The day was too glorious to spend it inside, so she set off to find Millie.
Greta strolled through the streets. Hanging baskets overflowed with flowers outside the Maple Inn, and a team of gardeners pruned the bushes in the park. The man in the ice-cream van handed out swirly pink-and-white ice-cream cones. Everyone she passed said hello.
She smiled at the line of cheerful workers, admired the baker’s shop full of goodies and the stone cherubs surrounding the fountain. Why would she ever want to leave here?
Greta could feel her decision crystallizing.
Millie stood in her garden, a basket hooked over the crook of her elbow, carefully cutting rose stems and laying the flowers inside.
Jefferson strolled down the garden path, raising his Thermos with a triumphant grin. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ve made my own coffee this morning. Didn’t even burn it.’
Millie arched an eyebrow. ‘Progress at last. I’m almost proud.’ He puffed out his chest, unaware of her sarcasm. ‘Goodbye, dear. See you later.’
‘Yes, have a good day, Jefferson.’
Millie sighed. She raised herself onto the balls of her feet as she spotted Greta approaching her garden gate. ‘Good morning. It’s lovely to see you again,’ she said. ‘I’m just about to head over to the coffee morning. Care to join me?’
Greta smiled. ‘I’d like that, thank you.’
‘Just before we go.’ Millie plucked a rose from her basket, snipped the stem, then produced a pin and fastened it to Greta’s dress. ‘There. Now you look like you belong here.’
She slipped the basket inside the door, and the two women set off down the path together.
As they walked, Greta noticed something different about her friend. Millie’s face was bare, free of make-up, and her hair fell in loose waves, as if she’d let it dry in a breeze.
‘Oh, I meant to tell you,’ Millie said brightly. ‘I’ve sourced several pairs ofjeans and running shoes for the boutique. They should arrive soon and are bound to cause a stir. You must stop by and see if anything catches your eye.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Greta said, pulling at the waist of her dress.
In the ballroom of the town hall, the familiar hum of chatter filled the air, but Greta noticed subtle shifts. One woman mentioned she’d started to learn rock guitar, and another had swapped pastels for a black linen dress.
It was good to see them embracing change, however small. Greta wondered if she’d been too slow to do the same thing in her own life. Had she clung too tightly to her idea of family, instead of accepting that it could shift and grow over time?
‘Whose turn is it to give a talk today?’ she asked Millie.
‘I think we’re hoping you’ll tell us a little more about your hometown,’ Millie said. ‘We all attended the film screening, and you were amazing. We’d love to get to know you better.’
Several of the other women nodded in agreement.
‘All we know about is Mapleville,’ Millie added. Her smile faltered, just for a beat, before lighting up again.
Greta sat down at the table, running her fingers over the tablecloth. She noticed the brownies were crumbling at the edges today, the slices not as neatly cut as usual. And where were the cake forks? Was this another sign? Or was she spotting small imperfections because she was looking for them? ‘Do youreallywant me to talk about Longmill?’ she asked.
‘I’m not especially interested,’ Desdemona admitted with a sniff. ‘It sounds like a terribly plain place. Full of strife.’
‘It’s not always like that,’ Greta said, feeling uncharacteristically defensive. ‘Sometimes, when I’m sitting in a cosy coffee shop, reading a book while rain streams down the window, and people are rushing past outside while I’m warm and snug, it can feel rather lovely. Even if the cuffs of my sweater and my socks are soggy.
‘When the barista adds an unexpected dash of caramel syrup to my coffee that I didn’t ask for, but it turns out to be delicious, and the chocolate powder on top is supposed to be a pretty swirl, but looks more like a snail, it makes me smile.’
She paused, surprised to hear the affection in her own words.
Millie gave her an encouraging nod. ‘Tell us more . . .’
Greta took a breath. ‘In Longmill, I wear fleecy pyjamas and socks to bed because it gets cold at night. I eat doughnuts with oozy jam in the middle that doesn’t actually taste of real strawberries. It’s more artificial, but still delicious. I wear comfortable clothes that swamp my figure so I don’t have to worry about my waistband digging in.’
She hesitated, then added. ‘My hair is thinner. I have wrinkles across my forehead, and I even have to wear a bra to bed, just to keep things in place.’
Desdemona blew into her cheeks. ‘Such horror,’ she said. ‘Are you making these horrible things up? Improvising again?’
