Page 65 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

“Thanks for the confirmation, because there was definitely fornication last night,” I say to make her laugh.

She quickly directs our walking chat to questions about me andhow I’ve managed to climb out of the “widow funk,” as she’s comically branded it.

“You almost sold the house—which, for the record, would’ve been a complete mistake. But are you surprised how much this town and these people are really working for you?”

A few weeks ago, I might’ve answered that I was surprised, but I don’t think that’s really the case. I keep thinking about how Ben told me back in our early twenties that I was a small-town girl at heart. We were living in Boston after moving from Chicago, and neither of us felt like we were truly in the right place.

You aren’t a big-city girl, Gracie, I remember him telling me.You are destined for a small town.

Eventually, he talked me into returning to North Carolina in his pitch for grad school. Within months of landing in our home state, we were lounging in a hammock in the backyard of our rented house at the time and I told him,You’re right. This feels good.

The wild thing is knowing that Ben was even more right than we realized, because here in Canopy, in a truly small town, I feel relaxed and able to breathe for the first time in a long while. I tell her all of this as we walk, making the trail seem even easier than I expected.

“I like how much people love being here—living here. My parents trained me to think that small towns were places people ended up in by accident or because they had no other options. Chapel Hill obviously helped me figure out that’s bullshit, but being here in Canopy, it’s just on a whole different level. Everyone is here because they want to be, me included.”

“Do you feel more like your old self here—more like the Gracie that existed before Ben died?”

“No,” I respond so quickly that it surprises us both. “I feel more like myself than ever before, but I also don’t feel the same. Is that weird?”

Felicity is looking intently at me now as we pass a trail marker that indicates we’re halfway there. Unlike usual, Felicity doesn’t try to jump in and fill the space. She just lets my thoughts wander out loud.

“I guess,” I say slowly, careful to choose each word with purpose, “that being in a new place where I make my own decisions and focus on myself has really been transformative for me. I miss my kids so much, but I’ve also been able to be Gracie the person since I got here. Not just a mom or a wife or a widow, but a full version of myself.”

“There’s a noticeable shift in you,” Felicity says. “I hope you find it empowering to chart this next journey for yourself, hopefully with a man who loves you by your side.”

“It’s only been six weeks since we met. I’m not sure he loves me.”

“Gracie, be for real right now. That man is crazy about you. I think at our age you just realize things sooner when you meet someone special.”

A tentative grin crosses my face. I stop walking for a moment, knowing the waterfall is just a few minutes away and wanting—no, needing—to ask her something before we get there.

“Felicity, can I ask you a question? Like, a really big question?”

“Of course,” she says.

“Once this book wraps, who am I?” I ask her. “And I don’t just mean a few months from now when the manuscript is officially finalized. Who am I next year after the book tour? Who am I whenthe interviews stop? What purpose do I serve for anyone if I’m not the sad grief lady?”

More than one question. Quite a few, actually. And now I’m tearing up, choking back my emotions as usual. I’m sure the leg will start up any time now. Felicity doesn’t know about that yet; it’s a few chapters beyond what she read yesterday. I’m still not certain I’ll keep that chapter, but it did feel cathartic to write it.

Felicity doesn’t step closer, doesn’t move in for a hug. Like me, she’s not someone who comforts others with her physicality. Instead, she uses her words.

“Gracie, this book is going to be really important to people. It’s going to matter, and that alone is a legacy worth being proud of,” she tells me. “Don’t diminish what you’ve done with the book—or your column, for that matter—by calling yourself the grief lady. You are so much more than that.”

“Thanks,” I tell her, catching my breath. I turn to keep walking and she signals for me to stay.

“I would not have taken you on as a client if I thought you only had one book in you,” she tells me.

When the whirlwind after the essay was at its wildest, I met with five different potential literary agents. She was the only one who asked me about my long-term interests, things that I might want to write about in the future, and what crazy dreams I had. At that point, it had only been six weeks since Ben died. Felicity was the first person who gave me an opportunity to imagine a new path for myself.

“You have a gift, Gracie,” she continues. “You have a voice and a unique point of view that can’t be taught. I think that you are goingto write a lot of books. We’ll sell some, we’ll shelve some—and that’s perfectly fine. That’s how this all works. But I will believe in you every step of the way. This can be your career—your only career. You could write a dating self-help book next, and people would love it. Or fiction. We have the momentum to take the next step that we want to take.”

“Thanks for being my biggest fan, Felicity,” I tell her. “But maybe I will hold off on giving dating advice until I make sure I’ve got good material to share.”

Once again, I motion to continue down the path and she stops me.

“What else is on your mind?”

“Why do you ask? You seem to be able to read my mind just fine.”

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