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But when Eloise reached the dining room, she stopped short in the doorway to find that someone else had beaten her. There, seated at a two-person table with a mug of coffee in front of him, was Herb. A shiver raced up and down Eloise’s spine. For a long time, she wasn’t entirely sure if what she saw was real— if this was actually Herb, him sitting in her hotel dining room, seemingly waiting for her.
Herb lifted his gaze to find hers, and for a moment, they held themselves like that, frozen in time. It seemed that every decision Eloise had ever made had led her here to this anonymous dining room at six in the morning to find Herb.
Herb stood slowly. His face was more wrinkled and shadowed than it had been yesterday, as though he hadn’t gotten much sleep either. He then pulled his fingers through his gray hair and said, “I’m sorry for surprising you like this.”
Eloise shook her head. “It’s good to see you again.” She said it before she fully realized what she wanted to say. “I feel like I acted like a fool yesterday.”
Herb’s smile was comforting. “I was the fool in that situation. Not you.”
Eloise tilted her head and took several steps toward his table. “You look exactly the same,” she said, surprising herself again.
Herb laughed. “I do not.”
“You do.” Eloise paused again, feeling silly yet also open-hearted.
“And you look just as beautiful as the day I first saw you,” Herb countered.
Eloise laughed abruptly, then placed her hand over her mouth, embarrassed. “I don’t.”
Herb took a step toward her, closing the distance between them. Eloise thought she might fall down.
“I never wanted you to leave, Eloise,” Herb breathed.
“I didn’t want to leave, either. I just had no idea what to do.”
Herb nodded. “We were kids.”
“We were kids,” Eloise repeated.
“And the people who were in charge of our destinies are now dead,” Herb said.
Eloise furrowed her brow, on the verge of breaking into tears. “We have a lot to talk about.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Herb said with a soft shrug. “Do you feel ready for it?”
Eloise closed her eyes so that her tears didn’t fall. It was finally happening: the conversation she’d dreamt of for fifty years. Although she was terrified, she had to face it. It was time.
ChapterSeventeen
It was early Sunday morning, and Anna was seated at a desk in The Copperfield House library with her computer in front of her and her headphones on. In her ears was the voice of Harriet Thornburg, the woman she’d interviewed on the morning of the Nantucket Daffodil Festival Parade, explaining the intricacies of putting on the Nantucket Festival, why Nantucket made her heart sing, and what she would tell someone who’d never been to Nantucket in the first place.
Anna was hard at work on the article, which she planned to submit to both her editor back in Seattle and, if he didn’t want it, another travel editor she was friendly with located on the east coast. As she wrote notes to herself and sculpted the article, she felt a fire burning within her, which served as a reminder that she was worthy of something— that she was actually good at something.
By ten that morning, Anna had finished a second draft and felt ready to have someone’s eyes on it. Terrified, but excited, she emailed the draft to Everett out on Orcas Island, explaining her hopes for the article and that she needed his help.
Everett wrote back only an hour later.
Anna,
It’s so nice to hear from you! I’m actually on Martha’s Vineyard right now, visiting Charlotte, so we’re in the same time zone. I’m waving at you from across the Sound.
I wanted to reach out to you after what happened. I don’t know how to express how sorry I am. The amount of pain you’ve had to go through at such a young age is absolutely terrible.
I have a lot of respect for the fact that you want to keep writing during this time. Perhaps you agree with me when I say: to write is to live. It’s the only way I process my emotions; it’s the only way I make sense of the world around me.
Of course, a Nantucket Daffodil Festival isn’t the most complex of festivities and therefore doesn’t have as much “grit” as some travel writers often look for. But in the article you’ve written, you paint a portrait of a very charming and historical island, one that upholds its natural beauty, its community, and its traditions. You’ve created density where many lesser writers wouldn’t have known how. I admire that, truly.
One note I have is that I feel Harriet doesn’t talk enough about herself here. She talks about her love for the island, about her love of tradition— but not about Harriet Thornburg in the flesh. As you know, what makes a travel article sing is the individual nature of people within these locations. If I were you, I would ask Harriet for a second interview to really broaden the final few paragraphs of the article.
