Riva sank into Paul’s old chair, then ran her hands over the well-worn armrests. Was Kenzie right? Was she allowing all these dusty old books to hold her hostage? Was this room really her prison? She looked up at the shelves and instead of feeling trapped, like her daughter had insinuated, she felt completely comfortable and at home, as if sitting among friends. Kenzie meant well and had certainly been helpful, but Riva had no more intention of getting rid of any of these old books than she did getting rid of her old friends.
She leaned back and closed her eyes. But what Kenzie didn’t fully know was that Riva’s finances were stretched thinner than ever these days. Thanks to no life insurance policies, annuities that got swallowed up in a bad economy, and a mortgage that Paul had taken out to do some much-needed repairs on their old Victorian house, her situation was approaching dire. So much so, she was considering finding employment. Or filing for early social security.
She knew she had to do something to keep from going under. Sure, the sensible plan would probably be to sell the oversizedhouse and move into something more affordable—something with less maintenance. But what on earth would she do with all these books? Maybe Kenzie was right. Maybe they truly were holding her hostage. But if they were, she probably had some version of Stockholm syndrome by now, because she loved her literary captors anyway!
Chapter2
Despite the gathering clouds, Riva decided to walk the six blocks to the public library. No, she was not going to get more books. That would be ridiculous. She had promised her good friend Laurel Wright that she would attend the grief support group that had started a few months ago. But seriously, Paul had been gone for more than a year. Did Riva really need a grief group now? Laurel seemed to think so.
Maybe Laurel was the one in need of a support group. She wasn’t technically a widow. But she was a retired divorcée who seemed to be grieving her failed marriage. Or to be more accurate, she was grieving the loss of her lovely home after the settlement. Now Laurel lived in a dismal downtown apartment with an aging cat named Fred, and she spent most of her time solving crosswords and watching network TV. Poor Laurel probably had need for some support.
Riva blew out a sigh as she wrapped her scarf more snugly around her neck. Sure, it was mid-May, but the fickle Oregon weather hadn’t received notification it was spring. She probably should’ve driven the short distance to the library, but the gloomy weather seemed to fit her mood as she trudged down the hill toward downtown. And perhaps her mood was just perfect for attending her first grief group meeting.
She paused in front of the big brick building, one hand on the door. Really, it wasn’t too late to turn back. She didn’t belong in a group like this. She was beyond the five stages of grief. Or to be more specific, she was in stage five now—acceptance. It had been more than a year. She was ready to move on.
“Riva darling, you came!” Laurel came trotting up to stand alongside her and slapped her on the back. “Good girl.”
“Do you attend these meetings?” Riva studied her friend, wondering if the group had more appeal to Laurel than herself.
Laurel firmly shook her head. “No. But I’m friends with Margaret, the moderator. I told my friend Windy Brewer about this group, and she’s been faithfully coming since it started up in January.” She held up a white bag. “And I promised Windy I’d drop off cookies. Apparently, it was her turn to bring treats and she totally forgot.”
“You hate cooking.”
Laurel looked skyward where raindrops were starting to splat down, then she propped open the door and waited for Riva to pass. “Yes, but I do live above a bakery.” She winked. “Pretty convenient.”
“Right.”
“Here.” She shoved the cookie bag toward Riva. “You can take these to Windy. I have to go.”
“Why don’t you come to the group too?” Riva asked hopefully.
“No thanks. Tell Windy and Margaret hi. Have a good meeting.” She held up a forefinger. “And call me when you get home. I want to hear how it goes.”
“If you went with me, you’d alreadyknowhow it goes.”
“I’d rather hear it from you.” Laurel made a sly smile. “Have fun, darling.” And then she whooshed off. Probably to do a new crossword puzzle in front of one of her soap operas. Did they still make soaps? Riva didn’t know. Unless she was deathly ill, she’d always preferred books to TV. She unpeeled her scarf and proceeded into the warm library, gazing around with satisfaction.At least the grief group was meeting in a respectable location. Perhaps she’d simply hand off the bag of treats, excuse herself to peruse the new books section, and then quietly slip out the door and make a beeline for home before those dark clouds really started to open.
She tentatively approached the meeting room. A couple of women lingered at a table by the door. Maybe, like her, they were planning a fast break. She stared intently at the new titles rack and considered bolting, but before she could get away, the women were greeting her, forcing her to fill out a name tag and sign in to a guest book. And suddenly the taller woman whose name tag read Helene practically shoved her into the meeting room.
“That’s Windy over there.” Helene pointed to a short redhead arranging things on a refreshment table. Dressed in a long bohemian skirt, red cowboy boots, and a purple fringed scarf, the woman appeared to be a unique individual.
Riva cautiously approached the refreshment table, keeping a wary eye on the small group now taking their seats in a circle of chairs. She noticed it was mostly women, but there were a couple of men, all in a wide range of ages. “Are you Wendy?” she asked the woman, then glanced at her name tag and saw that the name was spelled Windy, like the weather. Interesting. Despite her rather youthful ensemble, the woman’s face bore the traces of years of living and perhaps too much sun. But her smile came easy and looked genuine.
“Yes, I’m Windy Brewer.” She looked at Riva’s name tag, then stuck out her hand. “Hello, Riva Owen. Pleased to meet you.”
Instead of shaking the offered hand, Riva clumsily pushed the bakery bag into it. Realizing her faux pas and regretting her bad manners, she forced a nervous smile. “Laurel asked me to give you these, uh, cookies.”
“Bless that dear woman. You know Laurel, then?”
“She’s a good friend. In fact, it was her idea for me to come today. I tried to talk her into coming with me.”
“You and me both. If you ask me, Laurel needs this group more than I do.” Windy opened the bag, then let out a happy squeal. “Lemon bars. My fave.”
“Your name has an interesting spelling.” Riva tipped her head to one side.
“Well, my parents named me September Wind.” Windy grimaced, then smiled. “They were a bit ... unconventional, to say the least.” She artfully arranged the yellow bars on a flowery paper plate. “I was actually raised on a hippie commune in Northern California.” She shrugged. “Used to embarrass me to admit that to anyone, but I’ve pretty much gotten over it since losing my husband. I’ve realized there are worse things.”
Windy paused as a woman called out, announcing it was time to get seated and start their meeting. Windy quietly thanked Riva for bringing the bars. “Go ahead and get your seat.” She fanned out some colorful napkins. “I’ll just finish up here.”
