Chapter 30
GRETA KNEW THE routine and welcomed it. She woke up in her beautiful bedroom, admired her flawless reflection in the mirror, showered, dressed in her neat, fitted clothes, and added her pearl necklace.
She was pleased to find it was still intact here, this version of it unbroken.
A reflection of how she wanted it to be.
She padded downstairs to find Lottie making pancakes in the kitchen. The sweet aroma mixed with Maple Gold, filling the air. Lottie called to Jim outside in the garden, and he strolled inside. He greeted Greta with a kiss to her cheek. Everything felt just right.
Again, eating breakfast together was wonderful. Lottie and Jim made bright conversation about the weather and their plans for the day. Lottie’s eyes shone when she told them both about her talent show taking place that afternoon.
Greta’s smile felt effortless, her entire body light. She lifted her cup for Lottie to pour her a coffee, then drizzled honey onto her pancakes. The whole scene felt like the first day of a holiday after she’d unpacked her suitcase and headed straight to the pool.
After breakfast, Greta stood on the doorstep, waving to Jim as he tucked a newspaper under his arm. He walked down the path with Lottie skipping beside him.
She took a moment to lift her face toward the cloudless sky. Butterflies fluttered, parakeets chirped, and the pink cherry blossoms in the trees looked as delicate as rice paper. Sprinkler systems hissed, and a soft breeze kissed her hair.
Even though she’d only filmed Back to the Land that morning, it already felt like ages ago.
Standing there, something caught Greta’s eye. A small patch of grass in her garden looked darker than the rest, the blades a bit longer. Had it always been like that? She squinted at it, unsure. It was probably nothing.
Iris’s words about the huge decision she’d have to make flashed in Greta’s head like a neon sign in a cocktail bar, but for now, she tried to push all thoughts of it aside.
From experience, Greta knew she’d have several more hours, perhaps even days, in Mapleville. It was too early to start looking for warning signs just yet.
She pottered around her home, taking time to admire the pastel cereal boxes in the kitchen cupboards, her pretty, pressed clothes hanging in the wardrobes, and her sparkling bathroom.
The thought of never having to iron, or mop the kitchen floor, or scrub tide marks off the bath felt like a release.
Greta studied the photographs on the mantelpiece.
If she stayed here, she might even take up ice skating, or perhaps learn the trumpet.
Then she could truly become the woman in the photos—someone who wouldn’t have to rake hay in a goat shed, argue with her husband, or disappoint her daughter ever again.
The day was too glorious to spend it inside, so she set off to find Millie.
Greta strolled through the streets. Hanging baskets overflowed with flowers outside the Maple Inn, and a team of gardeners pruned the bushes in the park. The man in the ice-cream van handed out swirly pink-and-white ice-cream cones. Everyone she passed said hello.
She smiled at the line of cheerful workers, admired the baker’s shop full of goodies and the stone cherubs surrounding the fountain. Why would she ever want to leave here?
Greta could feel her decision crystallizing.
Millie stood in her garden, a basket hooked over the crook of her elbow, carefully cutting rose stems and laying the flowers inside.
Jefferson strolled down the garden path, raising his Thermos with a triumphant grin. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ve made my own coffee this morning. Didn’t even burn it.’
Millie arched an eyebrow. ‘Progress at last. I’m almost proud.’ He puffed out his chest, unaware of her sarcasm. ‘Goodbye, dear. See you later.’
‘Yes, have a good day, Jefferson.’
Millie sighed. She raised herself onto the balls of her feet as she spotted Greta approaching her garden gate. ‘Good morning. It’s lovely to see you again,’ she said. ‘I’m just about to head over to the coffee morning. Care to join me?’
Greta smiled. ‘I’d like that, thank you.’
‘Just before we go.’ Millie plucked a rose from her basket, snipped the stem, then produced a pin and fastened it to Greta’s dress. ‘There. Now you look like you belong here.’
She slipped the basket inside the door, and the two women set off down the path together.
As they walked, Greta noticed something different about her friend. Millie’s face was bare, free of make-up, and her hair fell in loose waves, as if she’d let it dry in a breeze.
‘Oh, I meant to tell you,’ Millie said brightly. ‘I’ve sourced several pairs ofjeans and running shoes for the boutique. They should arrive soon and are bound to cause a stir. You must stop by and see if anything catches your eye.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Greta said, pulling at the waist of her dress.
In the ballroom of the town hall, the familiar hum of chatter filled the air, but Greta noticed subtle shifts. One woman mentioned she’d started to learn rock guitar, and another had swapped pastels for a black linen dress.
It was good to see them embracing change, however small. Greta wondered if she’d been too slow to do the same thing in her own life. Had she clung too tightly to her idea of family, instead of accepting that it could shift and grow over time?
‘Whose turn is it to give a talk today?’ she asked Millie.
‘I think we’re hoping you’ll tell us a little more about your hometown,’ Millie said. ‘We all attended the film screening, and you were amazing. We’d love to get to know you better.’
Several of the other women nodded in agreement.
‘All we know about is Mapleville,’ Millie added. Her smile faltered, just for a beat, before lighting up again.
Greta sat down at the table, running her fingers over the tablecloth.
She noticed the brownies were crumbling at the edges today, the slices not as neatly cut as usual.
And where were the cake forks? Was this another sign?
Or was she spotting small imperfections because she was looking for them?
‘Do you really want me to talk about Longmill?’ she asked.
‘I’m not especially interested,’ Desdemona admitted with a sniff. ‘It sounds like a terribly plain place. Full of strife.’
‘It’s not always like that,’ Greta said, feeling uncharacteristically defensive.
‘Sometimes, when I’m sitting in a cosy coffee shop, reading a book while rain streams down the window, and people are rushing past outside while I’m warm and snug, it can feel rather lovely.
Even if the cuffs of my sweater and my socks are soggy.
‘When the barista adds an unexpected dash of caramel syrup to my coffee that I didn’t ask for, but it turns out to be delicious, and the chocolate powder on top is supposed to be a pretty swirl, but looks more like a snail, it makes me smile.’
She paused, surprised to hear the affection in her own words.
Millie gave her an encouraging nod. ‘Tell us more . . .’
Greta took a breath. ‘In Longmill, I wear fleecy pyjamas and socks to bed because it gets cold at night. I eat doughnuts with oozy jam in the middle that doesn’t actually taste of real strawberries.
It’s more artificial, but still delicious.
I wear comfortable clothes that swamp my figure so I don’t have to worry about my waistband digging in. ’
She hesitated, then added. ‘My hair is thinner. I have wrinkles across my forehead, and I even have to wear a bra to bed, just to keep things in place.’
Desdemona blew into her cheeks. ‘Such horror,’ she said. ‘Are you making these horrible things up? Improvising again?’
Greta shook her head. ‘No, it’s all true.’
She glanced around. A few women wore puzzled expressions, whereas others were nodding, even smiling faintly.
Millie’s expression was different. She wore a reflective air, almost nostalgic, like she might actually remember some of these things.
‘You asked for a glimpse behind the curtain of my real life,’ Greta said. ‘Well . . . here it is.’
‘I’d love to hear even more,’ Millie urged.
Greta eyed her, surprised. This was all just run-of-the-mill stuff. ‘I once gave a talk at a coffee shop about my past career, and it went terribly wrong.’
She shared the story of her disastrous evening in Brew- tique, recounting her tiny audience, the burnt brownies and the blaring smoke alarm.
A few more of the women laughed.
Desdemona, however, scowled. ‘I don’t see what’s so amusing. I can’t see any value in this other place you’re telling us about. It sounds uncomfortable. I don’t want to be cold, or ignored, or inconvenienced. I like it here.’
‘So do I,’ Greta admitted. ‘And that’s my dilemma.
Do I stay in Mapleville, where I can get to know you all better, enjoy family life, and never have to worry about a thing?
Or do I go home and accept things usually come with a struggle?
’ Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Millie tilt her head, as if considering the same question.
Desdemona tossed her hair and launched into a description of her latest espresso Martini recipe.
Millie turned to Greta. ‘You seem different today,’ she said. ‘As if there’s something on your mind.’
Greta nodded. ‘I told the truth just now, about deciding whether to stay here, or not.’
Millie frowned. ‘But you’d still be able to visit us, wouldn’t you? The place feels brighter when you’re here. You’ve made us all . . . think.’ She crinkled her brow, as if the word surprised her.
Greta shook her head, her lips curving downward at the corners. The thought of never seeing Millie again was too painful to dwell on. ‘I’d never be able to return. But that’s not something I have to think about. Not just yet.’
Millie toyed with a button on her sleeve. ‘If you’d given me the same choice a while ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated to stay here,’ she said. ‘But now you’ve made me curious about what somewhere else might have to offer.’
Greta studied her. ‘Are you still having your fleeting thoughts . . . memories?’
Millie nodded. ‘I’m not exactly sure what they are. But I seem to be remembering things that I can’t explain—jewellery, a young man . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ve just been drinking too much coffee.’ She laughed, but uncertainty glimmered in her eyes.
Greta mulled over how much she could tell Millie—about Leonard, about her past life. Was it kinder to say nothing at all? ‘I didn’t mean for you to start questioning your life,’ she said.
‘No.’ Millie took hold of Greta’s arm. ‘Somehow, I think it’s a good thing.’
Outside, the town hall clock faintly struck eleven, and Millie and Greta both looked up.
‘I don’t remember it doing that before,’ Millie said.
A tingle ran down Greta’s forearms. ‘Me neither.’
They moved toward the window.
‘Hey, everyone,’ the woman in the black dress called out. ‘Look at that.’
The ladies all gathered around, peering out at the town square.
‘No, look up, instead,’ Millie said, pointing toward the sky. ‘There’s a grey cloud overhead. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before.’