“I’d like to reserve the community room for Wednesday evening,” I said.
“Certainly. Is this for a club or meeting?”
“For a story,” I said.
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry?”
“A story,” I repeated. “Mine.”
I printed flyers on my home printer that afternoon.
Nothing fancy. Black ink. White paper.
Wednesday, 7:00 p.m.
A Quiet Retelling by Helen Whitmore
Free and Open to All
I took them downtown myself. Left one at the coffee shop where Grace bought muffins on Saturdays. One at the florist. One on the library bulletin board. One at church.
Then I waited.
The night of the reading, I wore my navy dress and Robert’s pearl brooch.
The community room at the library smelled faintly of paper, carpet, and the kind of heated air that always reminds me of public schools and good intentions. Rows of folding chairs had been set up by the staff. By seven, most were filled.
