Well Met(27)

“Right.” I had to clear my throat too. “The date was on the plaque.” I hadn’t made the connection that Sean Graham had died while the Faire was underway. The more I heard, the more my heart ached for Simon, which was the last thing I wanted. Feeling sorry for him would lead to actually liking him, which might actually lead to being friends. No, thank you.

“We put that plaque up the last day of Faire. So he would always be a part of things. But over the winter, I started to think we should hang the whole thing up. I hadn’t talked about it with Simon, and he was . . . well, he wasn’t in any shape to talk about much of anything for the first few months. But you should have seen his face when I suggested we cancel Faire. He was determined to keep it going. I think working on it, all the organizing, helped him keep his mind on something else. And he’s run it ever since. He loves it.”

I nodded while I listened. But at the same time I thought about Simon, serious to the point of joylessness most of the time during rehearsals, then with red-rimmed eyes in the woods. Did he honestly love it? Or had it become an obligation? I knew a little something about taking on obligations, and how it was a great way to hide from things in my own life I didn’t want to face. Could the same be true of Simon? What didn’t he want to face? Maybe we had more in common than I thought.

Then again, Chris knew him better than I did. If she said he loved it, she was probably right. I was probably reading him all wrong.

“More coffee?” Chris moved behind the counter to the coffeepot, and I pushed my mug toward her. I stretched a little; we’d been leaning on the counter at an awkward angle while we’d been talking. My back cracked when I stretched it. Wasn’t I too young for that kind of thing?

I looked around while she poured the coffee. “You know, if you moved some of these shelves, you could fit in a few small tables. Maybe a comfy chair or two and turn it into a kind of gathering place.” The more I talked, the more the idea of a little café in the back of this bookstore bloomed in my mind. Then I looked over at Chris, watching me with a smile, and my face flushed with embarrassment. It was her bookstore, not mine.

“When I first opened this place, everyone thought I was crazy. Small businesses don’t last, and everyone buys their books online, right?” She gestured back to the front of the shop, where her laptop was set up. “But the great thing about small towns is people here want you to succeed. So I have enough loyal customers that they’ll make the effort to order through me. I mean, I’m not retiring to Jamaica anytime soon, but I’m able to stay afloat.

“But a café . . .” She sighed. “After I got divorced, I decided to renovate my kitchen. New appliances, floors, granite countertops. But I ran out of steam before I got to the walls and the backsplash. The holidays were coming up, and I told myself once the new year came, I’d get back to work on it.” She took a long sip of coffee. “That was almost four years ago, and I still don’t have a backsplash.”

My eyes widened. “That’s a long time.” I hated the idea of leaving things unfinished, but I had no room to criticize, given my academic background.

“This store is kind of the same.” She put her mug down and leaned her elbows on the counter. “The bookstore side of things is doing great. But my original plans for this place were almost exactly what you described. I’ve got it all lined up: permits, food service license. This could be a coffee shop if I’d just get off my ass and do it. It always seemed like a lot to take on all by myself.”

I tried to make my shrug casual, my voice unconcerned. “You wouldn’t have to do it by yourself. You know, if you wanted help . . .”

“I’d love help.” The front door chimed, and she turned her attention to the front of the shop. “Let’s survive this first weekend of Faire, but why don’t you come by on Monday. We can talk more about it then.”

“Hello in there!” April’s voice filtered back to me from the front door. “Anyone around?”

I grabbed for my phone in my back pocket. Had I missed her text? I was the worst sister ever. “I’m sorry!” I called. “I didn’t hear my phone. Did you get a ride or . . .” But there weren’t any texts. I hadn’t missed anything.

I followed Chris to the front of the store, where April leaned against the counter, her face flushed and a little tight with discomfort, but mostly triumphant. I stopped short when I got a good look at her.

“Where the hell’s your boot?”

“I don’t need it anymore!” She swung her right leg to and fro, still clinging to the counter, like a ballerina at barre practice. “It feels amazing, Em! I can walk again!”

“So you walked here?” I was going to kill her. “What the hell’s next, you doing a 5K this weekend?”

“Har.” She pushed off the counter, and while she had a little bit of a limp, she was steadier than she’d been since . . . well, since the day I’d come to Willow Creek. “It was only half a block. I wanted to surprise you.” Her face fell a little, the triumphant smile dimming under my scrutiny.

“You did.” I rushed to her, not sure if I wanted to hug her or hold her up. I’d been holding her up for months now. It had become a habit. I settled for hugging this time. “You really did.”

“So were you surprised?” April asked as we left the bookstore and started down the sidewalk to where my Jeep was parked.