Not Quite by the Book

Chapter Two

The home screen on my phone lit up, and the line from my Daily Dickinson app appeared on-screen.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers.

I pushed the words to the back of my mind as images of my future morphed grotesquely in my head. All hope of embracing my inner Emily by reading beneath shade trees, writing, and harvesting vegetables from my garden were replaced by images of me and my sixteen cats running the bookstore while village children tossed stones at the windows and dared one another to go inside.

I refocused on the errant book order. Before I finished typing a heated message about the second shipping error, a notification from my favorite online group, the Independent Bookstore Owners of Massachusetts, or IBOOM for short, appeared on-screen.

I smiled despite my mood.

I’d found incredible camaraderie with the other indie bookshop owners and managers over the years. We often watched the University of Massachusetts football games together online, bantering in IBOOM via comments and silly GIFs. I’d missed a great game last night, according to the posts and highlights.

There were fewer than fifty members in the group and fewer than twenty independent stores left in our state. I appreciated the friendship of other booksellers who single-handedly kept shops like ours alive. Because paying the bills was one thing. Affording enough staff was another. And we all knew what it meant to hustle. I liked everyone in the group, but Historically_Bookish was definitely my favorite. Her real name was Grace Forsythe, and she was the solitary proprietor of Village Books in Amherst, home of UMass and the Minutemen, as well as my nineteenth-century BFF, Emily Dickinson. Grace didn’t post often, but when she did, it always made me smile. Despite a significant age difference, we had a ridiculous amount in common, from our shared love of dad jokes and our tendencies to overwork to our taste in hot wings. I’d been genuinely shocked when I ventured to her shop in search of books for the reception tables and realized Grace was nearly a decade older than my mom. Mom didn’t get half my jokes or any of my references. She rarely worked and hated hot wings. I loved that Grace and I clicked so well despite our difference in age.

My interest piqued when a missed post from Grace appeared beneath chatter about the game.

Historically_Bookish: As some of you know, I rent the historic manor on my bookstore’s property. I’ve reluctantly conceded to a complete remodel, so this will be the last season it’s available in its current, mostly original, state. If you know anyone who might be interested in stepping back in time for a night or two, please let me know.

My inner Emily Dickinson sat up straight and smoothed her skirts.

Grace had never mentioned a rentable historic property, but the timing was cosmic. This could be the perfect place to embrace my inner Emily.

I followed the shared link to a website featuring a beautiful stone structure, backlit by a setting sun. A wreath of wildflowers hung on the red wooden door. A bicycle stood on the gravel lane out front, its basket filled with books.

My focus dropped quickly to the words below. “Welcome to Hearthstone Manor,” I read aloud. “Spend your days falling back in time. Located on a quiet lane, behind a carriage house turned bookstore, you’ll find plenty of time and space to immerse yourself in eras gone by. Enjoy a fire in one of the original fireplaces, lose yourself in a classic read, or attend The Lost Art of Letter-Writing classes at the bookstore. Peace and tranquility await.”

Inner Emily began to vibrate.

I scrolled to check the price.

The cost per night wasn’t unreasonable, and a side note added, Interested in staying longer? Contact the owner for a quote.

I clicked to respond before I could change my mind. Annie was well into her last trimester, and my parents wanted to retire. If I was going to take control of my life, even for a little while, it was now or never.

I dashed my thumbs across the screen with haste, filling in my email address and message on the website’s contact form.

Hello! I’m ED_Fan from IBOOM. I’d love to come for an extended visit! How much to rent the manor for six weeks?

I sent the request for information, then returned the phone to my pocket with a panicked squeak. Six weeks?

I couldn’t leave town for that long. What had even possessed me to ask?

I walked outside for fresh air and released an embarrassed chuckle. My brain was clearly low on oxygen.

The warm breeze was an instant balm to my nerves, and my heart rate immediately began to settle. The neighborhood surrounding Rini Reads was quaint, with narrow redbrick buildings and logoed awnings over big shop windows and glass front doors. Absolutely postcard worthy. Black lampposts and wrought iron benches lined the streets of our small downtown, the blocks bookended with small grassy nooks, including a spectacular dog park, and outdoor cafés. I loved the outdoors and envied people who had time to sit in the sun and take walks.

I switched to the camera app on my phone and leaned against the streetlamp at the curb, angling for the best possible photo of my new window display. Might as well make myself useful while I had an internal breakdown. “Two birds, one stone” and all that.

Besides, requesting a quote didn’t obligate me to move to Amherst.

“It’s fine,” I whispered, reassuring myself gently. I snapped a few photos, then checked them on the little screen. “Not bad, Rini.”

A woman I recognized from her daily trips to the dog park waved from across the street.

I smiled and returned the gesture.

She was petite by any standard, and her dog was contrastingly massive. The woman wore jogging gear. Her dog, wearing a pink collar with silver studs, kept its eyes on the prize: a beautiful leash-free experience just a half block away.

This was my favorite time of day to people watch—when a parade of pups in every shape and size, guided by happy humans, made their way to the park.

I’d always been an animal lover, but my family had never had pets. If I had a bigger place and more time, I’d adopt a former racing greyhound. I was obsessed with the breed and a financial supporter of our local rescue.

My phone buzzed, drawing my eyes back to the screen. A message notification appeared.

I released a shuddering breath and clicked.

Historically_Bookish: Hi ED_Fan! No one’s ever asked to rent the place for so long, but I know you’ll appreciate the time here. I’m willing to negotiate on price, and I’d love to work this out.

A thrill shot through me. The number she’d suggested was steep, but it could be my new beginning and I had the money. I lived rent-free and worked around the clock. Plus, I’d been saving for years—since the days I’d first gotten lost in bridal magazines beside my sick mother, and then as I watched the planning and execution of her vow renewal carry her back to health. I had been saving to help my parents afford my dream wedding, but now that I’d decided to give up that dream, it seemed incredibly poetic to spend the money this way instead.

Assuming my parents didn’t use it to cover my funeral after they killed me for asking to take six weeks off.

A familiar laugh disturbed my reverie, and I turned to watch a group of people emerge from the Bistro across the street. Dad kissed Annie’s cheek, then shook Jeffrey’s hand. Mom smiled at Dad’s side. They’d coupled up and left me to eat prepackaged salad while they shared a nice meal thirty yards away.

Emotion returned with a brutal smack and immediate resolve.

I was no longer asking their permission.

Cecily, my lifelong best friend, arrived a few minutes before the store closed, a pair of disposable cups from the hospital’s coffee kiosk in her hands. She wore blue scrubs, and her ponytail was slightly askew. Cecily worked long, erratic shifts as a trauma nurse at the local ER, and I couldn’t imagine life without her. I needed her input and her blessing before I made this leap. “I got your text and came straight from work. What’s going on?”

I flipped the sign in the window from Open to Closed , then locked the door. “I had an epiphany, and I did something big. Now I’m kind of freaking out.”

Her gaze roamed over me, and her brows furrowed. “Does this have anything to do with the Emily Dickinson line you texted me earlier?”

“Yep.” My traitorous heart filled with grief reluctantly saying goodbye to the hope I’d one day meet my soulmate. The man who’d sweep me off my feet with his handsome face and charming smile, then smother me in adoration and beg me to be his wife. “I’ve decided to give up on love.”

“You’re kidding.”

I shook my head. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m missing out on something because I haven’t met the right man or fallen in love. Not everyone is meant for a partner in life. Maybe I’m one of those.”

“Marriage isn’t for everyone,” she agreed. “But you want the big, epic love story.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Do I?” I repeated.

She tented her brows and passed me a cup.

“What if I’ve only assumed that was what I wanted because I grew up with the kissiest parents in all the land, in a bookstore dedicated to romance novels. I mean, did I ever really have a chance to want anything else?”

“You’ve always wanted a dog,” she said, smiling softly. “You never got one of those, but you will when the time is right.”

I sighed, saddened by yet another truth. “My life isn’t conducive to canine joy. I live in a small apartment and work twelve hours a day.” Even when I wasn’t at the bookstore, I was thinking about, or working peripherally on, the shop’s success, planning social media projects, scheduling speakers and events, or any number of other things no one else saw me doing.

Cecily sank back on her heels, either considering my need for change or the possibility an impostor had taken over my body. I wasn’t sure which.

I clasped my hands, eager and a little desperate. “I’m letting go of my need to find a significant other, and I’m just going to be happy by myself.”

“I support your quest for happiness. So, what’s the plan?”

“I’ve decided to get in touch with my inner Emily Dickinson.”

Cecily smiled. “That sounds about right.”

“Exactly. She never married. Never had kids or a big, loud life, and her words have always spoken straight to my heart. We’re a century apart, but we share a wavelength. If I can tune into that and be more like her, then maybe next year I won’t spend my parents’ entire ceremony daydreaming of running away.”

A small sad smile formed on Cecily’s lips. “Is that what you were doing?”

I forced myself to meet her gaze. “I want love too badly, and it’s starting to make me miserable. I’m obsessing, and I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”

“Aw, sweetie.” She straightened and wrapped me in her arms. “I’d love to find true love, too, but I don’t think becoming more like Jane Austen would fix anything. You know she’s my favorite, and she never married either. But the point is that you have to be happy where you are. I know it’s hard to want something you can’t control, but changing yourself won’t bring you joy. The best thing you can do right now, even if you’re hurting, is to accept that you want a big, epic love and to remind yourself that it’s exactly what you deserve. Just get comfortable and have fun doing other things. Don’t put your life on hold, waiting for the right guy to come along.”

“Or.” I wet my lips and stepped back. “I could spend my wedding fund on something remarkable enough to alter my outlook on life and change my entire future.”

Cecily hiked a brow, then moved around the counter and took a seat on my stool. “I’m going to need a minute to finish this coffee. The ER was nonstop today, and I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.” She took several sips from her cup, one finger lifted, indicating I should wait.

I shifted foot to foot.

Cecily set the cup beside the register a moment later and rolled her shoulders. “You’ve been saving that money since middle school. You have a highly organized three-inch binder filled with details for your dream wedding, reception, rehearsal, and bachelorette weekend. Why are you spending your wedding fund?”

“Because I found this.” I pulled the phone from my pocket and held it out to her, the Hearthstone Manor website already on the screen. “It’s fate.”

Cecily took another long drink before accepting the phone. “Become a part of history inside the walls of this delightfully inviting manor. Embrace the past in Amherst, Massachusetts.”

“I’m giving myself a do-over,” I said. “Six weeks in Emily Dickinson’s hometown, living in a place that existed when she actually walked those streets. She could’ve been in a carriage on that lane, rolled right by the house where I’ll stay, or even known the family who lived there. And now it’s available to rent at the exact time I need to get away. For an amount of money I can afford.”

This was the day my stars aligned.

My date with destiny.

“Six weeks?” Cecily gasped, clearly stuck on the wrong detail.

I nodded.

“Your parents are going to flip out,” she said. “And Annie’s going to straight-up bare-handed murder you.”

She wasn’t wrong, and I’d had similar concerns, but I was sure I could make it work. “I’ll come home if Annie goes into labor before the end of my stay.”

She arched a brow. “Like that will matter. What about your folks?”

“Cecily,” I whispered, raising my hands to my chest in prayer pose. “I already planned to embrace my inner Emily Dickinson. Now I can do it in her hometown.” I dropped my jaw dramatically for effect. “I can finally stop pining over a man who doesn’t exist, stop going on an endless barrage of terrible dates, and stop giving my heart to the occasional decent, but undeserving, guy who doesn’t want a future with me. I can focus on myself and be happy again.”

Cecily frowned. “Come here.” She reached for my wrists to pull me closer, then leveled me with a caring, but firm expression.

I chewed my lip, unable to hide my disappointment.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “Because this isn’t like you. I know you’ve been unhappy lately, but this feels as if you’re running away.”

“I have to do something for myself while I still can,” I said, throat tightening with desperation. “Annie won’t come back to work after the baby’s born, and my parents want to retire. They’re all leaving me to do this alone. This is my last chance for an adventure.”

Cecily’s brows knitted; a flash of heat blazed across her hazel eyes as she released me. “All right. Let’s talk this out.” She folded her arms. “You’re the busiest, most people-loving person I know. What if you get bored or lonely? The website says there’s a fireplace. Can you even build a fire? What if you’re unhappy and I can’t bring you coffee? I can’t go with you. I’d have to call in dead to miss that much work. Even then, it’s no guarantee my boss would allow it.”

I smiled and took a sip of my drink, thankful beyond measure for her presence in my life. “Amherst is less than forty miles away. You can see me whenever you want. But I need time to rearrange my priorities. Forget about finding love and focus on finding myself.”

“What will you do all alone in a creaky old house?”

I shrugged. “Read. Journal. Maybe I’ll bake something.”

“Bake something,” Cecily repeated, features bunched, as if I’d suggested fire eating or tiger training.

“Emily Dickinson was an excellent baker.”

“For the record, I don’t think living like some eighteen-hundreds recluse is going to solve anything. You should stay here and be you. Everything else will sort itself out.”

“I need this,” I said, fixing her with my most pleading expression. “And I need you to have my back or I’ll chicken out, and I’ll always wonder if this trip was the thing that could’ve made life better.”

Her shoulders drooped. “First you have to admit this is a wacky idea.”

“I’m soul-searching.”

“You’re cosplaying a dead poet for six weeks. I think that’s the actual definition of wacky.”

“Cecily.”

She sighed. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I nodded, and she opened her arms to wrap me in another hug.

Now I just had to tell my family.