*✭˚𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 22-year-old Nat Sullivan, an aspiring writer with a fractured past, relocates to the quaint town of Woodbury, Vermont, and finds herself in an unexpected and life-changing series of events. While working on a submission for Black...
Brown boxes packed full with the latest book releases greeted me on the laminate countertop as soon as I stepped foot into Next Chapter. One was already emptied and laying flattened against the wall opposite the front door. Overhead, the lights were dim and buzzing, matching the chorus of crickets seeping through a cracked window.
"Jenny?" I called, peeking my head over the counter.
Rustling came from the back corner, behind the puzzle display. I pulled one of the overflowing boxes off the counter and braced it against my hip. Rows of neatly stacked hardcovers of Colleen Hoover's new novel filled the cardboard. My nose wrinkled.
"Jenny?" I called again, inching closer to the sound.
Jenny's frail frame was crouched down, head tucked under the display table. I plopped the box on top, startling her. She shot up with a thud.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she let out. "Don't you know better than to sneak up on an old woman?"
Giggling, I said, "I called your name twice. I saw one of the boxes had already been taken care of and figured you were around here somewhere."
"I've been trying to find a place for everything all afternoon. Then, this damn table leg started wobbling, so I've been attempting to get a piece of cardboard underneath it."
She held up a folded piece of what I assumed was part of the empty box.
I reached for it. "Here, let me." I put my bag on the floor and knelt down to the front leg. Lifting it, quickly stuck the piece of cardboard beneath and gave it a light shake. "See, perfect."
Jenny's smile took over her whole face. Though she was in her early seventies, her long, thick curls, and round cheeks made her appear much younger.
Patting me on the shoulder, she said, "I knew there was a reason I kept you around." I smiled, trailing her back to the front of the store. Last light had fallen behind the pines, casting the whole shop in a dull, warm glow. Outside, street lamps flickered to life and I could see shop owners dragging in their 'Open' signs, closing up for the evening.
I perched my elbows against the check-out counter, observing Jenny as she lit a couple of candles and set them on the far end. It didn't take long for cinnamon and apples to fill the room. I took a deep breath and let the comfort wash over me.
"I love that smell," I said with a sigh.
Almost every night, Jenny and I locked up the bookstore and curled ourselves into the high-back velvet chairs in the center of the room. Tonight, Jenny pulled a small, round coffee table from the children's section and put it between us. She lined the chipped wood with two floral painted tea cups, a pot of steaming Chamomile, and a plate of vanilla macarons.
"Well, this is fancy," I joked.
"I thought we could use a little treat," she shrugged.
I reached for the pot of tea and poured us each a cup. Heat seeped from the porcelain into my palms, sending a shiver up my arms. Both of us sat in comfortable silence until our first cup was finished.
"So," Jenny started, leaning over to set her cup down. My stomach knotted. She never got serious unless it was, well, serious. I sat up straight, facing her.
"Have you given any more thought to what I said? About contacting your father?"
It was like all the air had gone out of the room. Six months ago, I left Modesto. Mom and I had another blow out about her trying to stay sober, and this time – I couldn't take it. I packed a duffle, jumped in the car and drove until there wasn't any road left. I met Jenny after my third day in Woodbury. It was mid-spring and the locals were prepping for tourist season. She was taping a 'Help Wanted' sign into the window when I walked by. She said she saw the ink staining the side of my wrist and knew then and there that I was in the right place.
I told myself that this was a fresh start, and it was, but a part of me knew that it was more than that. More than I could bring myself to admit.
I placed my empty tea cup on the table and let out a long breath. "I have," I started. "And I don't think it's a good idea."
I waited for her to reprimand me. Do something a stand-in grandmother would, but it never came. Instead, she reached across the small table and gently wrapped her aging hand around mine.
"I can't tell you what to do," she said. "But, take it from an old girl like me, it's better to know the answer and heal from it than spend the rest of your life wishing you'd done something about it."
With that, she gave my fingers a light squeeze and got up from her seat. I could feel her turn back to look at me before slipping into the back room.
Tears threatened to spill as I tilted my head back, fanning my hand to dry them. A couple of weeks ago, on a night much like this, I confessed to Jenny that ending up in Woodbury wasn't a complete accident. I didn't know this town existed, but I did know that my biological father was somewhere in New England. And over the course of those three thousand miles, filled with tears and anger, I thought that if I got myself here – then, maybe, I could face him.
That night, Jenny told me about her own upbringing. How her mother had left her on the stoop of a fire station not too far from Woodbury. She spent her whole life wondering who she was – why she left her. Then, one day, when Jenny was sixty-five, she received a letter. It was from a woman who claimed to be her birth mother. It was brief, but said that she was ill and didn't want to die without meeting her daughter.
"Did you go see her?" I had asked.
By the two lone tears rolling down her cheeks, I knew.
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I gathered the cups and tea pot off the table, setting them back on the counter. Through the streaky glass, caught my reflection. Dark waves splayed out across my shoulders. My face blurred. A breeze carried down the vacant street, blowing the boulevard banners in all directions. I reached for the light switch and let the world go black.
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