In the kitchen, Elena poured them both a glass and apologized for what had happened during the grief therapy session. “I don’t know what got into me,” she said. “I mean, I know she’s sick. I know she’s grieving. I know she doesn’t fullyknow what she’s saying. But I don’t want to make everyone else’s grieving process worse.”
“You didn’t,” James said. “In fact, we had a really wonderful discussion after you left.”
Elena sat across from him and put her chin on both fists. “You’re saying that my messy relationship with my mother was good fodder for group discussion?”
James laughed. “We all look to others for inspiration.”
“And we learn from others what not to do,” Elena said, raising her glass to his. They clinked.
Suddenly, James was overcome with the need to spill the beans on his own life. It felt unfair that he knew so much about Elena, and she knew so little about him. (Unless, of course, someone had filled her in on his story, which was always possible in a town as small as this.)
“You know,” he began, “I have my own story. My own grief.”
Elena’s face was shadowed.
“You already know?” he guessed.
Elena shook her head. “I didn’t want to learn it from anyone but you.”
James felt a swell of affection for her—her kindness and empathy.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “I get it. It’s a lot to carry around.”
“But I want to tell you.” James’s voice cracked. “My grief is, in many ways, who I am. Or it’s a part of me. It will always be a part of me. I lost my son. My only son.” He traced a line across the table with the tip of his thumb. Outside, the wind howled. “He was sixteen when it happened. He’d had his license for maybe five or six months. My ex-wife could tell you the exact length of time, because mothers are always better about time. They’re always better about everything. It was right before Christmas, and he was driving home from a little Christmas party withfriends. He and his friends were nerds. There was no alcohol, nothing illegal—just too many chips, chocolates, and cookies at that party. But someone else had been drinking that night. And that someone else ran through a stoplight and smashed into my son’s car. He died instantly.”
Elena reached across the table to take his trembling hand. James felt as though he’d just given her a piece of himself. She squeezed, and he felt his pulse pounding in his own wrist.
“I hate that this happened to you,” she breathed. “How long ago?”
“Three years,” James said.
“Not long at all,” she said.
James nodded. It all crashed in on him. Sometimes, he couldn’t believe this was the story of his life. For a little while, they sat in silence, their hands still clasped. This was the very table where, once upon a time, he, his ex-wife, and his son had eaten dinner and talked about their days. He’d never imagined a future like this.
And then, Elena breathed, “Do you know anything about Cranberry Cove?”
James was surprised out of his reverie. He brought his hands back to the lip of the table and thought of those gaudy, soulless mansions stitched along the edge of the glittering Cranberry Cove. He knew that, once upon a time, Cranberry Cove had been a gorgeous spot for Millbrook residents, a place for swimming, picnicking, and coming together as a community. He also knew that money had changed all that. Someone had privatized the space. Someone had come in and ripped through the lush surroundings, torn up ancient trees, and begun to build. He’d also heard that more building was planned for the small area of the cove that still retained its natural landscape. He’d chalked this up to more corporate greed and decided there was nothingto be done about it. You couldn’t stop the wealthy. They did whatever they wanted.
“Sure,” James said finally. “But I’ve never been there. I’ve seen it from the water once, but that’s it.”
Elena flared her nostrils. “I have reason to believe that this ‘new build’ they’re planning isn’t legal. But the residents of Cranberry Cove have manipulated the city and surrounding counties into doing whatever they want. Money has exchanged hands, and crimes have been looked past. It’s similar to what Natalie wrote about in Connersville. I think this thing goes deep. My grandmother first wrote about the building of the original Cranberry Cove mansions back in 1957, and it seems likely they’re still up to their awful ways.”
James was stunned speechless. “It sounds like something out of a crime novel.”
“But you know what these people are like,” Elena said, her voice cracking. “These mega-wealthy millionaires are doing whatever they want to do, taking whatever they want. They’ve never cared a lick about Millbrook. They’ve stolen land from us. They’ve stolen our identity.”
Elena went on to explain that her grandmother died not long after the first of the Cranberry Cove mansions were built. “I can’t help but think that she was the only one brave enough to stand up to them. When she was gone, the wealthy had no voice driving against them. People shrugged and let whatever corruption was happening, happen.”
James was putting the pieces together, now. “You want to be the one to stand up to this new build.”
Elena’s face crumpled, as though she were embarrassed. “No. I mean, I don’t know if I can.”
“Why not?”
Elena hesitated. Standing, she walked to the window and pressed her thumb against the sill, watching the snow outside.She looked smaller than James remembered, as though, sitting before her at the table, he’d grown accustomed to her larger-than-life intellect and personality. It didn’t quite match how tiny she was.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough to change anything with journalism,” she explained.
