Chapter One CHAPTER ONE Cinnamon Haynes can''t remember when she stopped wanting things in life. When she was younger, she was filled with longing for silky straight hair that would slide around her shoulders, for bright-white Rollerblades with pink wheels, for her own room where she could paint her walls neon green or orange or whatever color she wanted and have one of those beds with a canopy over it and a slew of pictures in white frames made out of seashells. She would also have photos to put in those frames, pictures of her friends and family. She had none of that. Perhaps her strongest longing was for her mother to come back from wherever she''d disappeared to when Cinnamon was barely out of diapers, leaving her with her sixty-two-year-old grandmother who passed away three years later. No, her strongest longing was actually for Grandma Thelma to return from the dead and save Cinnamon from everything that came after. These yearnings used to be a roaring furnace deep within her, hot and constant and consuming. But at some point along the way the fire just burned itself out, slowly, little dying embers one by one, and what was left when the smoke cleared was acceptance: this was, and would always be, the life she got.
It was almost liberating because with that resignation came the freedom of surrendering, come what may. It was pointless to pretend that she had any control over her circumstances, better to abandon herself to the current and let it carry her along while maintaining an almost detached curiosity about where she would eventually wash up, which turned out to be here: a pin dot of a town spitting distance from the Atlantic Ocean in a run-down but cozy cottage, listening to her husband snoring like a lawn mower in bed next to her. Lucky and Cinnamon aren''t two words that rightfully belong in the same sentence, but some higher force had a hand somewhere along the way. Because if you''d told her twenty years ago that this future was waiting for her, she would have laughed out loud and asked what you must have been smoking to see this in the cards. The statistics promised a very different trajectory for a girl like her: she was supposed to be alone, homeless, dead, on drugs, or some combination of it all. But somehow--through a rare and brilliant twist of luck, or grace or fate--she''d found herself in this life and let herself settle into it like a warm bath. Granted, it''s not like her present circumstances are particularly opulent by any means--it''s a little gold band on her ring finger, a roof over her head, and a "real" job at the local community college, with a desk and benefits, where she gets to help kids and maybe make a difference in their lives. Wasn''t it something that that could feel like hitting the lottery? This is why she''s constantly reminding herself to have the good sense to appreciate what she has and wish every day that it doesn''t get snatched away.
Or more specifically, that no one discovers that she doesn''t deserve it after all. Good, quiet, grateful. That''s her mantra. So why, then, is she being tormented by the same relentless dream night after night, the one that leaves her shaken and unsettled all day? Here she is now, blinking up at the ceiling, with a hammering heart and beads of sweat frizzing her edges before it''s even crossed the sun''s mind to make an appearance. In the dream--nightmare, more accurately--she''s riding an elevator in some impossibly high skyscraper in a gleaming, fancy city she''s never been to. People get on and off as it climbs until Cinnamon finds herself all alone on the top floor. The doors refuse to open no matter what combination of buttons she jabs. Eventually the walls start to press in on her from all sides until the elevator shrinks to the size of a closet, then a coffin.
It''s a good day when she wakes up before the ceiling starts pressing down on top of her thick braids. Today is not one of those days. She knows getting back to sleep at this point is about as likely as the Mega Millions ticket on her bedside table being a winner. So she slinks out of bed and pads down the hall to the tiny spare room at the back of the house. In the corner, behind a clutter of old junk they never cleared out when they inherited the place from Jayson''s grandmother, there''s a saggy corduroy beanbag chair nestled under the window. A teetering pile of books flanks either side. She affectionately thinks of this little clearing she''s carved out for herself as her reading nook--emphasis on nook . If there were a place that embodied Cinnamon''s lifelong quest to feel safe, it would be this one right here.
Dark, tucked away, and all hers. The book is just where she left it--hidden under the beanbag she settles into. Old habits die hard, and hiding things is one of them. She digs out the stained, dog-eared copy of Charlotte''s Web , one of two possessions she''s had since childhood. The other, Grandma Thelma''s leather-bound Bible, she keeps in her bedside drawer like they do in hotels. Reading is supposed to calm her. Books have always been her truest salvation and most constant companion. For some people it''s drugs or booze.
Cinnamon has always steered clear of those, maybe out of an innate sense of self-preservation--losing herself to them would have been too easy. As far as addictions go, reading was at least one that couldn''t destroy her. And she''d bet good money it was as effective at soothing her as any of the drugs she''d never tried would be. Cheaper too. For as long as she had a book open in her lap, she had a portal to escape everything going on around her and in her mind. And so reading became her respite from the very first moment she made the wild discovery that she could string letters into words, words into sentences, and sentences into ideas. Since then she''s had to have a book within easy reach, like a life jacket or fire extinguisher. Every time she settles down in this beanbag chair she might as well be ten years old, tucked away in the corner of the Wooten Hills Regional Library, which is where she''d stolen the book in her hands from.
After reading it through eight times crouched in the back of the stacks, she didn''t see how she had much of a choice. She simply couldn''t live without it, without knowing she could devour Charlotte''s Web at least a hundred more times, its pages warping with age. And it wasn''t like anyone was going to buy her a brand-new meticulously wrapped copy for her birthday. Any guilt that she''d felt slipping it into her bag was offset when Sarah the librarian smiled at her on the way out. Cinnamon swore Sarah could see the book burning a hole in her bag and knew her secret. So when Sarah nodded and let her go, she figured the librarian--her favorite--understood. There were so few mercies in Cinnamon''s young life--she couldn''t be shy about grabbing on to one or two. The problem is, reading is bringing her zero comfort this morning.
The words just dance around the page like waving hands, whispering, Girl, wait--is this all there is? What is she to make of this sudden restlessness that came on like an itch she''ll never be able to reach? This growing anxiety that even a book can''t quell. Lucia has decided this is all just the birthday blues ahead of Cinnamon''s thirty-fifth birthday next week. Cinnamon had no intention of mentioning to her best friend how out of sorts she was feeling lately, but when Lucia caught her zoning out while sitting in her driveway a few weeks ago, some sort of explanation was required, so she admitted she was a little off. But Lucia''s theory doesn''t hold much water with Cinnamon. She''s never had the time or luxury for existential angst. Lucia had hopped in the passenger seat while Cinnamon was still in Lucia''s circular driveway and had an immediate solution for her woes. "You know what''ll break you out of this funk? A party! I''m going to throw you a big birthday bash. I''ll do it on Friday, the night before, so Jayson can still sweep you away for something on your actual birthday Saturday.
" Lucia has more faith in Jayson''s planning than Cinnamon does. And her friend''s offer was less about Cinnamon and more about Lucia having an excuse to throw a party, but putting her hatred of being the center of attention aside, Cinnamon agreed with the hope that it would work to snap her out of these doldrums. It will also be the very first birthday party Cinnamon has ever had, and it''s fitting that it''s being thrown by the first real and true friend she''s ever had too. She can''t tell if any of that is sweet or sad, but that''s the case with so much, isn''t it? A murky mix of the two. Cinnamon abandons Charlotte''s Web and gives herself fully over to the angst--it''s like trying to fight the current anyway; there''s really no point and ultimately it''s more exhausting than just giving in. Tracing its source is futile too, but she can identify at least one likely culprit: her husband. The anger and resentment sticks to her like the film of tomato sauce you can''t quite get out of the Tupperware no matter how hard you scrub. This, despite her best efforts to get past his shocking foolery.
Cinnamon''s worked as hard to forgive him as she has at anything else in her life. There''s a stack of books in the recesses of her closet that''s a testament to that commitment. How to Improve Your Marriage without Talking about It ; Be the Spouse YOU Want to Have ; Forgiveness Is for You . The goal was to read herself to a better place. If books can save your life, maybe they can also save your marriage. It just isn''t working as fast or effectively as she hoped. Well, the forgiveness book has helped a little. It could be.