The next four people to arrive are strangers. Three are women, ranging in age from their early twenties to late sixties.
Cal introduces me to each of them the same way. “This is my friend, Molly. She’s a writer. She’s going to tell people the truth about the club and Augusta, but it’s entirely up to you whether you want to be named in her article. She’s not going to tell anyone’s story without their permission.”
Two of them seem excited about being named in an article—Prudence, who’s my age but looks younger, and Eloise, who’s a hair younger than Mrs. Dahl. The others say they’d prefer not to be mentioned by name.
No one is upset by the notion of setting the record straight.
Once everyone has arrived, Cal eyes me, then clears his throat. “One more announcement, everyone, and this is of particular importance. Molly and I are holding a fruit tart competition. You can vote for Tart A or Tart B at the end of the meeting. We don’t want to embarrass Molly, so some of you should probably vote for the inferior tart to be nice.” He grins at me as he says this, and I give him a well-deserved shove.
I don’t talk much during the meeting, but I soak in every word and take copious notes.
Although Cal only has one sponsee, Harry, who will soon be graduating, he takes an active part in the meeting. He’s a leader, Cal, in a silent, steady way that suggests it comes naturally.
I laugh a little as everyone describes what they did for their challenges from last week’s meeting. The theme was reaching out, and Prudence asked her roommate to do the trust exercise where one person falls and another catches them, which ended poorly with Prue falling on her butt because her friend was distracted by a mouse running across the floor. We all agree that it was an understandable mistake on the friend’s part.
Harry’s smile is a little like the cat that got the cream when he says, “I confided in Molly for my challenge. That’s why she’s here to slay the Augusta dragon.”
Ruby howls from her dog bed, as if in agreement, then returns to chewing her treat.
“In a purely nonliteral sense,” I add. Given Augusta’s habit of pissing people off, she might very well turn up dead, and I don’t want to be number one on the suspect list.
“Come on, Harry,” Cal says, giving me a fond nudge, “we both know she would have kept going until she found an in. She’s not a quitter.” He grins. “Except in the fruit tart realm, because we all know who the real winner is there.”
He’s not wrong. Except when we take a vote, I somehow come out ahead by two votes.
I just laugh and say, “I claim this victory. I’m quite happy to pretend that everyone didn’t just pick the worst one because they knew it was mine.”
The meeting ends with everyone writing a potential theme for next week’s meeting on a slip. They put them in a fishbowl—a real fishbowl, which makes me smile—and Cal turns to me with a small smile. “Do the honors?”
So I do. The theme for the next meeting is renewal, and I feel a strange clog of emotion in my throat.
Because I want that too.
Before Cal drives me home, Bear foists so much food on me, it might very well last all week.
“I suspect you’re giving me all of this because you think I’m a terrible cook, but I’m not going to complain,” I say.
He pulls me into a hug. “There’s room for improvement,” he says, making me laugh, “and I’d like nothing better than to teach you.”
“Hey,” I say, gesturing to Cal, who’s watching us with a look that makes my heart flutter. “He taught me. So if it’s bad, then you know where to start.”
“Oh, he’s a lost cause,” Bear says fondly, to which Cal responds by whipping him gently with a kitchen towel.
We say our goodbyes, Ruby leaping up to try to get in on the action, and when I say goodbye to her too, I get a sloppy kiss to the face.
There’s a weird wrenching in my chest, like maybe this is the last time I’ll see the Cluster. Or Bear. Or Ruby. But maybe the fear of loss is just something you have to live with when you start opening your heart again.
We’re silent in the truck, but I catch Cal shooting looks at me. The same kind of looks he was giving me back in the Cluster. Like he’s worried that if he doesn’t keep throwing glances my way, I might disappear.
I let myself feel the fullness of what he’s given me. Of all the trust he’s shown in me.
Because I don’t want to focus on what he hasn’t said.
“Thank you for bringing me tonight,” I say softly. “I loved it. You’ve built a real community, Cal. You and your dad. It’s something to be proud of. It’s remarkable. Even the people who’ve already left still feel such a connection to the group. To you two.”
“I’m glad you were there,” he says. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I…it meant a lot to me to introduce you to them. It felt right, having you there.”
That warmth within me grows, because I feel the same way.
But those questions festering inside of me haven’t settled.
I want to give him more time, I do, but I feel an internal clock ticking.
“You said you’d tell me more about Augusta,” I say softly.
I can almost see him bristle, like one of Maisie’s trouble dogs at the shelter backed into a corner. I hate that I’m making him feel that way, but I find myself remembering my one quibble with the Bad Luck Club—that the men who created it don’t have anyone to challenge them.
Or at least they didn’t until I showed up.
“I guess I did,” he says. He looks at me again, and I can see the conflict in his eyes. It’s tearing into him.
“This isn’t for the article, Cal.” I’m surprised by how much I mean it. “I want to know because it’s important to you. Whatever happened with Augusta impacted your life. When we were talking about renewal earlier, at the meeting, I felt myself wanting that. Don’t you want it too?”
“I’m the one who suggested it,” he says. He doesn’t smile, but he’s not on the offense. I’m as surprised by his words as his demeanor. He glances at me, his gaze intense and determined. “Tomorrow night, Molly. Let’s have our date tomorrow night. We’ll talk about it then.”
I nod, feeling as if a phantom is gripping my throat. Because I want to know, but a part of me doesn’t. If I find out everything, will it be over? Will this push-pull between us find a natural conclusion? Will I lose interest in him, and he in me? It’s an idiotic thought, because if it were remotely possible, I wouldn’t feel this desperate urge to hug him to me and not let go. But there haven’t been many reliable constants in my life, and I don’t know how to keep things. I don’t know how to keep people.
I’m afraid to try, but the wanting is stronger than the fear.
“I’m thinking of staying in Asheville for a while,” I blurt out of nowhere. “I can still get the piece published with Rogue Word, and maybe they’ll let me do some freelancing until I figure out what comes next.” I hadn’t even consciously considered the possibility, but my subconscious mind has apparently been working overtime. Then, like an idiot, I add, “I’m thinking about writing a full-fledged biography for Mrs. Dahl. I mean, if she and Agnes are cool with it, obviously.”