The Stories We Tell Read Online Free PDF

comes later.…”
    â€œWere you in the accident? What about Gwen?… Oh dear God. Gwen!” She is almost screaming, but only almost.
    â€œNo.” Deep breath in. Deep breath out. “I wasn’t with him. Neither was Gwen. He was coming home from Charleston.” I proceed to give my mother-in-law the facts, one after the other, and yet I leave out the part about Willa. It feels like a lie of omission, but I can’t bring my sister into the conversation.
    We hang up, with promises that I’ll call the minute Cooper wakes up. The last day and night have been a blur—Willa moving to a private room, Cooper coming home with bandages, medicines, and wound care instructions. I called Max and Francie to explain my absence yesterday, and now I walk toward the studio and wonder how to tell them about the accident; I haven’t practiced enough, I think.
    The coffeepot is always my first priority when I get to the studio, and today’s no different. I turn the pot on immediately and then the music. The Civil Wars sing “The One You Should’ve Let Go.” I attempt to unravel my tangled thoughts and focus on work. I hope Max ordered the dead bar we need for the press. I wonder if Francie has started the photopolymer plate for the baby shower invites. E-mails have piled up, with urgent subject lines like “Need Immediately” or “Typo Problem” or “Order Late,” and there are the mundane ones with exclamation points and inspirational quotes. No matter the subject, the in-box blinks at me with too many blue dots signaling “unread.” The chalkboard with our schedule is full to the very edges with appointments, design meetings, and print runs. It will be a long day.
    On the project table I see brainstorming notes and random stacks of sketches from yesterday, and I’m unable to focus. Even sorting through fonts—my go-to method of procrastination—isn’t helping. Last month, I bought a box of antique cut-wood fonts at a craft show, and I’m sifting through them, forming piles across the table. Sorting this way, losing myself in the vernacular of typefaces, I’m able to forget for a moment about the outside world. There’s always a low-hum hope that I’ll find the letter t for our vintage Paragon wooden font set, which Max and I paid too much for at auction.
    Francie is the first to arrive this morning. The youngest of our group at thirty-four years old, she’s unaware of her beauty and influence. Our best ideas and images come from this smiling, tiny girl who doubts her own brilliance. She walks into the barn, earphone in and talking on the phone. “No way.” She laughs and drops keys on her desk. Her long brown curls fall in tangles over her shoulder and her blue eyes are bright behind tortoiseshell glasses. She waves at me. “Hey, gotta go. I’m at work. I’ll call you later.” She drops her phone into her oversized purse. “Hey, boss.”
    â€œMorning, Francie.” I smile at her.
    Francie is our artist and, outside these barn walls, a singer/songwriter. The music is what drew her to Willa, and their friendship formed as quickly as a clap of thunder.
    When Max comes in, he walks straight to the coffee, pouring it into his oversized mug with SAND GNATS BASEBALL on one side and a chubby sand gnat throwing a baseball on the other. He turns to Francie, picking up on a discussion they’d had yesterday, as if they’d never stopped. “By the way, I looked it up, and Elegy was designed by Jim Waseo. So again, you’re right.” He lifts his mug in salute.
    â€œOf course I’m right. That’s my way.” She bows to Max.
    I look at my coworkers, my dearest friends. Francie squints at me. “You okay? You look like hell.”
    â€œThanks.” I toss a wad of crumpled paper at her. “It’s been a rough night.”
    â€œWhat happened?” Max walks to