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“I hope so.” Anna paused and inhaled deeply, thinking again about her grandmother, the sorrow and chaos in her eyes as a result of this Eloise situation. None of it made any sense.
“My grandfather suggested that I write down everything I’m feeling right now,” Anna continued. “Because I’m a writer, and that’s the way writers process things. But the idea of sitting down with a pen and actually writing down what I’m feeling terrifies me.”
Andrea nodded. “I can understand that. Have you considered writing about something else instead? I mean, it sounds like your art form was never about turning inward. It was always about the world around you.”
Anna stared at the ground in front of her crossed ankles and wondered how much time she had left in this session. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Andrea— quite the contrary. It was just that she hated all this attention on herself, on her emotions, on her sorrows.
“What about the Daffodil Festival?” Andrea suggested, her eyes alight.
Anna returned her gaze to Andrea. “What do you mean?”
“Why don’t you write a travel piece about the Daffodil Festival?” Andrea said. “Not many people outside of the island really know about it, and it’s such a spectacular time of year.”
Slowly, Anna began to turn the idea over and over again in her mind.
“I know the festival organizer,” Andrea went on. “It wouldn’t be a problem for me to reach out to her and make the connection.”
Anna raised her eyebrows. “Is it ethical for my therapist to help me with my work like this?”
“Ethical? Good question. But I don’t see that it’s so unethical. I truly believe that writing is one of the tools that will help you in your healing process. And wouldn’t my friend, the festival organizer, be an essential part of an article about the Daffodil Festival?”
Anna sighed. “I suppose everyone on Nantucket knows each other, anyway.”
“Exactly,” Andrea said with a smile. She then reached for a pad of paper on her desk and scribbled an email address down for one Harriet Thornburg, which she then passed to Anna. “Harriet has been in charge of the Daffodil Festival for several years. She’s really busy right now, but she always has time to boost the success of the festival. I’m sure she’d be happy to chat.”
Anna took the piece of paper and stared at the address, wondering if she had enough power left within her to come up with even one interview question, let alone fifteen.
“If it doesn’t happen, it doesn’t happen,” Andrea assured her. “But you have her contact, just in case the idea calls to you again.”
Anna folded the piece of paper and slid it into her jeans pocket. “I’ll think about it,” she breathed. “But yeah. Like I said before. I can’t promise anything. Maybe the writer part of my brain is dead now. Maybe I’ll have to go into something else.”
“Every avenue is possible,” Andrea assured her. “Here in this room, you don’t have to put pressure on yourself in any way.”
“Thank you,” Anna said, grateful to be in the presence of someone who didn’t know her, who couldn’t feel the depths of her sorrow, and who could only help guide her toward a better path.
ChapterTwelve
Eloise was in her hotel room with the television on. It was just before six in the evening, and she’d spent most of the afternoon locked away, stewing in thoughts. A very strange part of her itched with the desire to get back in her truck and return to Indiana, to that terrible apartment with the rented furniture, and to the few friends she had in the world. Another part of her screamed to stay on Nantucket, a place she’d dreamed of for years and years— if only to see what would happen next.
The thing of it was, she was far too terrified to reach out to Greta.
After Eloise and Greta’s father had sent Eloise to live with her Great Aunt Maude, Eloise had never heard from Greta again. Throughout her older teenage years and then into her twenties, Greta never once reached out. Great Aunt Maude hadn’t shared any information about Greta, nor about Bernard and their new baby, and Eloise had been left in the dark. This slap in the face had felt like more than enough of a reason to take off for Indiana.
Still, Greta was now the closest family member Eloise had left in the world. If Eloise didn’t reach out to Greta now, all would be lost.
A part of her wished she would have reached out to Greta during the decades Greta had spent all alone at The Copperfield House, which she only knew about after an interview with Bernard Copperfield regarding his recent book. In it, Bernard said,“It breaks my heart that my wife was without the rest of the Copperfields for twenty-five years. We’re making up for lost time. You can bet on that.”
There was a knock at the door. Eloise couldn’t fathom who it was, and so she remained very still on her bed for a full minute longer until another knock came.
“I’m coming!” Eloise called, then leaped from bed and hurried to the door. There, she opened it to find the young woman who was normally at the front desk of the hotel. In her hands, the young woman held a piece of paper.
“Hello,” the hotel employee said with a smile. “You’re Eloise Clemmens, correct?”
“I am,” Eloise said.
Slowly, the woman turned the piece of paper around. On it was a black and white photocopied print of the photo the teenage girl had taken of Eloise, the one where she carried a daffodil through town like a hippie.
“Isn’t this you?” the woman asked.
