The next ten minutes pass in a blur of handshakes and small talk and trying not to look like I'm about to pass out.
Michelle corners me near the punch bowl. “If you hurt her again, I'll make your life very uncomfortable.”
“I'm not going to hurt her.”
“Good. Because I like you, Scott. You're grumpy and emotionally constipated, but you make her happy.” She pauses. “Also, your books made me cry on a plane once. So there's that.”
“Which one?”
“When the Tide Returns. The scene where he finally tells her about his father? I sobbed so hard the flight attendant brought me extra napkins.”
“That's...actually very flattering.”
“Don't let it go to your head. You still have terrible taste in furniture.” She pats my arm. “Good luck up there.”
Hazel appears next. “Jessica told us about the throw pillow intervention.”
“It wasn't an intervention. It was an observation.”
“We're taking you shopping next week. The whole book club. We've already made a list.” She shows me her phone. The list is extensive. It includes items like “art that isn't beige,” “blankets that look like someone actually uses them,” and “literally anything with color.”
“I don't need?—”
“You do. Trust us.” She smiles. “Welcome to the family, Scott. It's aggressive and opinionated, and we're going to redecorate your entire apartment whether you like it or not.”
“That sounds...invasive.”
“That's love. Get used to it.”
She wanders off, and I'm immediately ambushed by Amber, who informs me that she's already pre-ordered five copies of the new book and expects a dedication in at least one of them.
Then Jo, who tells me she's glad I wrote a hero who cries.
Then Caroline, who doesn't say much but hugs me with fierce determination like she's decided I'm worth keeping.
By the time Grandma Hensley taps the microphone and asks everyone to take their seats, I've been welcomed into the book club, threatened with throw pillows, and hugged by more people than in the past decade combined.
It's overwhelming but wonderful and the closest thing to family I've felt since Grandma Vera died.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Grandma Hensley says, her voice carrying across the yard with the authority of a woman who's been running this town since before most of its residents were born, “thank you for joining us for this very special evening.”
I'm standing at the side of the stage, trying to remember how to breathe. Jessica is in the front row, right next to Michelle. She gives me a small thumbs up. I give her a small nod that probably looks more like a nervous twitch.
“As many of you know, this spring we launched something very special—the Letters to Local Authors program. Anonymous correspondence between readers and the writers who've touched their lives.” Grandma Hensley beams at the crowd. “Tonight, we celebrate those connections by bringing our pen pals together face to face for the very first time.”
Applause ripples through the garden.
“Let's start with our first pair. Will 'Coastal Carolina Reader' please stand?”
A woman in her sixties rises near the back, clutching her program nervously.
“Coastal Carolina Reader, your pen pal has been 'Magnolia Ink.' You've exchanged twelve letters about everything from plot twists to peach cobbler recipes.” Grandma Hensley gestures toward the side of the stage. “Please welcome local cookbook author Betty Anne Harmon!”
A round of applause as Betty Anne—who runs the bakery on Main Street—waves and crosses to meet her pen pal. They embrace like old friends, which I suppose they are.
“Our next pair—'Sunrise Reader,' please stand.”
A young man rises, looking sheepish.
