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After Eloise finished her cappuccino and muffin, she began to walk back to the hotel for a late-morning nap. Perhaps after lunch, she would drive out to the other side of the island and walk the beaches she’d once known, the ones where her mother had taken her for picnics.
“Excuse me? Would you like a daffodil?”
Eloise turned to find a teenage girl before her with her arm extended to hand Eloise a daffodil. Eloise blinked at the gorgeous flower, then again at the girl, unsure if either thing was real. “Goodness,” she breathed.
“You should take it,” the teenager said. “We want everyone to have a little piece of the festival.”
Eloise thanked the teenager, then held the daffodil against her chest as tears sprung to her eyes.
“Do you mind if I take your photograph?” the teenage girl asked.
Eloise lifted her head to gaze at the teenager, who’d brought a large camera to her eyes. Before the flash, Eloise felt her lips curve into a smile. This was the first photograph anyone had taken of her in years, and she didn’t plan to mess it up.
“Thank you,” the teenager said. “You look beautiful with your flower.”
Eloise knew the teenage girl didn’t truly mean that— that to her, Eloise looked like a wrinkled old prune. Still, she appreciated the sentiment, thanked the girl, and turned back toward her hotel. As she went, there was a skip to her step, because the fact that she’d been seen and even photographed meant something more to her than most people.
No, she hadn’t managed to find anything at the record office. But perhaps, in coming to Nantucket Island, she’d only been looking for herself.
ChapterTen
For Anna, the days were long and grueling. One entire day, she didn’t bother to leave her bedroom except to fetch a small bowl of oatmeal, which she barely choked down. Her family was worried about her. Scarlet had brought her snacks, and Julia checked on her hourly. But the fact of it was, sometimes, Anna just needed to fall into bed and allow herself to feel the depths of her sorrow. She supposed this was what grieving was.
Three mornings after her arrival, Anna rolled out of bed and forced herself to get a cup of coffee downstairs. There, she found only her Grandpa Bernard at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee to his left and an entire newspaper spread out before him.
“Anna!” Bernard’s smile was generous and warm. “Good morning.” Very spry for a seventy-something, he sprung up to fetch her a mug of coffee, which Anna thanked him for. “Don’t worry at all. Sit down, will you?” He gestured toward the chair beside him, and Anna fell into it, grateful, for once, not to be alone.
“Your grandmother always writes better in the mornings,” Bernard explained. “She made breakfast for the high schoolers this morning, and then, she retreated to her office. I suppose I won’t see her till afternoon.”
“And you work better at night?” Anna asked, remembering what her mother had said.
“I suppose so,” Bernard said. “But I’ve been a bit lazy about writing lately.”
Anna knew his laziness stemmed from his newly rediscovered love affair with her grandmother. Last December, he’d had to run off to Paris to make her fall back in love with him— a story that, to this day, nobody in the Copperfield Family knew the extent of.What had happened in Paris?
“I hope you’ve been comfortable here?” Bernard asked.
“Very,” Anna said softly. “I can’t imagine a better place to be right now.”
Bernard lifted his mug of coffee and sipped it, his eyebrows dropping over his eyes. For a moment, Anna allowed herself to consider the twenty-five years this man had spent in prison.How had he spent his days? Had he had friends in prison? What had he thought about every single day to get him through?
“You’re a writer, Anna. Like me. Like your grandmother. And like your mother,” Bernard said then, surprising Anna. Anna hadn’t known her grandfather knew much about her career or her future goals.
“I guess. But I’m more of a travel writer. Or, I thought I wanted to be one.”
Bernard’s look darkened. “I read the two articles you’ve written so far,” he said. “They’re stupendous. They have such personality, and they sizzle with life and color. That requires a unique talent. It’s not to say I think you ‘got it genetically’ from your grandmother and I. Rather, I believe it’s entirely your own. Kudos.”
Anna’s cheeks were warm with embarrassment. She had no idea what to say.
“I don’t suppose you’ve tried to write during this difficult time?” Bernard asked.
Anna shook her head ever-so-slightly. The idea of raising a pen to the paper or clicking away at her keyboard terrified her. A different version of Anna had written. This was the “new” version, the one who didn’t know anything at all.
“It took me a little while to write again in prison,” Bernard said. “But once I began, I realized it was the only logical way to process my emotions surrounding the trial and the loss of my family. Truly, if you’re a writer, there really is no other way.”
Anna bent her head in understanding, unsure of how to explain to him that she was broken inside. He, too, had been broken. Probably, he still was in a lot of ways.
Bernard flipped the page of the newspaper to the Local News section and clucked his tongue. “Another Daffodil Festival,” he said as he gestured toward the page. “The town is almost too perfumed. You can’t get a breath of salty air at all because there are daffodils everywhere.”
