Not Quite by the Book

Chapter Five

I woke to the sensation of warm morning sun on my cheek and smiled. I had nowhere to be, no one expecting me to do anything, and no cell service to interrupt my peace.

I was a character in a storybook. A woman of leisure.

I dressed in a short-sleeved peasant top and faded capri jeans, then wrapped a cardigan around my shoulders and carried a cup of tea and a book to the back patio. The brick pavers felt cool beneath my fuzzy socks, and I pulled my feet onto the chair with me. Dew clung to the grass, shielded by shade trees, and fog hovered over the distant fields like an apparition. Fall was shoving away the remnants of summer inch by inch, making nights colder and shortening the days. It was my favorite time of year.

I closed my eyes to absorb the precious moment.

This was the official beginning of my new, happier future.

The words of one of Emily’s poems danced and twirled in my thoughts.

There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away

I opened my eyes, took a few more sips of tea, then relocated to the study. I sat at the little desk with a biography about Emily’s life I’d brought with me, and began to read. When I’d finished my tea and felt properly inspired, I made my first entry in my journal.

I jotted the date at the top of the page, then made a list of things I could do today.

Explore the grounds Read Try my hand at poetry Start a garden Walk to the bookshop and thank Grace for her kind note and care basket Do not mention burning the gifted stationery Do not ask for details about her nephew or his relationship status

I wouldn’t stick this list on the refrigerator.

I pressed the memories of Davis’s clear gray eyes from my mind, along with the strange, crackling tension I’d felt in his presence. A result of the old Emma’s lifelong focus on finding love, no doubt.

“Out with the old,” I said, giving a dramatic swing of one hand. “In with the new.” I studied my list. “Now. What will I do first?”

It was barely 9:00 a.m., and I was restless. Itching to get busy somehow. I returned to the book at my side, eager to check reading off my list when I finished.

I skimmed the opening pages about Emily’s family. I’d always struggled with the fact Emily wasn’t especially close to either of her parents. She cared deeply about so many things. I wished that she’d been close with her mom or her dad. Sadder still, she lived in the family home until she died of a stroke at age fifty-five. I cringed. That was six years younger than my parents, which was far too young.

Emily had a younger sister named Lavinia, whom she often called Vinnie. Their personalities were drastically different, much like Annie’s and mine.

Maybe all sisters had some points of contention.

I turned the page, moving on to the attachment Emily had to her older brother, Austin, and her deep and abiding friendship with Austin’s wife, Sue, to whom Emily had written more than two hundred fifty letters.

My thoughts moved easily to Cecily, and I reached for my phone. Then I remembered I’d have to walk down the lane if I wanted to text her.

I pursed my lips and carried on. A moment later, I grinned at the mention of Emily’s favorite book, Charlotte Bront?’s Jane Eyre . “Just one more thing we have in common,” I told the pages.

I closed the book when I reached the end of the chapter.

The manor was far too quiet.

The silence a weight on my chest and shoulders. Grace hadn’t put that in the brochure.

I let my thoughts drift to Annie, hating the way life had come between us somehow and wishing I knew how to fix it. I’d stepped in to care for her when she was a toddler. When Mom had been too sick and exhausted from chemo treatments herself, and Dad had been forced by medical bills and a mortgage to go back to the bookstore and work. Distracting Annie, dressing her, feeding her, and combing her hair, along with a dozen other chores, had become my responsibility. Even at ten years old, I’d known I couldn’t cure Mom’s cancer. But I could keep my little sister happy so Mom had one less thing to worry about. And that was what I’d done.

Jeffrey’s mention of Annie’s upcoming early-morning doctor’s appointment returned to mind, along with her overreaction about my absence. I had no way of knowing if those things added up to something, or if I was just a nervous auntie. Not that it mattered. I’d have to wait and see what happened, because Annie wasn’t big on sharing with me these days.

I turned back to the list in my journal and suddenly knew exactly what I needed to do next. Like with Annie’s pregnancy, the clock counted down my time here, and that meant I had to move quickly if I wanted a garden. Thankfully, I’d seen a small nursery on my way into town.

I stuffed my feet into comfy sneakers, then grabbed my sunglasses, purse, cell phone, and keys.

My first official Emily-themed Amherst adventure was underway.

The Seeds of Love nursery was only two miles away, situated on a property speckled with goats, chickens, and sheep. I parked in the small lot and walked around a sprawling white farmhouse toward a series of greenhouses in back. Other shoppers pulled wagons with flats of flowers, mulch, and topsoil. Some carried baskets with bags of birdseed or succulents. All seemed delighted to be there.

I ventured into the first greenhouse and scanned the rows of leafy plants and fully bloomed flowers, unsure where to start. The cactus I’d had in college eventually turned brown and died. So when Annie gifted me a small succulent for my desk at home, I’d watered it dutifully for two months before she caught me and told me it was plastic. I wasn’t a plant lady. At least, not yet.

An older woman in denim overalls and red rubber boots smiled in my direction.

“Good morning,” I said, probably looking as lost as I felt.

She swung an empty basket onto the crook of one arm and headed my way. “Good morning. Can I help you find anything?” Her voice was soft and kind. Her heavily freckled skin tan from the sun. Defiant tendrils of long silver hair curled down from beneath the hat. “I’m Olivia Love. This is my nursery.”

I smiled, the name of her business sounding infinitely sweeter. “Emma,” I said. “I’d like to plant a small garden, but I’m only in town for six weeks. I’m not sure where to begin, or if it’s too late in the season.”

Olivia tipped her head over one shoulder, a pleasant expression on her rosy cheeks. “Absolutely not. In fact, September is prime planting time for a number of herbs, veggies, and flower bulbs. You won’t get the benefit of the bulbs until next spring, but planting them now would be like leaving a surprise, or a little gift, for whoever comes after you.”

I imagined a flower garden rising in the spring, where none had existed before, and what Grace would think of the blooms. Would she realize I’d planted them? Or see them as a sign of hope and love from the universe? Both possibilities warmed my heart. The idea of paying her back for the lifeline she’d unknowingly offered widened my smile. “I want to do that.”

“Let’s see what I’ve got.” Olivia led me to the next greenhouse, waving to shoppers and seeming to evaluate every plant we passed. “So, tell me, Emma. Why are you leaving so soon? Just changing residences in town, or is Amherst not for you?”

“I’m vacationing,” I said. “Hoping to reboot my life. Embrace the solitude and history while I’m here.”

She nodded. “Then you’ve come to the right place. But I have to warn you, life here can be addictive. We’ve got everything from farms to nightlife.”

“You do,” I agreed, loving the tone she used when speaking of her town. “I attended UMass as a commuter about twelve years ago,” I said. “I live and work in Willow Bend.” In some ways, being back in Amherst felt comfortable and familiar. Mostly, however, being in town as an adult, and at my leisure, was like seeing the place for the first time. Or at least through a different lens.

I dragged my fingertips over the fuzzy green leaves of a stout plant, admiring Olivia’s peaceful ease. I was on edge when I worked at the bookstore. Too many things to do and too little time to accomplish it all. Managing a busy store was exciting, but the burdens had erased my joy from the work. And though I was surrounded by people all day, I still felt lonely.

The clarity in those thoughts shook me a little. I’d never given myself time to think of how I really felt about my work. I enjoyed the busyness and satisfaction of a job well done, but I hadn’t actually enjoyed running the shop in a long time. I loved the customers, but they came for the books, not me. Not for the first time, I thought how nice it would be to have a dog to keep me company and greet customers. A big lug to lay around and make guests smile.

“I love plants,” Olivia said, returning me to the moment as we lingered in an aisle of small green sprouts. “I’m a third-generation farmer. My family has worked this land for a hundred and eighteen years. I think there might be fertilizer in my soul.”

I laughed and she winked. “I grew up surrounded by romance novels,” I said. “I was raised on Bront? and Austen instead of Dr. Seuss and Judy Blume. Though I got to those eventually. My parents can be snobs about literature.”

“They wanted to share their favorites with you. That’s how people are. We share what we love with the people we love.” She led me to a row of small potted plants. “I’ve got radishes, turnips, beets, and carrots already growing, which are perfect since you’re short on time. You can transfer these to your garden with some quality topsoil and keep your eyes on them. You’ll see produce in a few weeks, as long as you protect them from insects and animals.” She set a few pots into her basket. “Flowers like chrysanthemums, asters, and zinnias will be your friends right about now too. Just transfer them, same as the veggies. And we’ll grab a few bags of bulbs from the rack near the register.”

I followed her up and down the aisles. She made gardening sound simple and beautiful. A magical experience anyone could have.

I couldn’t wait to get started.

“Oh. I forgot to ask about your budget.” She turned to me with tented brows. “I get carried away.”

“It’s okay.” I waved a hand between us. “I budgeted for this.” And I’d kept an eye on everything she picked up. So far, nothing came close to breaking the bank.

Her shoulders drooped in relief.

“I appreciate the thought,” I said. “Plus, I feel as if I’m getting a free degree in horticulture just listening to you.”

She blushed slightly as she headed toward a cash register. “If you have any questions when you get home, just let me know. My contact information is on our website, so you won’t have to drive all the way back here.”

“I appreciate that, but I’m only a couple of miles away, and the place I’m renting doesn’t have Wi-Fi, so you might wind up seeing a lot of me.”

Olivia finished the transaction with a curious look in her eyes. “You’re not the guest at Hearthstone Manor, are you?”

“I am.”

She looked delighted. “Grace Forsythe is one of my oldest and dearest friends. She mentioned meeting you a few months ago when you picked up some books for a wedding.”

“My parents’ vow renewal,” I said. “I wish I could’ve spoken with her a little longer that day, but there was a line at her register, and I had to hurry home to relieve my folks at our store. I hope she didn’t think I was rude for racing away.”

“Quite the opposite.” Olivia’s eyes twinkled. “She told everyone how lovely you were.”

“I feel the same about her. That was the first I’d met her in person, but she’s always been one of my favorites in our group. We have a lot in common.”

Olivia pursed her lips, and the apples of her cheeks grew pink, as if holding back a smile. “Is that right?”

“It really is. Especially our love of Sam.”

A mass of clouds skated over the sun, cooling my skin and the air.

Olivia passed the basket to me with a frown. “Who?”

“The UMass mascot. Sam the Minuteman. We’ve been making jokes at the poor guy’s expense for at least three years, but we love him,” I explained. “It’s fun finding other ladies who love football. My mom, sister, and I are diehards.”

“I do my best to root for the home teams and turn up at homecoming events, but ...” She shrugged.

“You prefer plants,” I said.

Ten minutes later, she waved when I climbed behind the wheel as if we were old friends. “You can leave the plants outside when you get home. No need to rush getting them planted. Looks like rain.”

I smiled, buckled up, and turned on my phone, daring a peek at my missed messages.

My phone came alive with a string of chirps and dings, notifications populating like popcorn in the fifteen hours or so since I’d shut the device off at the manor.

I greedily devoured everything I’d missed. Notes, memes, and anecdotes from online friends and communities. Likes, hearts, and comments on my personal social media accounts and the bookstore’s page. Everyone loved the new window display, including Historically_Bookish, and my chest puffed with pride.

A dozen texts from Cecily waited.

My smile grew as I scrolled through the messages, reading her questions about the drive to Amherst and the manor. But it was her intense frustration with Relatable Romance , an obviously scripted television show billed as reality, that brought tears to my eyes. As a former theater nerd, I enjoyed the terrible acting posed as improv. But as a devout history buff, Cecily became frequently unhinged over errors in cultural context or wardrobe. The show continually changed locations, and sometimes eras, attempting to stand out among its competitors—i.e., The Bachelor and Big Brother —but they often failed.

The phone rang before I could finish wiping my eyes.

Cecily’s name and number appeared on the screen.

“Hello, you nut,” I said. “I was just reading all your texts.”

“It’s coming to Massachusetts,” she said, breathless, and skipping all manner of greeting. “And that fan site, Relatable Romance Reporter, says next season will be a special Regency-era production.” A wild and youthful squeal pealed through the speaker, and I cracked up all over again.

I listened as she caught her breath. “I’m okay,” she said. “I’m pulling myself together now.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm-hmm, and I want to hear everything about your major life change and recent relocation before we talk about a silly television show. I just had to get that little fangirl moment out of my system.”

“I like your fangirl moments,” I said. “Besides, that show usually makes you homicidal. I’m glad they’re finally doing something right.” Hopefully they’d get the details correct for the Massachusetts episodes. Cecily loved the Regency era. If they messed it up, she’d probably drive to the set, and I’d need to come up with bail money to get her out of whatever trouble she caused.

She made a deep, throaty noise. “First tell me about your trip.”

I grinned, watching folks walk to and from the nursery, holding hands or babies and towing their wagons full of plants. “Well, my parents are stressed about taking over full time at the shop again, but they’re trying. Annie came to see me off, and she didn’t stick gum in my hair when she hugged me goodbye, so that was another win. The drive was long and boring. The house is great. My handyman is a hunk. Obviously sent by fate to distract me from my mission, but I shall persevere. Oh! And I just bought a bunch of plants to start a garden. Now. Back to you. Relatable Romance is coming to Massachusetts?”

“Yes!” Cecily was quiet for a long beat. “We’re circling back to the handyman.”

“Okay.”

“I think I’m going to apply to the show as an adviser. They want locals with significant familiarity in various categories including local history and the community. I set up notifications so I can jump when they make the official announcement for Relatable Romance: Regency Era . I’ll play up my lifelong residency in Massachusetts, plus the fact I nearly graduated with a history degree before I realized I wanted to go into nursing.”

It’d taken Cecily nearly two extra years to finish her nursing degree, but she’d come alive in those classes, and I’d loved watching the change. These days, anyone listening to her talk about her job could understand why she wasn’t worried about finding her soulmate. She was already in love. With her work.

“Also,” she continued, “I’m the perfect candidate after working at four different local museums and volunteering at dozens of reenactments. Plus, who wouldn’t want a registered trauma nurse on set, with all those intoxicated twentysomethings drinking twelve hours a day?”

All excellent points. “You’re overqualified,” I said.

The soft tapping of her fingers on a nearby keyboard echoed over the line. “Noted. I wonder if I should ask one of my old professors for a reference, or maybe someone from one of the museums?”

“Both,” I said. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Go all in. Sounds like you might get to live like Jane Austen after all,” I teased. She’d said she’d never want that, when I’d mentioned my plan to become Emily, but perhaps the right opportunity just hadn’t revealed itself.

“That’s not why I want to do this,” she said. “I just want to work behind the scenes on a show I’ve watched for years. I want to know how the pudding’s made. And speaking of snacks, tell me more about this hunky handyman.”

I grinned. “It’s completely cliché. I came here to start fresh, but my brain wants to keep up old patterns that don’t work for me. Then, boom. A six-foot temptation. I can practically hear the voice-over asking how I will possibly resist.”

“First, wanting to fall in love and find a life partner isn’t just an old pattern. It’s been your dream for as long as I’ve known you. And second, how will you resist?”

I snorted a short laugh. She was right about my previous long-standing dream, but that was the problem. Most of my relationships that lasted more than a month should’ve ended inside a week. I’d made excuses and accommodations for bad behaviors, all in the name of remaining open minded. I was patient when they were moody and short tempered, accepting when they were habitually late, and I’d dutifully provided the princess treatment to every single frog. Thankfully I’d since learned there was a difference between staying open minded and being a willing doormat. “Regardless. When an unfulfilled desire starts to hurt, it’s time to reevaluate,” I said. “Otherwise, the whole thing is unhealthy. Which is why I came here, to recharge and redirect my path. In fact, I plan to spend the rest of my day knuckle-deep in mulch, dirt, and topsoil. And I just learned dirt and topsoil aren’t the same. Look at me growing.”

Cecily was quiet again, and this time I could almost see her frown. “What?” she asked.

“Plants won’t thrive in dirt, but topsoil has natural organic matter that’s good for vegetation.” When she didn’t reply, I added, “I’m gardening.”

“Why?”

“I told you. Emily Dickinson was a fantastic gardener, and pursuing this hobby is a great way for me to stay busy at the manor. By myself. After all the plants are in the ground and I’m cleaned up, I plan to journal about my experiences.”

“Right,” she said slowly, drawing the word out for several syllables. “For the record, I still think this is a bad idea. I mean, I get what you think you’re doing, but you’re not a recluse. You’re not even shy. You’ll lose your mind gardening and writing in journals for entertainment. At least have a little fun while you’re there. Enjoy the time off. Refuel. Whatever you need, but please kiss the hot handyman and send me details.”

I barked an unexpected laugh. “Definitely not going to do that last thing, but I plan to have lots of fun refueling and learning to be happy as an eternally single spinster. I might even find a few cats to adopt.”

“No,” she said flatly. Then, “Next topics. When can I come visit? And why didn’t you respond to my messages sooner? I’ve been waiting on pins and needles to tell you about the show.”

“You’ll never believe it.” I filled her in on the lack of cell signal and internet at the manor; then we agreed she’d visit as soon as she got two consecutive days off work. Until then, we’d exchange letters, like Emily and Sue. I’d keep her posted about life as an 1850s poet, and she’d fill me in on her application progress with Relatable Romance: Regency Era .

The moment we said our goodbyes and disconnected, my phone rang.

“Hey, Mom,” I answered brightly. “I was just going to call you.”

I activated the phone’s speaker option, then eased away from my parking spot and veered onto the road, eager to drop off the plants and make a trip to the grocery store. My stomach was beginning to growl, and the breakfast bar in my glove box wasn’t going to sustain me.

“Hon,” she said, a note of relief and reprimand in the single syllable. “Why is it so hard to reach you? I worried last night when you didn’t let us know you’d arrived safely.”

“I’m fine. The manor doesn’t have internet or cell signal,” I said. I hadn’t even noticed a landline anywhere for emergencies. “How are you and Dad? Did everything go okay when you opened the shop this morning?”

“We’re on our way there now,” she said. “We stopped to see Annie for breakfast, then visited that little coffee shop I love near the park. Your dad is buying some flowers for the counter.”

I checked my watch as Village Books appeared up ahead; then I slowed to make the turn. “It’s nearly ten. You haven’t been to the store yet? Did one of the aunts open for you?”

“We didn’t think it was necessary,” Mom said. “We’ll be there any minute.”

I blinked. Stunned. People stopped at the store on their way to work. Moms, who’d probably been up since dawn, brought kids in strollers, and people who met for breakfast came inside afterward to browse. Surely my parents knew this. Surely they cared.

“We’ve got it covered,” she said. “Don’t worry. What’s important is that you’re enjoying yourself. Are you enjoying yourself?”

I cringed, pulling onto the gravel lane. I’d felt better before we started the conversation.

The SUV rocked gently toward the manor while I fumed at my mom’s apparent disinterest in the success of her own business.

When had I swapped roles with her without noticing? When had I become the store owner and she the employee?

Why did my parents asking me to take over so they could retire suddenly feel like a betrayal instead of an honor?

“You know,” Mom said, her voice beginning to break up, “you didn’t have to move out of town to get some time off. We would’ve stepped in more often, if we’d known you needed us. But you never said a word.”

I jammed the brake pedal, stopping the SUV before I lost signal, and flinched at her implication. As if my feelings of professional abandonment were of my own making. “I was trying to do a good job,” I said. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“And you’re doing a terrific job. You’re always amazing at everything you do. We never worry when you’re in charge, and we appreciate you so much. I feel as if you don’t know that, and I can’t for the life of me understand why.”

An unexpected pinch of emotion drew tears to my eyes. “Sorry. Thank you.” Then another thought occurred. “Hey—do you or Dad know a man named Davis Sommers?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, then repeated my question to Dad. “No. Doesn’t ring a bell to us. Why do you ask?”

I flipped mentally through my bizarre and frustrating conversation with Davis the night before. “I met him last night and got the impression he knew Dad.” Hadn’t he said as much?

What had he said exactly?

“Emma,” Mom cooed. “Why don’t you come back? Talk to us about whatever you’re going through. Let us help. We want to be here for you.”

Part of me longed to accept the offer, admit everyone was right, and go home. But then I’d end up right back where I was before I left. Miserable and aching for something that wasn’t meant for me. And I couldn’t spend another minute like that. I wouldn’t. So the dramatic part of me, the one Annie had called out, lifted her chin and doubled down on her mission.

The beautiful manor beckoned to me from the end of the lane. Its floral wreath and cobblestone walkway begged me to run inside and shut the door, locking out my every care. I imagined staying forever, basking in warm sunlight on lush green lawns and raising flowers to make fresh bouquets for the vase in the foyer. In those images, I was content, unhurried, and happy. Alone.

I inhaled deeply and straightened in my seat. “Thank you for saying all that, Mom, but I have to go. I love you. Tell Dad I love him too. I’ll write you a letter soon.”

“But—”

“Take care of yourselves,” I interrupted. “And keep me posted about Annie and the baby. If you need anything, or if there’s an emergency, you can reach me through Grace at Village Books. The number is on the website, or reach out to her on IBOOM.”

Mom blurted a hasty goodbye, sending her love in a flourish before I disconnected the call.

I watched the bars of service disappear as I drove the rest of the way down the lane; then I slipped the device into my pocket and got out. I unloaded the cumbersome bags of mulch and topsoil from my hatch, hating that they were wet and heavy, not to mention incredibly awkward to haul. But at least the effort kept my mind off my mom’s words, begging me to come home. It was too soon for me to give up. I hadn’t been gone a full twenty-four hours, and she hadn’t even made it to the shop.

My previously ivory peasant top was streaked with mulch and topsoil by the time I reached for the final bag, and I forced my thoughts away.

“Today is the first day of my new forever,” I reminded myself. I’d had a couple of setbacks last night, but that was then, and this was now.

A clap of distant thunder drew my eyes skyward as I recalled Olivia’s warning. I squared my shoulders, steadfast and unbothered by a little rain. I had plenty to do inside, and weeks to plant my garden. This was my time to shine.

A fat drop of rain promptly plunked my forehead, interrupting my moment of self-empowerment.

Then the heavy bag ripped, pouring black mulch down the front of me and onto my shoes.

“Great.”