Read Bloomville free: the opening chapter

Cracked Clay: Dust and Distance

The chipped ceramic bird felt cool against her palm. Wren traced the curve of its wing, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. She hadn’t meant to make a whole flock. They’d just…happened. One after another, taking shape under her hands as a way to fill the quiet. A way to avoid looking at the empty easel, the canvases stacked against the wall like silent accusations.

It was late. The studio, a converted garage attached to the back of the Boston brownstone, smelled faintly of clay and regret. Rain lashed against the small window, mirroring the storm inside her. She should be packing. Should have been packed hours ago. But the thought of sorting through her life, deciding what was worth saving and what wasn’t, felt like scaling a mountain.

“Wren? Honey, you still up?” Her mother’s voice, muffled by the floorboards, drifted in.

Wren quickly covered the half-finished bird with a damp cloth. “Just finishing up, Mom.”

“You said that an hour ago. Your aunt is expecting you for dinner tomorrow. She's worried about you, you know.”

Wren sighed. Everyone was worried. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone thought they knew what was best. “I know, Mom. I’m coming.”

“Good. It’s just… this isn’t healthy, Wren. Staying cooped up here. You need to move on.”

Move on. The words felt like tiny shards of glass, lodging themselves under her skin. Easy for her mother to say. Easy for everyone to say. They hadn’t been there. They hadn’t seen… hadn’t felt.

“I am moving on,” Wren said, her voice flat. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“That’s good, darling. Very good.” A beat of silence. “Are you sure about Vermont? It’s…rural. A big change from Boston.”

“That’s the point,” Wren mumbled, turning back to the clay. “I need a change.”

She needed to disappear. To shed the weight of expectation, the whispers, the pitying glances. To find a place where she could breathe again, where her hands could create without being haunted by memories.

---

The gallery opening had been a disaster. Not a roaring, spectacular disaster, but a slow, agonizing unraveling. The kind that leaves you feeling hollowed out and raw.

She remembered the champagne flutes, the hushed conversations, the way the light caught the glaze of her pieces. She'd been so proud. This was her first solo show, years in the making. A culmination of everything she’d worked for.

And then he had walked in.

Julian.

Her ex-fiancé.

With her.

His new wife.

Wren hadn’t even realized she was staring until her mother had nudged her, a look of strained sympathy on her face. The room had tilted, the colors blurring. She’d excused herself, seeking refuge in the small back room, the scent of varnish and canvas doing little to soothe the rising panic.

She’d stood there, frozen, listening to the snippets of conversation drift in. Julian laughing. His wife’s melodic voice. The way they said each other’s names. Each syllable a tiny hammer blow against her heart.

It wasn’t just the betrayal, though that was devastating enough. It was the casualness of it. The way they’d simply…replaced her. As if she’d never mattered. As if their love hadn’t been real.

She’d wanted to scream. To throw something. To run. Instead, she’d just stood there, numb. Until her mentor, old Mr. Abernathy, had found her, his face etched with concern.

“Wren, are you alright?”

She’d managed a weak smile. “Fine. Just…warm.”

He’d seen through the lie, of course. Mr. Abernathy always saw everything. He’d placed a hand on her shoulder, a gesture of quiet support. “You don’t have to stay, you know.”

And she hadn’t. She’d slipped out the back door, leaving the gallery, the champagne, the wreckage of her life behind.

---

The following weeks had been a blur of tears and sleepless nights. She'd canceled commissions, avoided friends, and retreated into the sanctuary of her studio. Clay had been her only solace, the cool, yielding earth grounding her when everything else felt unstable.

But even that wasn’t enough anymore. The memories were too persistent, the pain too raw. She needed to escape. To find a place where she could rebuild, where she could rediscover her joy.

Her aunt, Clara, had suggested Vermont. A small town called Havenwood. “It’s quiet, dear,” she’d said. “A little off the beaten path. But the people are kind, and the scenery is beautiful. You might find it suits you.”

Wren hadn’t been thrilled with the idea at first. Vermont seemed…distant. Isolated. But the more she thought about it, the more appealing it sounded. A place where she could be anonymous. A place where no one knew her story. A place where she could finally breathe.

She’d found a small cottage for rent online, nestled on the outskirts of town. It wasn’t fancy, but it had a studio space and a garden overgrown with wildflowers. It felt…promising. A blank canvas. A chance to start over.

She glanced at the cardboard boxes stacked in the corner of the studio, half-filled with her tools and supplies. It was a daunting task, packing up her life. But she knew she couldn’t stay here any longer. She needed to leave. To find a place where she could heal.

---

Her mother appeared in the doorway, carrying a mug of tea. “Here, darling. Drink this.”

Wren accepted the mug gratefully, the warmth seeping into her cold hands. “Thanks, Mom.”

“You know, you don’t have to run away, Wren. You can talk to me.”

Wren looked down at the swirling tea, avoiding her mother’s gaze. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Don’t say that. Of course there is. What happened with Julian was awful, but…”

“It wasn’t just Julian,” Wren interrupted, her voice barely a whisper. “It was everything. The gallery. The expectations. The feeling that I was never good enough.”

Her mother sighed. “Oh, Wren.”

“I need to find myself, Mom. I need to figure out what I want. And I can’t do that here. Not with everyone reminding me of what I’ve lost.”

Her mother reached out and took Wren’s hand, her touch gentle. “I just want you to be happy, darling.”

“I know,” Wren said, squeezing her mother’s hand. “I want that too.”

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the rhythmic drumming of the rain.

Finally, Wren’s mother spoke. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I promise,” Wren said, her voice thick with emotion.

“And you’ll call? Every week?”

“Every week,” Wren confirmed.

Her mother pulled her into a tight embrace, her scent of lavender and vanilla filling Wren’s nostrils. “I love you, darling.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

As her mother left the studio, Wren leaned against the workbench, tears streaming down her face. It was harder than she thought. Leaving. Saying goodbye. But she knew it was the right thing to do.

She looked at the chipped ceramic bird in her hand, its smooth curves a reminder of her passion, her talent. She would carry it with her, a small piece of hope in a world that felt broken.

She would go to Havenwood. She would rebuild. She would find a way to heal.

But as she closed the lid on the last box, a nagging thought crept into her mind. What if running away wasn’t enough? What if she couldn’t escape the pain that haunted her? What if she was destined to be forever broken?

The rain continued to fall, washing over the roof of the studio, a relentless rhythm of uncertainty. And Wren, standing alone in the darkness, felt a shiver run down her spine. She wasn’t sure what awaited her in Havenwood. But she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that her journey was far from over.

What if she was destined to be forever broken?

The rain continued to fall, washing over the roof of the studio, a relentless rhythm of uncertainty. And Wren, standing alone in the darkness, felt a shiver run down her spine. She wasn’t sure what awaited her in Havenwood. But she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that her journey was far from over.

The studio, usually a sanctuary overflowing with color and creativity, now felt like a tomb. Every brushstroke, every sculpture, every carefully curated object seemed to mock her with reminders of a life she was abandoning. A life that had, in its own way, loved her.

She ran a hand over the smooth surface of the workbench, tracing the lines worn into the wood by years of use. Her grandfather had built this for her. He’d understood her need to create, to transform raw materials into something beautiful, something meaningful. He wouldn’t have understood this. He’d have told her to fight, to stay and reclaim her space. But Wren didn’t have the strength to fight anymore. She felt… depleted. Hollowed out.

Julian. The name tasted like ash in her mouth. It wasn’t a violent break, not in the physical sense. It was a slow erosion, a chipping away at her self-worth. He hadn’t meant to be cruel, she knew that. He’d simply… expected her to fit into a mold she wasn’t made for. A mold of sophisticated gallery openings, polite conversation, and art that appealed to a very specific, very wealthy clientele.

Her work, vibrant and emotionally raw, hadn’t fit. He’d tried to guide her, to “refine” her style, to make it more… marketable. She’d tried to listen, to compromise, but each alteration felt like a betrayal of her true self. And then the critiques, delivered with a patronizing smile, had started. “Interesting, darling, but a little… messy.” “A bit too much emotion, don’t you think?” “Perhaps something more… uplifting?”

It wasn’t just his opinion, though. It was the weight of the entire art world, as represented by the gallery he owned. A world that valued technique over authenticity, profit over passion. She’d started to question everything. Her talent, her vision, her very right to create.

The gallery wasn’t just a business to her mother. It was a legacy. A family inheritance that had been passed down for generations. Her mother, ever practical, had seen the gallery as a means of security, a way to provide for her and her sister after their father died. She’d wanted Wren to carry on that tradition, to solidify their family’s place in the art world. Wren had tried. She truly had. But the pressure had been suffocating.

She glanced around the studio, her eyes landing on a half-finished sculpture of a hummingbird, its wings poised in mid-flight. She’d been working on it for months, capturing the delicate balance between fragility and strength. It had been a gift for her grandmother, a woman who had always encouraged her to follow her heart, to embrace her unique vision. Her grandmother had passed away last year, and Wren hadn’t been able to bring herself to finish it. It felt like completing the sculpture would be admitting defeat, acknowledging that she couldn't live up to the expectations placed upon her.

A wave of grief washed over her, mingling with the sadness and the fear. She sank to the floor, burying her face in her knees. She hadn’t just lost a relationship. She’d lost her purpose, her confidence, her sense of self.

A soft knock on the door startled her. It was Leo, her sister.

“Hey,” Leo said, peering into the studio. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Mom said you were almost finished packing.”

Wren wiped her eyes, trying to compose herself. “I am. Almost.”

Leo entered the studio, her gaze sweeping over the packed boxes. “It’s really happening, huh?”

Wren nodded, unable to speak.

Leo sat down beside her, her presence a comforting weight. “Look,” she said, her voice gentle. “I know this is hard. And I know Mom is… upset. But she loves you, Wren. She just wants what’s best for you.”

“I know,” Wren said softly. “But what’s best for me isn’t always what’s best for her.”

“Sometimes it’s not,” Leo agreed. “Mom has a vision for our lives, and it doesn’t always align with what we want. You need to do what makes you happy.”

Wren looked at her sister, grateful for her unwavering support. Leo had always been the pragmatic one, the grounded one. While Wren chased her artistic dreams, Leo had built a successful career as a veterinarian, dedicating her life to caring for animals. They were different, but they shared a deep bond, a silent understanding that transcended words.

“I’m scared, Leo,” Wren confessed, her voice trembling. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to create again.”

Leo put her arm around Wren, pulling her close. “You will,” she said firmly. “You’re a talented artist, Wren. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And Havenwood… it sounds like a good place to start over. A place where you can breathe, create, and be yourself.”

Wren leaned into her sister’s embrace, drawing strength from her warmth. Leo’s belief in her was a lifeline, a reminder that she wasn’t completely alone.

“I just… I feel like I’m running away,” Wren said, her voice muffled.

“You’re not running away,” Leo corrected her. “You’re running toward something. Toward a life that feels authentic, a life that nourishes your soul. It takes courage to walk away from what’s familiar, to forge your own path. And you have that courage, Wren. I know you do.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the steady drumming of the rain.

“Promise me you’ll paint,” Leo said finally, her voice soft. “Promise me you won’t let this break you.”

Wren squeezed her sister’s hand. “I promise,” she said, her voice stronger now. “I’ll paint. I’ll create. I’ll rebuild.”

Leo smiled. “Good. Now, let’s get these boxes finished. You have a long drive ahead of you.”

As they worked, packing the last of Wren’s belongings, a sense of calm began to settle over her. It wasn’t a perfect calm, not a complete absence of fear. But it was a quiet determination, a resolve to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

She picked up the chipped ceramic bird, turning it over in her hands. It was a small, imperfect thing, but it represented everything she loved about creating. The freedom to experiment, the joy of bringing something new into the world, the power of art to heal and inspire.

She would carry it with her, a reminder of her passion, her talent, her resilience.

She would go to Havenwood. She would rebuild. She would find a way to heal.

And maybe, just maybe, she would finally find a place where she truly belonged.

The rain began to subside, and a sliver of moonlight peeked through the clouds, illuminating the studio in a soft, ethereal glow. Wren took a deep breath, her heart filled with a fragile hope. It was a new beginning. A chance to rewrite her story. A journey into the unknown.

She closed the studio door behind her, leaving the past behind. And as she walked toward the car, she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of excitement. Havenwood awaited. And she was ready to meet it, whatever it may hold.

The sample ends here.