Not Quite by the Book

Chapter Six

Rain threatened to keep me indoors the rest of the day, but I persevered, walking the grounds, then went into town during a break between showers. I enjoyed a leisurely lunch under the protection of a maroon-and-white-striped café awning. The street-facing patio tables provided a lovely view of Amherst while I sat, unconcerned with the time.

The weather had slowed traffic, but it hadn’t stopped people from enjoying the afternoon. Everyone seemed so young and carefree.

I thought of Emily’s poetry, too, as I sat alone at the table, her words dancing in my mind. Emily loved life, but she knew loneliness despite a vibrant family and the many connections all around her.

It was believed that Emily spoke of her own loneliness in her writing, and that she, like me, wondered if she’d only feel worse if she gave up the only life she knew. I’d traveled to another town, hoping to give up on the epic love I’d always wanted. But part of me wondered if resigning myself to eternal singledom by choice would leave me in a worse condition than when I’d started.

“I hear you, Emily,” I whispered into the rain as I headed back home.

I popped into Village Books before going to the manor, immediately overcome by the enticing scents of warm cinnamon and apple cider. A display table just inside the door held a little sign beside a hot drink dispenser, cups, and napkins, saying, Please help yourself . I cheerfully obeyed. “Don’t mind if I do.”

The shop’s interior was gorgeous, open, and inviting, with a front wall of windows and wide whitewashed floorboards. Reclaimed-wood slats hung from the walls, working through their retirement as decorative shelves, displaying framed black-and-white images of Amherst over the years. Aisles of books filled the shop’s center.

I passed several shoppers enjoying their free drink and a good book. Some lingered by the shelves. Others sat in comfy armchairs near the wall.

Two long tables were positioned near a stack of wooden cubbies at the back of the store, where I imagined demonstrations and classes took place.

“Pardon,” I said, slipping past a pair of young women huddled around a display of classic literature. I couldn’t help overhearing them as I slid into the next aisle.

“Is this the poet who lived in Amherst?” one asked.

“I don’t know,” the other responded.

I looked over my shoulder at the book in question, then turned back to stick my nose where it didn’t belong.

“Hi,” I said, using my most pleasant tone and smile. “Sorry. I’m not trying to interfere, but I heard your question, and I think I know the answer.”

They stilled and stared.

“This poet wasn’t from Amherst,” I said, pushing ahead. “I think you’re looking for Robert Frost. He and Emily Dickinson both lived in town. This is Walt Whitman.” I pointed a finger toward the book they’d been inspecting. “ Leaves of Grass is a fantastic collection, but this guy lived in New York and New Jersey.”

The girls smiled, and I breathed easier. “Thank you!” they said, returning the book to the shelf. “Do you have any Robert Frost collections here?”

“Uh.” I glanced around, nonplussed by their assumption and not wanting to accidentally step on an actual employee’s toes. “I don’t know. This is only my second time in the store. I just know a lot about poetry.”

“Oh.” The duo looked me over more carefully. “Do you write?” one asked.

I grimaced. “Not well.”

“Hello there.” Grace appeared. “I work here,” she said. “We have a number of Frost’s collections over there.” She pointed, and the young women took their leave. “If we don’t have what you’re looking for, we can order it,” she called after them. “Just let me know.”

Next, she turned her bright eyes on me. “Emma,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad to be here,” I said, smiling as if I’d just won the lottery. In a way, I supposed I had. One of my favorite online friends stood right in front of me, and I could finally thank her in person for all the times she’d made me laugh when I wanted to scream or cry. Or all the times she’d saved me from telling a book distributor where to stick their outrageous return policies.

Her expression lit up, and wrinkles gathered on her cheeks and forehead as she pulled me into a hug. “We didn’t get to chat long enough last time. Today I’m not in any hurry.”

I nearly melted at her touch. I missed hugs, and it had only been a day since my last.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you last night,” she said. “I considered popping by this morning on my way to open the store, but I thought you might want to sleep in. Then I spoke with Davis, and he said you wanted privacy, so I was hesitant to come knocking at lunch.”

I frowned. “I’d love for you to stop by anytime.” Please, please do, I thought. Even recluses had visitors. And what made Davis think I wouldn’t want to see anyone?

“I hear it was a good thing he called on you. Trouble with the fireplace.” She smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry about that. But it was lucky timing. He’s the one you’ll need if anything goes awry.”

My cheeks heated at the recollection of my encounter with her nephew, when I’d accidentally filled their beautiful historic family home with smoke. “I loved the welcome basket,” I said instead, steering the conversation into more upbeat territory.

“I’m glad,” she said. “A few of the local shop owners and I put it together for you. If you need more of anything, I left a list of where the items originated with the stationery.”

I pressed my lips, unable to admit I’d burned all the paper. “Would you mind giving me your number, and Davis’s, again?”

“Of course!” She tipped her head toward the counter and moved in that direction. “Here’s my business card.” She plucked one from a holder near the register and scribbled their numbers on the back. “Call anytime you need anything.”

“I really appreciate it,” I said, placing the card securely into my wallet.

It was odd to hear her speak in person. She never said things like popping by or going awry online. She sounded more formal in person.

“The property and the home are exactly as the website described.” I smiled. “All we need is a hot-wing buffet on game day, and it’ll be total perfection.”

Her silver brows furrowed. “We have a number of popular places for wings in town. Have you had a chance to get out and explore?”

“A little. I met Olivia during my trip to Seeds of Love.”

“Olivia’s a dear heart,” she said. “One of my favorite humans. But don’t let me stop you from shopping. Take your time and let me know if you need anything.”

“I will, thank you.”

I moved into the aisles and selected several novels I’d been meaning to read for some time. With a little luck, I could lose myself in the stories to pass the long, silent hours of my days.

I carefully curated the stories that would evermore be tied to this adventure and the weeks in Amherst that changed my life.

Some people’s lives were marked by songs. An opening chord or favorite lyric took them to another time or place. For me it had always been books.

Eventually, I hefted my load onto the counter, and a young man in a logoed shirt dragged the pile closer and began to ring up my sale. The name on his badge was Michael. “You’re staying at Hearthstone?” he asked, catching my eye and smiling.

“I am.”

“It’s nice, right? We had a holiday party there once for the bookstore staff, and it was like a trip to another century.”

“It’s beautiful,” I agreed. “I’m Emma.”

“Michael.” His smile widened.

I leaned against the counter, curiosity getting the best of me. “What do you know about Grace’s nephew? We met last night, and you could say we did not hit it off.”

Michael chuckled. “Really? What happened?”

I frowned, recalling our exchange. “I’m not sure. I kind of hoped he’s a natural grump—that it wasn’t something I did.”

Michael said, “As far as I can tell, he likes everyone. Almost everyone,” he amended.

“Who are we talking about?” Grace asked, appearing from thin air. She set a small box of inventory on the counter.

Michael went silent, suddenly absorbed by my purchase.

“Davis,” I said, attempting to sound innocent and light. Instead of like the prying gossip that I was. “Your note said he’s good with a toolbox. Is he a contractor?”

“He’s an architect,” Michael said, setting the full bag before me. “Like his dad.”

My lips parted, but words didn’t come.

“And that’s not where the similarities end,” Grace added. “They’re both incredibly smart, driven, and good at what they do. Davis prefers to work with old homes and restorations. His father deals with new builds and commercial properties, along with anything and everything business related in this town.”

“They’re kind of a thing around here,” Michael said.

Grace tipped her head over one shoulder then the other, as if in reluctant agreement.

I tried to fit the semigrouchy man I’d met last night into my idea of a professional and well-known architect.

He did say he knew everyone.

“Oh!” Grace perked. “One more thing.” She hurried to a small community board and pulled a flyer from a clip. “This is for our letter-writing class. In case you need a little human interaction.” She winked. “Going from running a bookstore to six weeks of solitude must be quite a change.”

“You have no idea.”

“I think you’ll really enjoy it,” she said. “We break for the summer, but every September you’ll find me with a few regulars and a handful of newcomers right back there.” She pointed to the tables in the back. “We’re a cross section of folks from all around town. Students, shop owners, café workers, retirees. It’s a good mix, and they’re great company. We meet several days a week, if you’re interested, and class starts this week.”

I took the flyer with a smile. “Bless you.”

She grinned. “The class has become quite popular. More of a club, really.” Pride tinted her tone. “We’re very informal. We talk about written communication as a lost art and share famous letters from history. Then we write a few ourselves. You can pop your messages in the mail after class or leave them for one of your classmates. Everyone gets a cubby with their name on it for collecting letters.” She pointed to the small wooden cubes I’d noticed earlier. “And there are always cookies.”

Guaranteed weekly human interaction sounded like heaven. I’d already planned to write to Cecily and my mom. Plus, inner Emily would surely appreciate the effort. Historians used Emily’s letters to learn about her life, especially her reclusive years.

“Count me in,” I said.

“Excellent.” Grace produced a stack of crisp unlined paper, envelopes, and a pen from beneath the counter and added them to my booty. “These supplies are for class, but you can get started whenever the mood strikes.”

“Thank you,” I said, accepting the materials. Maybe letter-writing would be my new favorite thing.