or messy the pieces, there is always room to start again.
“You know, Henry, I wouldn’t mind some tea,” Rita said, her voice cutting through my thoughts. She had moved from the cabinet and was now steadying the ladder, looking up at Gill.
I clapped my hands together. “I think I can manage that,” I replied, before mouthing Get him down from there in her direction.
“Coffee for me, please, Henry,” Julian rumbled, adjusting an armchair into the corner.
“Tea, coffee, cookies—coming right up,” I called as I headed for the staff room. The sound of their chatter and banter continued behind me as I slipped away. The warmth of their voices echoed in my chest, and I smiled to myself.
The coffee machine made some sort of angry gurgling sound, followed by the dreaded slosh of black sludge. I grimaced.
“Not again,” I muttered.
Wren poked her head into the staff room as she tied her hair back with paint-speckled fingers. “How’s the tea and coffee coming along?”
“The tea is fine!” I remarked. “It’s always the damn coffee.”
She gave me a quizzical smile, before I handed her a tray of cookies. “Here,” I said. “Will you man the tea and cookies while I pop across the road for coffee?”
“Can you add some cinnamon rolls to that order?” she called after me.
I grinned. “Naturally.”
As I stepped into the sun-drenched afternoon, I thought of Winnie. She really would have loved all this.
The coffee shop was filled to the brim with people.
Outside, an entire fleet of bicycles was perched, their owners inside, chatting and enjoying their drinks of choice, alongside an array of cakes and sandwiches.
The barista gave me a strained look as I walked in, silently warning me that there may be a bit of a wait.
As I scanned the crowded room, I spotted Lillian from Sweet Moments standing third in line.
I hadn’t seen her since she catered the poetry evening, and to my surprise, I found myself smiling.
She noticed me too. “Henry,” she said brightly, as I approached her.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I’m great,” she responded. “Just picking up some supplies. How’s the library?”
“It’s been bustling lately,” I replied. “Ever since the poetry night.”
“Oh, it was fantastic, Henry,” she said. “I tell so many people about it. Such a wonderful thing you did for this community. And B.W. Paisley!” She gushed, “I cannot believe she was there! Even I know who she is.” She giggled at herself.
“She lives in Everston now,” I said. “I know her quite well.”
I could almost hear both Emerson and Olivia snickering over the fact that I just name dropped our famous friend into conversation, and I felt almost guilty. Almost, because Emerson was constantly sliding into conversations that she drove B.W. Paisley’s Cabriolet on the weekends.
I watched as Lillian placed her order: a large oat milk latte, with a single shot of espresso and three pumps of caramel syrup.
“My brother used to drink his coffee like that,” I remarked.
“Really?” Lillian responded, smiling thoughtfully. “I had a friend who drank his coffee this way too. We met in the oncology ward. He always insisted it was best with three pumps of caramel.”
I felt a tingle in my chest.
“What was your friend’s name?” I asked.
“Jacob,” she replied.
Of course it was.
“Do you drink coffee?” she asked. “My treat.”
“Yes, actually,” I said, after a moment. “I’ll have what you’re having.”