Page 36 of In a Word, Yes

In a manner worthy of Mr. Knightley, the lieutenant cuts in, offering his. “Lucy Montgomery. So we meet again.”

An intentional rescue? Either way, I’m grateful. “Lieutenant Hayes.”

“Wyatt. Please.”

A gentle throat-clearing sound signals Ian’s attempt to get things underway.

Wyatt leans down to whisper in my ear. Close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath through my hair. “I’m happy to switch seats.”

“All good,” I lie.

“Welcome, writers,” Ian says, in a tone that’s somehow both warm and commanding. “Let’s start by getting to know a little about each other. How about each of us shares two things. First, what is your one superpower?” A low rumble of laughter travels around the circle.

In my case, nervous laughter. Not a huge fan of icebreakers.

“And second,” Ian continues, “what kind of writing do you like to do? I’ll go first. Every day I get a few customers who have absolutely no idea what they want. I seem to have a canny way of matching them to the right kind of tea. Or the right book. Or both! It’s quite rewarding. As far as writing goes, I’ve been tinkering with the same novel for several years, a story set in England during World WarII, based on my own family’s history. With the accountability of a group like this, I hope to make some real progress.”

Next, Nytasha takes command. Sitting straight and tall, she rearranges her white-gold mane over her shoulder, then launches into a spiel for the self-help book she’s working on. Inspired by her podcast, the book is titledThe Twenty-Thousand-Foot Peak Inside You.

It’s hard not to get swept up in all her power words and positive manifestos. For example, there’s “I am an unstoppable force of nature” and several uses of the worddominate. I try listening with the intent to understand, I really do. And I canalmostbend my mind around the part about letting go of past experiences at the cellular level and “embracing the full potential of my highest future self.” But mostly I keep thinking about how I’ll bet she grows orchids. Successfully.

No, on second thought, just one single tall, exquisite, white-gold orchid, embracing the full potential of its highest future self.

By contrast, not-so-sunny Sunny recalls how she once had a “humorous little ditty” published inReader’s Digest. While I work to retrieve my jaw from the floor, she adds that she only joined this group at Ian’s incessant urging and figured she ought to get out of the house anyway.

I squirm in my now-warm butt nest. Sounds a little too familiar.

Where Sunny leaves off, Ian picks up the baton, adding, “Sunny tells me she hopes to resurrect her practice of uncovering the humor in everyday moments through her pen.”

“Fat chance, though,” Sunny says shrilly. “Ever since my Harvey left, the words just ... well, they left me high and dry.”

“I’m sorry about your husband, Sunny,” Nytasha says. “May I ask, how long ago did the rat leave you?”

Um. Whoa. Add wicked death glare to Sunny’s arsenal of facial expressions. I’m grateful I’m not on the receiving end. “He didn’t leave me, he left this life for the next! Eleven years and three months ago!”

There’s a moment it’s so dead silent I swear I hear a collective gasp from the multitude of shelved books.

Ian and I exchange a sympathetic glance.

“My mistake, but still, that is alongtime,” Nytasha says, unhelpfully. “Maybe if you—”

“It’s only a blink!” Sunny turns to address the entire group. “You’ll see!”

Where Mrs. Rachel inAnne of Green Gables“thought in exclamation points,” Sunny speaks in them.

“And Lucy?” Ian says, as if nothing awkward just happened. “Tell us about you.” No way would anything I say at this moment satisfy the warmth and expectation in his eyes. And speaking of eyes, they are all on me.

Why is there a frog in my throat that wasn’t there a second ago? I attempt to clear it. “Let’s see,” I finally say, willing my facenot to brighten to some vibrant shade of fuchsia as it’s been wont to do all my life when addressing a group. “If I have one superpower, it’s probably that I can fold a fitted sheet flatter than flat.” I don’t mention that it’s a skill I picked up cleaning vacation rentals.

Nytasha leans forward. “That’s no superpower, woman. That’s a magic trick.” Everyone appears to agree.

“And I wouldn’t exactly call myself a writer. More like I dabble.” No point in heightening their expectations.

Here, Ian jumps in. “In case you don’t know, Lucy works for theMessenger.”

The bright-smiling woman of my mother’s vintage, whose name I now know to be Billie, lifts her travel mug as if in tribute. “Ohhh, I love theMessenger. The first thing I always turn to is the ‘Sheriff’s Calls.’ They’re a hoot!” Based on the choir of hums around the circle, there’s a general consensus about this.

Which comes as no surprise. Everyone in town reads and relies on the local paper. And they especially enjoy the comical spin Sam puts on a few real-life incidents torn from that week’s sheriff’s blotter.