Page 16 of Something About September

“I’ve got another day or so here,” he said after he swallowed. “But I can be at your place to start first thing Thursday morning.”

“And you’re actually going to show up?”

“I might even bring a ladder on the first day,” he said with a smile that only made her knees wobble once, which she told herself was impressive.

“Thanks, Cort,” she said. “I’ll see you then.”

“See you, Becca.”

As she turned away, she saw a curtain across the street close, fast, and wondered which Bramley Hollow resident had witnessed the exchange and how quickly it would spread around town that she had hired Cort Adams. But the rumor mill didn’t matter, not today. As she walked back down Spyre Street, her heart felt lighter with each step she took. She knew she had done the right thing, finally. She was determined to keep the feeling going. With twenty-eight days left in town, and so much to keep her busy, how hard could that be?

Chapter 12

Rebecca greeted Wednesday with a sense of sheer determination. She stayed out of her grandmother’s office this time, focusing instead on the rest of the apartment. She sorted through most of the boxes Sabrina had taken out of her room and culled her books substantially. Because, she told herself, she had shelves upon shelves of books at her apartment in Toronto, many of them doubles of what she had here.

She worked systematically, packing platters, plates, dishes, and cookware in newsprint. It wasn’t always easy—she still found herself starting a pile for items she wanted to keep, no matter that she had no space for them in her apartment. She couldn’t let go of everything. Like the small oak-leaf-brown teapot that Lenore had kept upstairs, just for the two of them, to share a pot of tea—paired with cookies or cold slices of pie—after a long day at the diner. The blue knit cozy she always nestled over it to keep the tea warm. The apple-blossom Tiffany lamp by the window—Rebecca left that where it was and didn’t allow herself to imagine what it might feel like to unplug it, to wrap it in newspapers and put it in a box.

Midmorning, Rebecca pulled on a taupe alpaca wool sweater that had been a gift from Sabrina and began carrying the many boxes she had filled down the apartment stairs and out to her car. When she opened the trunk, she saw the box she had left in there, containing all the succulents Tom had given her. She winced. Why did she always manage to forget about plants? She carried them to the garbage and dumped them in without looking at them again. She waited to feel sad about this, but instead, she just felt free and light.

She got in her car and drove toward the opposite end of town, to the Bramley Hollow Give & Live, a thrift shop where people in town donated used goods. The proceeds went to a food security charity in the community, and it was all run by Nasreen Klune, Crispin’s wife. Rebecca had admired Nasreen in high school, remembering her as the girl who wore Princess Leia–style buns in grade ten and, when mocked, came back the next day wielding a plastic lightsaber along with her schoolbooks. And now this ultracool woman was married to Crispin Klune. Life was strange.

Nasreen was at the cash register when Rebecca walked in, sewing what appeared to be a very large leather apron. “Rebecca! Crispin mentioned you were back.” Then she grimaced. “I’m really sorry about him. I’m sure he’s driving you up a wall with all his bylaws and regulations. I’m working on him, really.”

“Yes, well,” Rebecca said, but didn’t know where to go from there. What Nasreen saw in Crispin was a mystery to both her and Sabrina. There’s a lid for every pot, Lenore had said when the invitations went out for Crispin and Nasreen’s town square wedding.

“How are you, Nasreen?” Rebecca asked, deciding to abandon the topic of Crispin altogether.

“I’m great.” She lifted the apron she had been working on and patted her swelling stomach. “We’ve got our first Baby Yoda due in the winter. And I’ve been keeping even busier than usual constructing bespoke pieces for cosplayers, LARPers, and the occasional local theater troupe.”

Rebecca hesitated. “LARPers?”

“Live-action role-players. People who fully embody their characters—knights, elves, paladins—in staged scenarios. It’s a lifestyle,” she said with a smile and a shrug.

“It’s so…you,” Rebecca said.

“Crispin loves it, too. He’s served as Quartermaster in the Greywood Campaign for the last three seasons. I designed his pauldrons.”

Rebecca tried to imagine Crispin, with his starched shirts and stiff khakis, wearing armor and role-playing. Lid for every pot indeed. “As you likely know from Crispin,” Rebecca said, trying to keep her tone light as she said his name, “I’m here in town cleaning out and fixing my grandmother’s building. And I have my first round of items to contribute to the Give and Live.”

“That’s great,” Nasreen said. “I really appreciate you thinking of us. Just put the boxes here by the cash register. Today’s volunteers are already here, and they can help put everything away.”

Soon Rebecca had all the boxes from her car piled inside—and the volunteers had gathered around, all familiar faces. Mr. Patel had been her high school music teacher, Mrs. McGill the town librarian, and Ms. Abrams had delivered the mail. They all insisted Rebecca call them by their first names—Parth, Aileen, and Janet, respectively—but Rebecca found that hard to do. “It’s just habit,” she said.

“Lenore did raise you with the most impeccable manners,” said Mrs. McGill. She had opened one of the boxes of books. “And to be a wonderful reader. Look at all these! Such a wide range, and all in excellent condition.”

“Shall I make some tea?” Mr. Patel asked. “Rebecca, do you need to rush off? Can you stay a little while?”

“I can definitely spare some time for tea with you all, and I can stay and help get things shelved if you’d like.”

Soon, Mr. Patel was back with a tray containing a chipped teapot and mismatched cups. He served everyone a cup of tea, then opened a box of dishes. “I remember this platter from our book club nights,” Mr. Patel said fondly, lifting a tray from the box. It was robin’s-egg blue, with birds flying across the surface. “For her oatmeal cookies,” he said. “The woman could turn anything into an absolute delicacy.”

“Why don’t you keep the platter?” Rebecca suggested. “I’m sure Lenore would have loved for you to have it.”

“I’ll buy it,” Mr. Patel said. “So I can make sure the money goes toward the cause. But, yes.” He set the platter aside. “I will take this one home with me. Nice to have something to remember her by. Lenore is so dearly missed, as you know.” He patted her hand. “She was so proud of you.”

Rebecca smiled. Her heart felt sore, but there was comfort there, too. It was nice to be around people who had known and loved Lenore—it had been far too long since she had been.

Now Ms. Abrams was looking at her thoughtfully. “You look so much like your mother,” she said with a smile.