Page 16 of In a Word, Yes

I wouldn’t cry. There’d been far too much crying.

Someone needed to bring the sunshine.

A lump knits my throat. My head tells me this is just a grown woman’s long-ago, childish memory, but my heart can still taste amaretti cookies mingled with sadness.

But seriously. What are the chances this gorgeous hunk of steel would drop anchor in my life, in my world—in mykitchen—right now? I can’t explain it, and no one else would understand it if I could, but this vintage writing instrument is so ... solid. So real. It transcends time. And I feel certain its arrival at this moment is laced with some kind of meaning.

Lifting the index card to my nose, I sniff.For Lucy.

Nana is for Lucy.

God is for Lucy.

And if God is for me...

It’s too much. A surge of warmth volcanoes beneath my ribs. I’m still not a woman who cries easily. Who has room for it? Right now, though ...

“Can I try it?” Chase’s morning rasp is one of my favorite things about him. At the moment, it’s just what I need. Still dressed in crumpled blue Mr. Spock pajamas, he gazes wide-eyed at the glorious object before us.

I sniff in my emotion, tucking it away deep in my belly, and smooth down my son’s cowlick. It pops right back up. Wrapping my arms around him, I squeeze. He smells like love and lemon shampoo. I’d better figure out how to start breathing normally again because this dude and I have got a day to conquer.

“Sorry, bud. You and I are going to have to wait till tonight to check it out. Let’s get you some breakfast.” Chase begins to writhe head to toe, and I tense, anticipating a meltdown. But then he checks himself. He opens an upper cabinet and removes a cereal bowl.

At one time I could either have a good morning or get Chase to the bus stop on time. Never both. Lately, though, we’ve carved out a rhythm. My son is even more a fan of rhythms than me, and that’s saying something.

Even so, I’ll be forced to shake that boy’s tree pretty soon. I can’t wait much longer to discuss the paper he brought home the other night. Turns out it was nothing to be dreaded, only the information I requested about the new ranch where they offer equine therapy. Paige is loving her sessions there, and Chase wants to try it, I can tell. Still, helping him push through the resistance—fear, discomfort—is sure to be a whole thing.

Also, who am I to expect a yes to roll easily off his tongue when the word isn’t even part of my own vocabulary?

***

The moment Chase disappears inside Charity Falls school bus number 2, I set off for work. There’s a bounce in my step as I plot my next thrift-store spree.

After all, a proper typewriter deserves a proper desk.

This morning, I cradle one of my little green babies—a gift for Dot, poor thing. Tragically, her pug has been diagnosed with diabetes. And by tragedy, I mean this is a cataclysm felt office-wide at theMessenger. The fallout of Poochy’s illness? Our favorite cake-boss coworker’s baking days are on hiatus. For the foreseeable future, Dot has retired her rolling pin. Evidently, if Poochy can’t enjoy bites of Dot’s home-baked delicacies, neither can we.

Anyway, this newly propagated lipstick plant has the sweetest little glossy leaves and is bound to cheer her up.

There’s something so invigorating about my new morning rambles, greeting the local yokels and handing out free smiles like fun-sized candy bars. Brighten your face, brighten your world. Maybe this is it, the new rhythm I’ve been looking for. Could it really be so simple? A few small tweaks to my routine and the restlessness that’s been shadowing me will wave arrivederci?

Tonight I’ll really go bananas and serve breakfast for dinner. I’ll allow Chase to input ideas, give a chance for him to exercise spontaneity as well.See, you’ve got this!

I have to cringe, though, rounding the corner onto Main. Overnight, a fresh crop of campaign signs has sprung up among the serene cottage gardens that make this stretch of town so charming. Don’t get me wrong; I’ll never take for granted our of-the-people, by-the-people, for-the-people system. It’s just that election season is already so fraught. It’s a shame to detract from what’s beautiful and placid when we need it most.

I mean, how’s an unpretentious coneflower to compete with such a display? Maybe if the sign makers were to choose daintier fonts or softer colors—

Wait.Hold up.Speaking of things that disquiet my soul...

No. It can’t be.

Up ahead, Sam is holding a gab session outside theMessengeroffice with another man, whose back is to me.

But.

Even at this distance it’s impossible to overlook the luminescent seven-letter word splayed across the back of his padded black vest. One that begins with ansand ends with twof’s. Nor the Bermuda shorts, nor the bike helmet, nor theactual bike he’s straddling.

Blindly, I take one wide step off the sidewalk to my right and dip behind the Fletcher Realty sign. My shoe sinks into soft bark mulch. No doubt I’ve beheaded some daisies.