Page 47 of Drawn Together

Thirty-two

Word of the day: Illumoria

Definition: the realization that every person has hidden parts of themselves

I’m still holding a garland of dried orange slices and cinnamon sticks when the door chimes open for the hundredth time since I got here, as Cliff carries signs in and out.

The scent of clove and balsam fills Nook and Cranny, like it’s seeped straight out of a storybook, and I have the pine sap under my nails to prove it.

I twist the garland around the edge of the reading loft’s railing, stepping back to admire it.

Warm fairy lights wind through the ceiling beams like lazy fireflies, and every corner of the store glows with mismatched lamps and tiny pumpkins perched on shelves beside classic hardcovers.

There’s a crackling audio loop of fireplace sounds coming from the speakers thanks to Lennon.

Edith has decided to go all out on this event, which meant giving Lennon, Cliff, and I full reign over the decorations.

The entire day has been dedicated to making this store look fresh out of a Nora Ephron movie.

Mugs of hot cider sit on the back counter, each one sweating gently onto a paper coaster stamped with a tiny turkey reading Whisper House.

Out on the front display table, I’ve arranged copies of The Orchard at the End of the Lane and The Clockmaker’s Shadow like a shrine.

The golden anniversary edition of The Paper Teeth sits in the center, framed by garlands of fake cranberry sprigs and a brass sign that reads: "Farewell, Cedric Brooks — Thank You for 50 Years of Magic. "

Fifty years. Can you even imagine? Doing the thing you love for fifty years of your life.

Knowing that your life's dedication will forever line childhood dreams with creeping ivy and talking animals, broken pocket watches, missing children, and stars that hummed lullabies as directions.

Even if Cedric Brooks was at least eighty years old, that would mean he wrote his first best seller at thirty.

Which inherently feels like I have five years left to have my first…

whatever is the closest relation to a best seller for me.

Considering Threadbare is Cedric’s last novel, I might be well on my way there.

I’ve already had one other art director reach out for me to design a cowboy romance cover at the beginning of the new year.

“Flora,” Lennon calls from the back room, her voice muffled by Cliff unfolding chairs. “Do we want the name tags to be pumpkin-shaped or leaf-shaped?”

My fingers loop the last orange slice around the railing, and I slide down the ladder. “Uh, pumpkin.”

She’s silent. Are pumpkins stupid?

“Unless you think we should do leaves?”

“Great idea,” she calls back, and I smile to myself.

I check the time again—fifteen minutes until the doors officially open, and thirty minutes until Cedric Brooks makes his way in.

Just as I’m enjoying my oranges and weaving yarn, a subtle tap on my hip interrupts my peace. I look down to see Fletcher, his dark hair brushing his forehead as he gazes upward.

Sunlight warms my face as I speak, “You’re here.”

My feet hop down on level ground, the sound muffled by the jute rug beneath me.

A nervous flutter fills my stomach. I don’t know if hugging him is the right thing to do after everything we did last night, but the scent of his familiar cologne wraps its way into my chest, and I squeeze him in my arms regardless.

“I’m here.” He wipes his palms on his pants, like he’s the one who should be nervous tonight. Meanwhile, if this place isn’t in perfect shape in the next half hour, Edith will literally hang me by my underwear by the no phones sign.

“How, uh, how does it look?” I point back to the store.

“Oh God, sorry, I was distracted.” He pulls back to take in the store in all its Thanksgiving-y glory. “It’s incredible, Flora. You are incredible. I’m sorry I’m—” he blows out a hefty breath, and it’s the first time I realize he’s sweating.

Tiny droplets formed at his hairline, trailing to his neck. His hands on my waist are shaky, fingers tapping against me like it will steady him somehow.

I squint up at him, but he’s busy counting chairs under his breath. “Fletcher, are you sick?” My hand raises so the back of my fingers brush his forehead. He’s burning up, my cold skin against the heat of him. “You’re so hot.”

“Thanks, baby. It’s the tie—blue really brings out my eyes.”

“I’m serious, you’re burning up.”

“It’s just warm in here.”

I raise a brow and look over to the thermostat proudly displaying seventy-three degrees. “It’s not that warm. Do you need to go home?”

“No!” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, no. I’m fine, I swear.”

“I really understand if you need to go; I promise it’s okay.” I run my hand through his hair. “Cedric Brooks might come back out in another fifty years. I’ll be your date, if you’d like. Take my curlers out and everything for you.”

That makes him laugh. “I might take you up on that.”

“Flora,” Cliff calls from across the aisle. “Do we want the books on the chairs, or do they grab them on their way in?”

I sigh. “I better go handle everything. Stay if you want to, but just know it’s okay if you don’t, alright? We can still hang out after.” I plant a kiss on his cheek. “I still have the thing I want to tell you.”

Fletcher nods. “Right.”

By 5:05p.m., the bookstore is bursting at the seams. Every chair holds someone, parents are balancing babies and toddlers on their laps.

The overflow of attendees stand shoulder-to-shoulder behind the seated crowd.

Despite the bookstore's strict two-hundred-person capacity, a considerable line of eager fans snakes its way outside.

The air crackles with anticipation; I feel it boiling up in my chest and bubbling over.

Reporters cluster near the entrance, their cameras flashing intermittently, capturing the growing excitement.

All eyes are fixed on the doorway, each person yearning for the moment Cedric Brooks, the enigmatic author, finally reveals himself to the world.

The tension thickens as a gray-haired man in a neatly knotted tie, looking important and purposeful, weaves his way through the throng of people right to me.

“Miss Anderson?”

“Yes?” Surely this isn’t Cedric. He’s got to be somewhere in his fifties, and unless he’s been publishing since mid-potty training, it’s just not possible.

“I’m Todd with Ashford & Elm Publishing, we’ve emailed, I believe.”

“Oh my gosh, yes.” I set down my copy of The Clockmaker's Shadow and stick a hand out to shake his. “Thank you so much for convincing him to do this, seriously. It’s been such a great help for the store.”

“He was surprisingly excited to join in on it.”

Lights flicker above us, and I turn to the light switch at the front being cleaned frantically by Lennon. “I should finish helping, but it was so nice to meet you.”

He shakes my hand and is about to leave, but I catch him just before. “Uh, Todd?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Does he have a mustache? Cedric? I have a bet to win.”

He laughs. “I guess we will see.”

When the clock finally shows it’s thirty after, the room is filled with silent tension, every eye searching for a figure to appear and seize the coveted pen name, but no one moves.

Well, no one besides Fletcher sitting next to me.

His knee is bouncing at a hundred miles a minute, and I swear this entire row of chairs is rattling because of it.

I never took him as such a big fan. Every time I bring Cedric up, it’s mostly in a passing glance kind of way, not because he has ever taken such interest in it.

“Hey,” I whisper. “Are you sure you’re not sick?”

“I’m about to be,” he whispers back, before standing up and taking off toward Todd at the front of the store.

“Wh— What are you doing?” I hiss after him, but it’s too late. He’s too far gone between the crowd of people. Oh God, is he going to make some kind of speech? I love a good speech, but now is not the time. Cedric is coming soon, and I love Fletcher, but no, no, no.

He approaches the mini stage and taps on the mic, the sound echoing slightly.

“Uh, hi.” He clears his throat, and I swear all time stands still. “I, um, know I am not what you all expected. But I’m hoping you’ll hear me out until the end.”

Did Todd put him up to this? Another surprise for me somehow, and Cedric’s going to jump—or more likely wheel—out here any moment?

“In 1973, there was a fifty-year-old man named Don that had an idea for a book about a boy and a broken pocket watch. After writing four bestsellers, he unexpectedly suffered a stroke. He recovered, but knew he wasn’t going to be able to write as his pen name anymore.

He went to his best friend, a journalist in Chicago.

He shared with him everything about the forthcoming book, which would be about a tree in the woods whispering secrets in the wind.

And in 1981, The Orchard Tree came out under the new Cedric Brooks.

That Cedric introduced seven more books.

Then, in 1993, he tragically passed in a car accident.

His wife took on the role of taking his final book notes and publishing the last three of his works before she passed it on to her nephew, an English teacher who published The Mirrorwoods and The House That Hums. One day, he had a student in his class who loved literature, but specifically Cedric Brooks. ”

Every person in the room is on the edge of their seats, desperate for more. I’m frozen in time, not quite here and not quite away, but somewhere in space.

“And for the last eight years, that version of Cedric has been pumping out all the most recent incredible reads—The Ragman’s Parade, Morrow’s End, The Library Beneath the Lake—so many influential books back-to-back.”