Chapter Four
It took three trips to carry my bags from the SUV.
Once I had all my possessions safely inside and the door locked securely behind me, I went to explore the entirety of my new home. The air smelled of potpourri and flowers. I flipped on the lights as I moved room to room, adoring the dedication to the overall preservation of detail. Emily Dickinson would’ve loved the small study at the back of the home. Built-in bookcases stretched to the ceiling, and there was an honest-to-goodness rolling ladder attached to a metal rod along the tops. I wanted to curl on the padded window seat and read until dawn.
The staircase had a switchback three-quarters of the way up, with a hand-carved railing and spindles. I paused on the small landing, trapped in a patch of rising moonlight streaming through a decorative stained-glass window, like a cat caught in a sunbeam. The glass featured a single iris in full bloom, bathed in golden light. “Stunning,” I whispered, continuing my climb.
Every room had high ceilings, at least nine feet, maybe more. The home must have been remarkable in its day, and I was honored to be a part of its history.
There were three bedrooms on the second floor. I chose the one nearest the only bath, then drifted down a narrow enclosed staircase to the kitchen.
A rear door overlooked a brick patio, and I knew exactly where I’d spend my mornings, sipping tea and overseeing my future garden.
Forget falling back in time—I’d landed in my best dream.
I fetched my list of personal goals from my purse and attached it to the refrigerator with the single available magnet, an ad for Village Books.
Journal Read Write poetry Connect with myself Bake Garden Embrace the solitude Become my best Emily Be happy Give up on love
My heart grew heavy as I read the last line. It wouldn’t be easy to let go of something I’d wanted so badly for so long, but it was the reason I was here.
Thirty minutes later, I’d completely unpacked and returned to the kitchen for tea. I set a kettle on the stove, then retired to the sitting room, where I folded myself into an armchair before the massive fireplace, waiting for the water to boil. The chill of an early-fall night dragged goose bumps down my spine. I tucked my legs beneath me, curling my shoulders forward over a book on Emily Dickinson’s life.
By the time my kettle boiled, I’d read the opening page a dozen times without retaining a single word. Too distracted by the gonging silence and unnerving cold.
I fixed my tea and returned to the fireplace, giving it a careful exam. It was the first one I’d seen without a control switch on the wall. At my parents’ home, the logs were fake. The pokers, stage props. A gas flame waited to ignite.
I pulled my phone from my pocket to ask Siri how to build a fire, then remembered the manor didn’t have Wi-Fi. I considered looking for the thermostat but resolved to try it Emily’s way first.
A box of long-stemmed matches caught my eye, and I sighed. “Here we go.” I struck a match and threw it onto the logs, where it immediately died. I lit another and set it gently upon the logs. Where it also died.
I struck a third match and placed it under the small iron stand, letting the little flame lick upward against the logs, but it wasn’t enough to ignite the wood. Memories of Dad making campfires in the backyard returned to me, and I closed my eyes to clutch onto them.
He’d used crumpled papers and small twigs as kindling.
I hurried through the manor in search of something I could burn and returned with the gifted stationery from my welcome basket. I felt a little guilty about setting it on fire but resolved to buy more later, as I was currently on a mission. The papers lit easily and blazed against the underside of the logs, creating smoke. I crouched and puffed softly, hoping to stoke the flames.
A moment later, I stilled as featherlight ashes lifted and hovered several inches from my nose. For the space of one heartbeat, they were suspended like magic. Then a whoosh of cold air whistled down the chimney and blew a pound of ancient soot into my face.
“Fuck!” I rocked back on my haunches, coughing and tasting dirt and ash on my tongue. The pale-gray flecks became black smears as I tried and failed to brush them off my skin and clothing.
I stormed through the house, swearing, searching for more kindling, and wondering if Emily Dickinson ever said unladylike words, or if that was one more thing I needed to address.
I returned with the last of the stationery and Grace’s welcome letter, then tossed it all beneath the logs and struck another match. The fireplace had picked a fight I planned to win. I was sure both Grace and Emily would approve. Grace had called me tenacious more than once when I’d shared bookstore frustrations with her; then she’d celebrated my victories when I’d refused to give up. Emily had famously written that she dwelled in possibility. At the moment, I dwelled in the determination to make a damn fire.
Slowly, the logs began to smoke again.
“Come on.” I willed the flame to catch before the paper turned to ash. If I could start my journey on the right foot, building a fire with nothing but a match and kindling, just like Emily had, it would set the tone for everything that followed.
I lowered to my knees and chanted desperately encouraging words.
Wind whistled, and I cringed. Knowing what would come next.
“Damn it!” I closed my eyes and jumped back as another gust of air blew down the chimney, extinguishing the fire.
I jerked onto my feet and fiddled with the metal thing I assumed controlled the flue. Too much air was getting in, and I’d run out of matches if I kept this up. I couldn’t even call Grace or her nephew for help. I’d burned their numbers.
I struck another match, and it went out before I got to my knees.
I fell onto my backside, hands covering my face, and a decade of pent-up emotion unleashed. The ugly sobs caught me off guard, but I went with them, needing the immense release and glad no one would ever know. My family, who I loved dearly, had absolutely drained me, for years, and they hadn’t even noticed. I’d had to move to another town just to find the time to cry.
I collapsed backward several minutes later, cries turning to hysterics at the ridiculousness of it all. Arms and legs splayed, I stared at the ceiling. Defeated by a two-hundred-year-old fireplace.
“Time to find the thermostat,” I groaned, levering myself off the floor.
A thin haze of smoke hung in the air as I rose. I fought the urge to cough and considered opening a window.
The doorbell rang, and I paused to puzzle. Who on earth would be at this door after dark? I grimaced at my filthy hands and blinked stinging eyes as I shuffled into the foyer, hoping axe murderers didn’t ring the bell.
Maybe Grace had finally arrived? Surely she could help with the fire.
I peeked through the curtain. A white pickup truck sat in the driveway. A shadowy figure fidgeted on my porch.
I flipped the switch, bathing my visitor in a cone of light, and nearly swallowed my tongue.
The best-looking man I’d ever seen stood just outside my door.
I made an unintelligible sound as I opened the heavy wooden barrier, silently cursing karma. My perfect meet-cute, ruined.
The man raised curious gray eyes to mine and frowned as he took me in. “I’m Davis Sommers,” he said. The smooth tenor of his voice sent a delicious shiver down my spine. “I’m looking for Ed Rini.”
I frowned, wholly confused and hating every speck of ash and dust on my face, hands, and clothing. “That’s my dad,” I said. “I’m Emma.”
His strong, straight jawline flexed, and he extended his hand. “Your dad?”
“Yep.” I gave his hand a quick shake, then leaned against the doorjamb for support. Everything about his presence, from his dark tousled hair to his brown work boots and blue jeans made me feel slightly intoxicated and a little giddy. He’d even rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt to expose his forearms. I loved that. But I’d come here specifically not to think about men.
The wind blew a wayward curl into my eye, and I chased it off my forehead with soot-smeared fingers. Then I died a little inside, thinking of what I must look like.
“Trouble with the fireplace?” he guessed.
“A little.”
His attention rose over my shoulder, and he stepped forward, causing me to step back. “Is that smoke?”
I followed his gaze and gasped as he pushed his way inside. The haze from the sitting room had spread into the foyer behind me.
“Did you open the flue?”
I closed the door and followed as he strode toward the sitting room and fireplace. “It was open when I started, but the air kept blowing out my matches.” So I’d made an adjustment that hadn’t helped.
“This is why we only rent the place on the weekends,” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear over my pounding heart.
“You rent this place?” I asked, confused by his words. “I thought this was Grace’s house.”
“It’s a family home,” he said, immediately reaching for the flue handle. “I help her manage the property.”
I scooted to a stop in front of the smoldering wood. Suddenly registering his name. “You’re Grace’s nephew?” The one who’s good with a toolbox? I’d expected a middle-aged man with a comb-over and six kids, or maybe a nice adolescent who was actually her great-nephew. It hadn’t occurred to me Davis could be my age. Or gorgeous. “How old are you?”
“What?” He waved his arms to circulate the smoky air. “Thirty-four. Why?”
Completely age appropriate. I’d clearly done something to upset the gods.
The blast of a belated smoke alarm nearly launched me through the ceiling.
Davis began to cuss, and I pointed at the flashing red light high above our heads.
“That doesn’t seem very historically accurate,” I said flatly, annoyed by his annoyance. I obviously hadn’t intended for this to happen.
“Smoke detectors are legally required in all rental properties,” he said. “And clearly necessary if I don’t want my tenant to burn the place down.” He swiped the poker from the fireplace and spun it in his hand, then stretched onto his toes and pressed the handle against the reset button on the alarm.
I didn’t imagine climbing him.
The home fell silent.
Davis returned the poker to the hearth, then went to the kitchen and washed his hands. “I’ve got to tell you,” he said over his shoulder as he lathered and rinsed, “there are a lot of more modern, comfortable, inns where you could stay long term. A weekend at Hearthstone is an experience. Six weeks will be rough. There’s no Wi-Fi, and cell service cuts out about halfway up the lane. The televisions have terrible reception, and the DVD library is stocked with scratched discs from when we were in middle school. The fireplace in the large room across from the bathroom has a history of bats in the chimney, so you can’t use it. And those are just a few of the reasons this place needs a complete overhaul.”
“You help Grace with this place?” I asked, circling back to the detail I was still processing, while forcefully ignoring the bat comment. I had planned to sleep in that room tonight. He didn’t seem thrilled to have me here, but she had been overjoyed. I wanted to stay, but I didn’t want to cause a problem between them, so I needed more information.
“Something like that.” He turned to rest his backside against the sink as he dried his hands on a small white linen towel. “I can help you find a place better suited to a lengthy stay. I know everyone around here.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I’m doing something that makes this place kind of perfect. I’m not ready to give up over a little smoke. Plus I told Grace I’d stay.”
He frowned. “Grace isn’t the one who has to come out here and fix everything that fails, breaks, or doesn’t go right for you over the next six weeks.”
I felt my mouth open in shock, and I snapped it shut.
I should’ve known anyone with a face like his would have the personality of a curmudgeon. I supposed it helped my cause. I didn’t want to be attracted to him, so the reveal of his true colors worked in my favor. If Cecily were here, I’d say, “He’s a ten with the personality of those old-man balcony hecklers from the Muppets.” And she’d say, “He’s a two.”
“Old homes can be quirky,” Davis said, moving back toward the sitting-room fireplace, “and a cold snap is supposed move in this week. I’ll get a fire going before I leave.”
I turned on my heels and followed him.
He crouched before the hearth, and I watched closely as he prepared, then lit the fire. Part of me hoped it would go out.
My traitorous gaze traveled to his backside, and a sudden, mischievous thought registered. If the house needed as much work as he implied, I could be seeing a lot of Davis in the weeks to come.
“Emma?” he asked, pulling my eyes to his.
“Hmm?”
“I asked if you wanted to clean up while I make my rounds and get everything running for you. I’ll take a look at the furnace and stove while I’m here. Check the pilot lights and your water pressure.”
I bit my lip, eager to change clothes and remove the ash from my face. “I’ll be right back.”
I hustled up the steps and flipped on the bathroom light, regretting it immediately. My eyes were red from the smoke and a crying jag. My cheeks were covered in soot, minus the faint tear tracks.
I cranked the metal cross knobs on the sink, their porcelain inlays declaring H and C , for hot and cold. Then gasped when I splashed the icy water on my face. Hopefully it would warm as it ran. I pumped soap onto my palms and scrubbed it over my skin, effectively soaking the front of my dirty shirt in the process.
“Everything okay?” Davis called from the bottom of the steps. “I thought I heard you scream.”
“Cold water,” I said, projecting my voice toward the stairs. “I’m fine. Almost done.”
I rinsed my face with another splash of icy water, then darted into my room and swapped the wet sweatshirt for the first dry top I saw and beetled back to the first floor.
Davis was in the kitchen. He turned with a jolt, hands stuffed into his pockets.
“Earlier,” I said, stuck on something from the previous conversation, “you said you know everyone around here. You can’t mean in all of Amherst.” Could he? The town had five colleges and dozens of small businesses, not to mention all the year-round residents.
He shrugged, lips downturned. “My dad is deeply involved in the community. You’ll find his fingerprints everywhere if you stick around.”
I matched his sour expression. I was absolutely staying.
His eyes dropped to my shirt. “Prose before bros.” Dark brows crowded above his eyes.
I looked down at the text and familiar female silhouette on my torso. “It’s Emily Dickinson. I’m a big fan.”
Davis’s mouth opened, and a small dry laugh escaped. A complement to his defeated expression.
“ ED is for Emily Dickinson,” he said.
I narrowed my eyes. “Yeah. So?”
“You don’t own Rini Reads.”
“No. Well, not yet. My parents do now, but I’m not sure what’s happening when I get home.” I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from saying more.
Davis rubbed a giant hand over his face and moved toward the front door. “I’ve got to go.”
My eyes landed on the refrigerator and my to-do list, trapped beneath a magnet. Was that what he’d been reading when I’d returned?
Journal Read Write poetry Connect with myself Bake Garden Embrace the solitude Become my best Emily Be happy Give up on love
I let my head fall forward, silently cursing my life; then I rushed after him. “Where are you going?”
“Home.” He was already on the porch when I caught up.
Why did he keep walking away like that?
Why did I keep chasing him?
“Well, thank you,” I said. “I feel as if I should give you something for your help. I would’ve frozen tonight without it. Are you sure I can’t at least make you a cup of tea or coffee?” Maybe clear up how he knew my dad and why he seemed so irritated and baffled.
He turned, and I deflated as a realization came to mind.
“I actually don’t have coffee.” I hadn’t been to the market, but there was tea in the kitchen. “But there’s plenty of cold water,” I joked.
Davis lifted a hand, then climbed into the cab of his truck.
I stared as he performed a three-point turn and drove away.