This time she was going to eat toast and drink coffee and function, and if the toast tasted like cardboard and the coffee tasted like nothing and the kitchen was too quiet without the sound of someone else moving through it — well. She'd survive that. She'd survived worse.
The morning light hit the windowsill. The carpenter's pencil was still there, catching the sun the way Jack had probably known it would when he left it. Clara looked at it for exactly two seconds, then looked away.
Friday. Nora's deadline was today.
She took another bite of toast.
The town found out faster than she'd expected, which was saying something given that Beacon's End's information network could outperform most intelligence agencies.
Maeve called at eight-thirty. Clara watched the phone ring, considered answering, and let it go to voicemail. Whatever Maeve had to say would be kind and wise and more than Clara could handle right now.
Tim called at nine. Then Sarah Kwan. Then a number Clara didn't recognize, which turned out to be Benfrom Pages & Salt, who left a voicemail so gentle and awkward that Clara almost cried again. "Hey Clara, it's Ben. Tyler and I just heard. We're, um. We're here. If you need books or company or — Tyler says to tell you we have the new volume of that manga you like, and he's holding it behind the counter. Anyway. Okay. Bye."
The group chat — the one she'd been added to against her will after the hand-holding incident on Main Street — had forty-one new messages. Clara didn't open it.
At nine-forty-five, she saw movement on the dock from the kitchen window. Someone had left a container — sturdy, practical, no note attached. She recognized the Tupperware. Maeve's. The kind of food delivery that saidI love you and I'm not going to make you talk about it— which was Maeve's specialty, the ability to care aggressively while respecting boundaries.
Clara went down and got it. Fish chowder, still warm. She put it in the fridge for later.
Then Mrs. Conley called.
Clara stared at the phone. Mrs. Conley would not stop calling. Mrs. Conley had never, in the history of telephonic communication, accepted a declined call as a final answer. She would call back. And then call again. And then call from Ed's phone in case Clara wasscreening. And then possibly drive to the dock and shout across the water.
Clara answered.
"Clara! Oh, sweetheart. I heard. How are you? Don't answer that, stupid question. I know how you are. You're terrible. Of course you're terrible."
"Mrs. Conley?—"
"Now listen, I'm calling on behalf of your mother. There's a tropical storm — Tropical Storm Delia, have you heard about this? It's coming up from the Gulf and your parents' cell service has been spotty for two days. Your mother tried to call you this morning and couldn't get through, so she called me. From a landline, Clara. A landline! I didn't know those still existed, but apparently the Hendersons next door to your parents rental still have one, God bless them."
"Is she okay? Is the storm?—"
"Oh, the storm is nothing, just rain, your father's back is acting up from the humidity but when isn't it. Your mother wants you to know she loves you and she's going to kill that boy if she ever meets him — her words, not mine, although I agree with the sentiment — and she says to eat something, and she wants to know if you need her to fly up. Your father can't travel with his back, so it would just be her, and she said to tell you she'll sleep on the couch, she doesn't mind?—"
"I'm okay, Mrs. Conley. Really. Tell Mom I'm okay and I'll call her when the cell service clears up."
"Are you eating?"
"I'm eating."
"Are you eating real food or are you eating crackers over the sink? Because there's a difference."
Clara almost smiled. Almost. "Real food. Maeve brought chowder."
"Good. Maeve's a saint. Now, Clara." Mrs. Conley's voice shifted. The rapid-fire faded, and something quieter surfaced underneath — the voice of a woman who'd lived in this town for sixty years and had seen people break and rebuild more times than she could count. "I know you don't want to hear this right now, and I know it's none of my business, and I know I'm a nosy old woman who can't keep her mouth shut?—"
"Mrs. Conley?—"
"But you are loved. By so many people. And whatever happened with that young man, it doesn't change that. You were whole before he got here, and you're whole now. Don't you forget it."
Clara's throat closed. She pressed her fingers against her eyes.
"Thank you," shemanaged.
"Now eat that chowder. And call your mother. And if you need anything — anything at all — Ed and I are right here. Even Ed, and you know how Ed feels about emotional situations."
"He leaves the room."
