She hadn’t returned to Millbrook in more than five years.
Who could be reaching out?
Elena’s hands shook. She returned to the sofa and clutched the phone, willing it to ring again. She’d answer it if it did, because it meant that somebody was thinking about her, someone still cared. Although there had been ten calls in total, the most recent had been only fifteen minutes ago, which meant they hadn’t entirely forgotten her yet. Whoever they were. An old friend? It couldn’t be her mother. Carmen wouldn’t reach out to Elena if the world were ending; she was just that stubborn.Unless there was something wrong, Elena thought,or there was an emergency. But what could have happened? Elena’s mother’s stubbornness seemed to make her immortal. She was far too clever and far too stern for anything bad to happen to her.
But what if Elena was wrong about that?
After ten minutes, the person who’d called still hadn’t called again. Elena was going out of her mind with worry. She couldn’t let her stubbornness hold her back. She had to be stronger than that. Holding her breath, she dialed the number and sat up straight. After two rings, a woman answered. “Elena?”
Struggling to recognize the voice, Elena was on her feet again. “Yes. Hi. Who is this?” She hated how much her voice shook.
“Elena, it’s your mother’s neighbor, Jemma Roberts,” the woman said. “I’m sorry to bother you on Thanksgiving Day, but it’s an emergency. Do you have a car? You need to come down to Millbrook right away.”
Chapter Two
It was Thanksgiving evening in the town of Millbrook, and James Murphy was out in front of the courthouse in a thick down coat, watching as the last of the town revelers disappeared into their SUVs and family vans and headed home. Before them was the iconic Millbrook Christmas tree, sparkling and glowing with reds, yellows, blues, and whites. Tonight was the Christmas tree lighting ceremony, an annual event that brought everyone out of their turkey comas and into the frigid streets—but tonight had ended tragically. Nobody wanted to stay around for an extra mug of mulled wine or another cookie. Everyone wanted to return to their cozy homes and forget what they’d seen.
A few members of James’s counseling group passed by, adjusting their scarves and keeping their eyes to the ground. James raised a hand to say hello, and they stopped for a second, their eyes glossy from the cold.
“She dropped hard,” Steven said, eyeing the courthouse steps, where the owner and top journalist ofThe Millbrook Gazettehad fallen mere minutes after the Christmas tree had been lit. “Couldn’t believe it. Carmen was always the strongest woman I knew.”
James didn’t know what to say, so he murmured, “I can’t believe it either.”
Gina sighed. “Any news on how it’s going at the hospital?”
James shook his head, wondering why Gina thought he’d know more than she did. “Haven’t heard anything.”
“It’s been tough on her, I think,” Steven offered. “Newspapers aren’t what they used to be, what with the internet and everything. The stress can’t have been kind to her health.”
“We cut our subscription a few years ago,” Gina said sadly, as though the guilt was squarely on her shoulders. “We don’t like to have all that paper lying around.”
“I still get theGazette,” Steven said. “But I haven’t read the articles as much lately, to be honest with you. All the bad news in the world is getting to me. I have enough bad news in my own life.”
“I hear that,” James said. He considered mentioning his own feelings about the news—that it was up to civilians to learn everything they could about the world and their place in it—but it wasn’t his job to preach his beliefs on such a terribly cold and awful night.
Gina and Steven trusted James to make them feel better in a world so often cruel, not worse. And tonight was no night to “learn” any lessons.
Eventually, Steven and Gina said good night and headed to their vehicles, leaving James to walk the three blocks to his two-story Victorian home. When he entered, he was struck by how cold the place was. He’d spent the day at a friend’s, eating and talking and watching football, and it felt strange and sullen to return home like this. Once upon a time, his place had been loud and brightly lit and filled with songs and food and life. Now, it was just James.
James hung up his coat, put on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt, and went to the kitchen to grab a beer. Once onthe sofa, he considered putting on the television but thought better of it when he remembered Carmen Vasquez and tonight’s disaster.The Millbrook Gazettesat on the couch beside him, and he read Carmen’s recent article—a takedown of the school system and her belief that it needed to change. Carmen, in her late sixties, still threw herself into her career with the zealous energy of a woman half her age. Was this why she’d collapsed? Could her heart not take it anymore?
James knew that Carmen lived only a few blocks from his place. Since James had moved his family to Millbrook twelve years ago, he’d run into Carmen a handful of times and struck up a rapport. He’d always found her exceedingly clever and funny. When everything had been taken away from James, Carmen had made him a series of frozen dinners—lasagna, cheesy potatoes, ravioli, and chicken potpie—trying to mend his broken heart with carbs and fat. It was around then that James had learned that Carmen had ghosts of her own and had struggled through tremendous heartbreak. Most recently, there had been a rift between Carmen and her daughter, one that seemed unlikely to ever be repaired.
James wondered if Carmen’s daughter would return to Millbrook and be with her mother during her time of need.
He wondered if Carmen’s daughter would come to the funeral if Carmen didn’t make it.
James winced and told himself to stop spinning out. He turned on the television and drank his beer. Carmen’s life wasn’t his business. That said, if she needed anything at all, he was happy to come to her aid. He wasn’t a bad cook, especially now that he made all his own meals. He could make her some lasagna, some gnocchi. He could swing by and do chores for her. Wasn’t that part of why he’d wanted to move to a small town? He’d wanted that small-town feel. He’d wanted a close-knit community.
James went to bed around midnight and woke up the following morning to find the Black FridayMillhouse Gazettealready on the front stoop. The first article had obviously been written after Carmen’s collapse on the courtyard steps at the Christmas tree lighting ceremony. In it, a journalist called Natalie Strong wrote about what had happened last night, and reported that, as of three days ago, Sam Ellison, the editor ofThe Millhouse Gazette, had taken a leave of absence. “In light of these circumstances, lacking our owner and our editor, we atThe Millhouse Gazettehave no choice but to suspend operations for the time being. Please bear with us as we navigate these numerous changes. Subscribers who have already paid for December, we will be in contact soon regarding refunds. Please keep in mind that theGazetteis one of the last newspapers of its kind in the United States, and as of late, we’ve been struggling. If you see your December payment as a contribution to help us get back on our feet again, we’d be so appreciative.”
James sipped his coffee and considered the brief article. He hadn’t known that theGazettewas struggling financially, but he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, given the onslaught of internet content most readers read instead of hometown papers. The article lent no information about Carmen Vasquez’s current health. Then again, it didn’t report that she’d died, either. That had to be a good thing.
James wondered if it was too forward to go to the hospital now to check in on her. Because of his numerous bad memories, the last place in the world he usually wanted to go to was the hospital, but he was getting used to it. He was the crisis counselor and leader of a grief support group here in Millbrook, which meant he found himself at the hospital often enough, sitting bedside next to someone whose life had just changed forever. It felt like the end, he always wanted to tell them, but itwasn’t. Not for you. You owed it to yourself and the people you’d lost to keep going.
That morning at ten, James had a small grief therapy meeting at the community center. He showered, dressed, and set off to walk the four blocks to the center, knowing that people would be especially emotionally bruised on the day after Thanksgiving. People felt the ache of their loneliness the most at holidays. He knew that himself.
En route to the center, James was stopped at a stop sign, trying hard to see the beauty around him. It was an exercise he forced himself and his patients to perform, to count the things that amazed them, to really see the glittering white snow, the red flash of a cardinal, the churning clouds that seemed more like a vanilla milkshake than anything else. It was right before he swung his left foot out to continue the walk that he saw the car, chugging down the road, looking as though it was about to fall apart. It was a Chevy from maybe twenty-five years ago, and it seemed to shake with the effort required to move even an inch. Nobody in Millbrook dared to drive such a wretched-looking car. Hating himself for his own nosiness, James squinted, trying to see who was driving. But right before he could see them, the car stopped abruptly, and smoke spilled from underneath. It was almost comical. But the smell was terrible, like burning gasoline and rubber. James hurried over, just as the driver’s door burst open, and a woman emerged, her hair a black mess of curls, her face tan and beautiful, with enormous eyes that looked to the sky as though to demand why now? Why me? She slammed the car door, put her hands on her hips, and glared at the smoke, as though daring it to return to her vehicle immediately.
