At this Eudora brightened. “A tea party?”
“For story time,” Lucy went on. “It was Leah’s idea, but I ran it.” She sat across from Mrs. Shipman in the opposite leather chair. “Decent crowd. Though I think there were more stuffed bears than kids.” She glanced over her shoulder and then turned back to Mrs. Shipman. “Brad had a rough morning. He’s not exactlykid-friendly.”
Leah was watching in disbelief. Aside from the children who came in, this was the most she’d heard Lucy talk since the day she hired her.
“Well, isn’t that wonderful?” Eudora took a deep sip of lemonade. “And I like the strawberries. Nice touch.”
Lucy grinned.
Leah was relieved to see that she was looking better, and her breathing seemed to have calmed. Whether it was Lucy or the lemonade, who knew, but at least it didn’t appear she’d be calling 911 that morning. “Feeling better?”
“Much, thank you. And you, too, Lucy.” She looked up at Leah. “I had to come in today, for two reasons.”
“Lucy, why don’t you check on the register?” Whatever it was she was going to say, Leah had a feeling it was of a private nature. When Lucy was gone, Mrs. Shipman went on.
“I’m sorry for hanging up the phone like that. It was deplorable.”
“Oh, it’s alright,” Leah told her. “It goes with the week I’m having.”
“No, it was rude and uncalled for. I think it’s because I was scared.”
“Scared?”
Mrs. Shipman nodded. “I’ll tell you why, but only because of the second thing I’m about to say.” She swallowed hard. “I would like to take you up on your offer. About the knitting club. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
“Oh! That’s great.” Leah was thrilled to hear this. Suddenly the store felt a little brighter, her plans for the studio a bit more hopeful. “We would love to have you.”
“The reason I was scared was because this club is something I would really like to do. But then I remembered my panic attacks. You see, I’ve had a little trouble with anxiety since I retired and my husband died.” She stared at her shoes. “I’ve missed out on a lot of things.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Leah said, feeling every ounce of it.
Mrs. Shipman looked up at her. “I don’t want to miss out on this.”
On the slow drive home, Leah took the scenic route. She coasted past Chatham Lighthouse and the crowd at the beach parking lot. Past Chatham Beach and Tennis Club. Over the woodendrawbridge at Mitchell River, where her tires thunked happily along the planks and up Stage Harbor. The evening was balmy and beautiful; she rolled down her window and turned on the radio. As she’d feared, Greg had moved in with Rebekah. The bookshop was in flux. So far, she had two hired staff, one largely unpaid carpenter who was barely speaking to her, and, as of this afternoon, a much-needed volunteer with a crippling anxiety disorder. Taylor Swift’s “You’re on Your Own, Kid” came on. Leah smiled sadly and turned up the volume.
