Page 58 of Something About September

Talk to Sabrina, she added. Make a plan together.

Then, just for fun, she started to sketch, the way she had as a child, but different—more certain, even if she was only exploring. Somehow, every pen stroke made it feel more real. She sketched the front room: shelves along the north wall; a reading nook where the sun pooled in the afternoon; a kitchen that still served delicious food—perhaps, if Sabrina was involved, more adventurous than the food the diner had offered. She wrote “bookstore–café/restaurant” in the margin and circled it, hard enough to dent the page.

Then she opened a spreadsheet and named it “Blackbird & Bramley”—and this made her smile so widely it almost hurt. Columns: estimate, must-haves, nice-to-haves. She plugged in only what she knew for sure: paint, lighting, secondhand shelves, an espresso machine. She left space for what she didn’t know yet and, for once, let that be okay. It was not always possible to know everything. This wasn’t a dissertation. It was a dream, but it felt so right.

Her back was stiff and her hand hurt from writing and typing when she finally closed the notebook and the files on her computer, and sat still, letting it all sink in. She double-checked her sent items, and it was there. She really had written to ask for an extension of her leave. She really wasn’t going anywhere, not yet. Meaning she didn’t have cleaning to do or boxes to fill. She didn’t actually have anything important or pressing to do at all. So she poured herself another cup of coffee and slid a book from her shelf. She settled into the chair by the window, beside the treasured apple-blossom lamp, to read a book, just for fun, for the first time in ages.

Rebecca couldn’t remember the last time she didn’t have a schedule, an agenda. Papers that needed to be graded, lessons that needed to be planned. All the urgency of the past weeks had faded away. She wasn’t on Crispin’s timeline anymore; she was on her own. Her savings account wasn’t robust, her plan needed work—but she felt calm and centered in a way that she hadn’t in a long time. Maybe ever. She read, she wrote. Lists, journal entries, observations. She reread her mother’s letter so many times she knew it by heart.

On Thursday morning, she awoke almost certain that Cort was in bed with her, left over from a dream she must have been having. It hurt, and she sat with it for a moment. She wanted to open a door between them. “But how?” she whispered into the silence.

There was no answer.

Rebecca went to her bookshelf and slid out one of her old diaries, the one she had written when she was seventeen. She sat on the bed and she read her tortured words about Cort. She knew the young woman who had written those words so well in some ways, but in other ways she couldn’t be further away from who she had been. She missed Cort, still. It was as Sabrina had said: It didn’t feel over. What if she reached out? What would she say?

She closed the journal and picked up her phone. It was Thursday. The Autumn Festival would start the next day, with the hay maze opening, shops each having special promotions, displays and tables outside, food trucks and vendors in the town square, and, in the evening, the vegetable-judging contest she knew Cort would be busy preparing for. But still, she called up his contact card and typed out a text. See you at the dance?

She hoped he’d remember saying that to her, a long time ago. Then, as soon as she sent it, she felt sudden regret. Would he think she was trying to dig at him, to recall a time that had hurt them both? She hadn’t meant it like that. She had meant it as a new beginning. An opening for a thaw. Because she wanted Cort Adams in her life in some way. Especially if she was going to stay here. She couldn’t avoid him forever. She didn’t want to.

The ellipsis that indicated that Cort was typing appeared and reappeared so many times she began to regret her text even more. But then the words Definitely. See you there appeared and her heart lifted, just enough.

Downstairs, Rebecca propped the diner door open to let in the cool morning air and swept the front step, the broom making that satisfying shushing sound across old wood. She imagined what it might feel like to be opening her bookstore café, and her heart lifted, just as much as it had at the idea of seeing Cort at the dance, and of things somehow being okay between them again.

When she knew the hardware store would be open, she walked toward it, to get a new piece of glass for the framed photo of her mother. She felt proud of herself for fixing the photo, even if it was just a small victory.

Instead of bringing it upstairs again, she put the photo on a diner shelf and resolved that it would stay there, always.

Back at the counter, she pressed her palms to the cool laminate and let herself imagine the room full of small sounds. Pages turning, spoons on saucers, a child giggling at a dog under a table.

People she knew, and people she didn’t.

Her phone chimed and her heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t Cort, but in a way, it was better. It was an email from her supervisor telling her the extension was approved and suggesting some meeting times for the following week. She typed a quick reply, sent it, and stood in the silence that followed. All at once, it was as if a voice spoke to her in the quiet of the diner. A voice she had never heard before, but a voice she knew.

Go meet your life.

It was Evie’s voice, finally. She had been waiting her entire life to hear her mother speak. And now she knew she really was home.

Chapter 37

Rebecca walked through the middle of town, which had now been fully transformed for the Autumn Festival. She was wearing her favorite jeans, leather ankle boots, and a storm-gray sweater the exact color of Cort’s eyes. She felt nervous and excited, both at once. The square had been cleared and reimagined: White tents clustered around the perimeter, crowded with vendors selling apple cider and hand pies and jars of honey. The center of town had been roped off for the vegetable displays: towering pumpkins, gleaming squash, neat rows of carrots and peppers, all polished to a sheen, waited for their judgment. Beyond that, a small midway spilled down the side street, a carousel creaking gently, a ring-toss booth flashing with cheap prizes, hayrides looping past the park. Apple-cider doughnuts scented the air; children shrieked with delight; every direction glowed with gourds, bunting, and the crisp nostalgic bustle of a fall fair.

She was admiring a colony of sugar pumpkins on a table when she spotted them: Cort, with Pip on his shoulders, walking beside Melanie. Pip pointed at something and both parents laughed. It was so easy, and it made Rebecca feel happy for them. There was no heartache, no swooping stomach at the sight of Melanie. In fact, Melanie spotted her, smiled, and waved. Rebecca smiled and waved back, and then felt a flutter of nerves. Was she ready to see Cort? She wasn’t sure. So she kept on walking, leaving the town behind, heading away from the center and toward Calloway’s. She had promised Sabrina she would check out the hay maze.

The orchard was bustling with townspeople and visitors, just as the town square had been. Sabrina was nowhere to be found, and Rebecca knew she’d not see much of her today; it was the busiest day of the year. She approached the entry to the hay maze and ducked into it. Inside, the world narrowed to golden walls and muffled festival noise. She began to walk, trying to keep track of her turns, but soon she was lost. And that was okay. You were supposed to get lost in this maze. There had never been a year when she hadn’t found her way out again.

Footsteps. Then a familiar voice that made her heart flutter like a flock of barn swallows had taken flight in her chest.

“Becca?”

She turned. Cort stood a few paces away, one hand braced against a bale.

“I saw you come in here,” he said; a half smile that didn’t quite hold. “I thought…maybe you’d get lost. It’s especially tough this year.”

“I am completely lost,” she admitted.

“Pip and I already did it, twice, this morning. So I can help you find your way out.”

“I’d like that.”