Rewrite the Stars by Christina Consolino (classic fiction TXT) 📗

scone later, I decided to let her in. “Maybe, maybe not. But for one, I’ve just met you...”

“That’s true.” She wiped her mouth with the napkin and poured herself another cup of tea before offering me a refill. The chestnut brown liquid cascaded into the cup much like I wanted to spill myself over Andrew. Argh. Where in the hell did that thought come from? The calendar pinned to the wall became my focus, allowing me to turn away from her gaze.

“And two, I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” I said.

That phrase had always bothered me, and yet there I was, uttering it myself. In my experience, a person used those words when she wanted the other person to ask questions, to pry open the lid of whatever Pandora’s Box stood before her. They were to be said if I wanted to unload a burden but first had to probe the situation, to see if the other person would be receptive. Would Pickles change the subject and convince me she had no intention of listening, or would she offer to shoulder the burden and persuade me to open up? This wasn’t a game I was playing, and I owed my new acquaintance more than a thoughtless phrase, though I wasn’t sure why I felt that way.

“You’re right,” I started again. “I don’t know you...” The gears of my mind turned, and I cut my gaze toward her. “Sometimes, we don’t have to know one another to know one another, do we?”

Huh. The things that came to my mind when I didn’t worry about what I was saying. Pickles and Andrew made me feel the same way: safe, comforted, content, and appreciated. She’d likely listen without judgment, and, if time allowed, become a best friend. Like I thought Andrew would do anything for me without question, provided it was within the confines of the law and didn’t hurt anyone. Two different people, two different situations. Perhaps Pickles could help me with my issue with Andrew. Kate’s words echoed in my ears: Rewrite the stars, Sadie. You can shape that narrative.

The first draft was finished. Now, I needed to tackle the revision.

“Can I be frank with you?” In that moment, the dialogue as written on a page sprang to mind, as if someone was reading a book in which I was the protagonist. Of course, it wasn’t a romance novel, but something else more literary, something strewn with drama, joy, heartache, and humor. The ending hadn’t been written yet, and I was picking up more characters along the way, one of them named Pickles. And why was she there? For a good laugh? Or a good lesson? It was time to find out.

“Of course, you can,” Pickles said and sat back against her chair, as if she was ready to be in for a long haul.

Was she right? Could I unpack my life’s baggage like I had the luggage in the cottage on Shoreview Drive? And should I? Before I spoke, I took in the little bits of Pickles’ life that had been strewn here and there in the break room. Newspaper clippings and butterfly stickers clung to the walls, along with pictures drawn by children, and a paper vase full of dried wildflowers, probably something she’d picked in the late summer. The room burst with simplicity and happiness, two things I wanted so much to grab onto.

“I guess I’m having a tough time right now. With my life in general. I’m not sure who I am anymore, although that’s not the case at work. Percoletti-Winn is about the only place that seems to be drama-free right now.” I peeked at my new friend, afraid of what I might see in her face as she focused on me over her teacup.

“It seems that way,” Pickles said. “Something in your body language spoke to me of being needy for something you aren’t getting. Is that right?”

Pickles Martin possessed an uncanny amount of perceptiveness. Of course, her statement could be interpreted in many ways, and I’d just admitted to a discordant life. But perhaps she was more observant than the rest of the population....

The glint of the fluorescent light off my watch reminded me I didn’t want to be late getting back home. Needing only a few minutes to walk back, I allowed myself a bit more time with Pickles, but any more purging of my soul wouldn’t happen today.

“That’s about right. Amazingly right. You’re a discerning woman.” I wondered about how to phrase my next sentence, not wanting to offend her or imply I was running away. “I’d love to fill you in, really, but I do need to get home. I told my family I’d be home by noon, and I don’t want to disappoint them. This is supposed to be a vacation. A family vacation. I might have an odd—dysfunctional, even—family, but I do need to get back to them.” That was as close as I’d get to telling her of all my thoughts and problems today.

“I understand. We can finish up another time, if you’d like. Most days, I’m here, unless my knees start to hurt too much, which is happening more and more the older I get. Then I call in the sub and sit at home, wondering what all my library friends are doing. But with the weather being as nice as it has been, I’ll try to get here as much as possible.”

It took but a few moments to collect my wrinkled napkin, plate, and teacup and place them near the sink, all the while marveling at the sound of Pickles’ voice as she spoke about her life in her cottage next to the lake. A dream world that wasn’t mine enthralled me, but I soon snapped myself back to reality.

“Would you like me to do the dishes before I go? I certainly don’t mind—there are so few, it won’t take long.” I helped clear Pickles’ place as well and then turned to find a dish rag