Margaret nodded, her voice a little lower now. “We weren’t sure how this would go, to be honest. After everything… she hasn’t said a word. But with you, there’s a light in her that we haven’t seen in a long time.”
Lily looked over at Chloe, who was twirling in front of the mirror, and felt her heart pinch.
“I think she just needed a place to be herself,” Lily said gently. “We all do.”
Margret watched her granddaughter for a moment longer, with her heart in her eyes, then composed her face. “We’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. “Come, dear. It’s time for supper.”
Chapter Eighteen
As the doorshut behind the Whitmores, Evie popped out from the office, shrugging into her coat. Her cheeks were flushed pink with excitement, and her nose was buried in the stack of highlighted script pages.
Lily didn’t have to look up to know it was her sister. They shared the same red hair and green eyes, although Evie was a librarian and very much dressed the part. Her sedate knee-length wool skirt and cream turtleneck looked out of place next to Lily’s pink floaty wrap skirt and leggings, which had traces of glitter from the snowflake rehearsal. And yet, as always, they balanced each other out perfectly.
“That little girl adores you,” Evie said, pushing up her glasses with her finger while juggling a mug of tea and a half-eaten apple. Her script—highlighted and color coded to hell—was jammed under her arm, the sticky notes poking out at odd angles.
Lily smiled faintly. “She’s special.” She held out her hand for the script and mug, very used to her sister’s charming brand of distracted genius. “Here. Let me help.”
Evie handed them over, taking her coat from the hook andslipping it on while she scanned the room. “Have you seen my keys? I just had them.”
Lily handed the mug back to her and tossed the apple in the garbage. “You’re the only person I know who could lose her own keys while holding them.”
Evie looked down, startled. “Oh. Well. I thought I put them—never mind.” She flashed a sheepish grin. “Thanks.”
“Did you get the lines down?”
“I was just in there rewriting the nativity scene. One of the angels had a sore throat, so I gave her lines to the donkey.”
While Lily handled the choreography and wrangled the tiny ballerinas, Evie handled the acting and singing with the joy of someone who’d spent her childhood directing her twin and all their neighborhood friends in backyard musicals. Theater had always been Evie’s passion, and she directed several other community shows in addition to her role at the library.
“Just a heads-up—” Evie paused, buttoning her coat with one hand. “Tucker’s back in town.”
Lily froze. “What?”
A month. She’d had a whole glorious month of not seeing his smug face. A blissful, Tucker-free stretch in which she could pretend she hadn’t been humiliated in front of half the town by the cheating dirtbag who then took their honeymoon to Cancun with his assistant.Their honeymoon!The nerve of it still galled her.
Evie winced in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Lily. But honestly, everyone knows he’s a walking dumpster fire now.”
If it galled Lily, it was nothing compared to how the town felt about Tucker. Northfield wasn’t just small; it was loyal to the bone, and when you broke that trust, everyone took it personally.
From what she’d heard, he was persona non grata aroundtown. And yes, the pettiest part of her—the part she tried very hard to smother—felt a tiny flicker of satisfaction hearing that.
In some ways, the aftermath of the photo was worse than the betrayal itself. Along with her privacy, she’d lost whatever thin shred of dignity she’d been clinging to. Some days she still wondered who’d actually AirDropped it. Tucker? Madison? Or someone else who couldn’t mind their own business?
She was the one being whispered about in the aisles of the grocery store and dissected over coffee at Maple and Main. And the worst part was that everyone in town truly meant well. Truly. But small-town kindness came with a side of suffocation.
Somehow, she’d become Northfield’s tragic sweetheart. People stopped her in the grocery store, eyeing her tub of ice cream and bag of chips with sympathy, when really it was just her usual period craving. She couldn’t walk down Main Street without someone offering tearful sympathy and unsolicited advice on everything from how to get revenge to how to win him back. As if either of those was even on the table.
But then it got worse.
Once people realized she wasn’t actually devastated, the matchmaking started. Suddenly, everyone had a “very sweet” nephew or brother or UPS driver whowas just the nicest guyand so cute and could they give him her number?
It was sweet. It was exhausting. And it was impossible to say no to without disappointing someone’s well-meaning grandma or aunt.
Yes, New Lily was a badass. She stood her ground, and she wasn’t a pushover, dammit. But Old Lily—the people pleaser—was proving harder to shake. She still hated disappointing people, especially the grandmas. They were so cute in their determination to set her up. So earnest.
Every week before class, she told herself she’d say no. And every week, Gertie Marshall or Connie Hightower would sidleup to her with a bag of warm cinnamon buns from Morning Glory Bakery (who could say no to those?) and their grandson’s business card in the other, like she was the town’s pity case.
“That’s almost worse,” Lily muttered, rubbing her forehead. “Everyone’s been treating me like I’m made of glass since I came back. I can’t teach my senior yoga class without someone trying to hand me baked goods and their grandson’s business card.”
