Chapter Seven
I went to bed reflecting on my first full day back in Amherst. I’d succeeded at six of my seven list items. I’d read about Emily, explored the grounds, tried poetry, visited Village Books, and avoided mentioning the burned stationery and asking about Davis’s relationship status. I hadn’t been able to start my garden as planned, but all the plants I’d purchased received a healthy drink, thanks to the rain. As a bonus, my day had been introspective. I’d discovered, for example, that Amherst was a far more vibrant place than I’d thought. In the past I was too distracted by other things, like getting to class on time or watching Annie cheer, to notice much. I’d seen everything through a pinpoint lens. But today I’d learned a little about gardening from Olivia and made a new friend. I’d also realized I was more of a people person than I’d previously imagined, definitely more so than Emily Dickinson, which could poke a hole in my plan to become a recluse. But Grace’s letter-writing classes would provide social interaction. Hopefully time and practice would improve my poetry, because I’d also learned I was not a natural poet.
Every attempt I’d made at penning something profound and beautiful, or even rudimentarily observant, had failed. In the end I’d resorted to dirty limericks and the most basic haiku to get something on paper so I could check writing poetry off my list. Emulating Emily Dickinson was proving harder than anticipated in every possible way. But I had to start somewhere, and I was nothing if not tenacious.
Tomorrow I’d work on the tougher items, like number seven, Embrace the solitude , number nine, Be happy , and ten, Give up on love .
I woke early the next morning, teeth chattering and every muscle in my body clenched against the cold. The old stone home seemed to insulate against the warm afternoon sunlight and leak any heat provided by the furnace. I took the blankets with me when I rose and went hunting for the thermostat. I found it set to fifty-eight degrees.
“For the love of—” I cranked the wheel on the ancient device, only stopping when the little arrow pointed to seventy.
A primal, exhausted moan rumbled through the old house. Vents rattled inside the walls. Slowly delivering and circulating the distinctly dry scent of an aging system.
I scrunched my nose and glanced around. “Just keep it warm for forty more days, and we’ll get along fine.”
I made some coffee and contemplated how to spend my day. Thankfully the rain had stopped, and Grace’s first letter-writing class was this morning. I just had to pass a few hours before going to the bookstore. After that, I’d tackle the garden, or visit Emily Dickinson’s house. I couldn’t wait to walk the halls where she’d lived. The thought sent goose bumps down my arms.
First I’d journal about my feelings, dump the chaos from my brain onto the page. Had leaving Willow Bend been the right thing to do? Was it selfish? Would I adjust to the silence in the manor, or would I start talking to a volleyball before my time was up here?
I selected a piece of thick paper from the materials Grace had given me, then loaded an ink cartridge into the pen she’d provided and immediately discovered I had no idea how to make it write. And I couldn’t google it. No internet. I sighed to recenter myself, enjoyed a little more coffee, and tried again.
Finding the correct angle for the metal tip against the page was an ordeal, but eventually a thick line of ink appeared as I pulled the instrument down. A win! When I swept upward, however, attempting to form the rest of the single letter I’d started—no ink. I shook the pen and tried again. No ink. I pushed harder and scratched the paper.
“Nope.” I rose from my chair. “Not today, Satan,” I said, walking away, chin held high. I would not begin my day being defeated by a pen.
I dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a light sweater, then parted my hair down the center and twisted my curls into braids. By the time I’d applied a little mascara and lip gloss, I was sure it had to be time for class. But only about forty-five minutes had passed.
I returned to the desk in the study and willed myself to feel peaceful and happy.
In reality, I felt frustrated and bored. My thoughts moved quickly, unintentionally, to my family. Everything was changing at home. Everyone was moving into their next stage of life and happiness, while I remained stuck at the same place I’d dwelled for nearly a decade. I’d been living in a personalized episode of Groundhog Day since college graduation. And every year, my world became smaller, more hyperfocused on the store. My friends had fallen away over time, pairing off and getting married, like Annie. Starting families. Relocating for jobs. My entire reality centered on a single building where I worked and lived. Where I’d spent the better part of my entire life. I’d lost more than one perfectly good boyfriend over the years by prioritizing the store or my family over him. Amir Devi came instantly to mind. If I could’ve built a life with any of my exes, it was Amir. He had been open and ready for a partnership. I’d been distrusting after a particularly bad breakup several months before. When he’d invited me on a trip over the holidays, I’d declined, because I had to work. Christmas was Rini Reads’ busiest season, and I didn’t want to let my family down. When he’d encouraged me to push back after a fight with Annie, I’d turned on him and taken her side. When he’d begged me to choose him, or to at least choose myself once in a while, and see where the relationship between us might go, I’d thought him overbearing, then cried as he walked away.
The possibility that my very full and busy life was actually as lonely as Emily’s reclusive one shook me. I searched my mental archives of her work to find a soothing verse or line, then opened my notebook.
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
When I thought of spending six weeks alone in the manor, isolated and freezing, only to return home unchanged and still searching for love, I wanted to scream.
I had to succeed.
I faced off with the blue lines on the page, with a normal, modern pen in hand, determined to win this battle. My muscles tensed and brow crunched, but no words appeared.
I rolled my shoulders, then shook my hands out hard at the wrists. Maybe I was making this too difficult. Overthinking. I’d start with another haiku. It’d been my default style in writing courses when poetry was assigned. Three lines. Five syllables, then seven, then five. I had to start somewhere, then hope to grow.
I am no poet, I began. Then counted syllables: one, two, three, four, five. Though I hope to be, I wrote, then counted. One, two, three, four, five. Not enough. I ran a line through the words and started again. I long to be like Emily, I tried. Eight syllables: too long. I tapped my pen against the page and checked the wall clock, which I suspected was broken. An eternity later, I finished my poem, exhausted.
I am no poet
Hopefully I’ll someday find
My talents elsewhere
I dropped my head onto the desk.
Maybe morning exercise was the answer. I stood and stretched, practiced mindful breathing and a few yoga poses, then went outside to get some sun. All healthy, solitary activities. None took more than a few minutes.
Suddenly I understood why the average person died so young in Emily’s days. Time passed differently when there wasn’t anything to do. Someone who reached my age had probably already endured eighty-five years’ worth of time.
I went back inside and returned to my book on Emily’s life, determined to understand her, to truly connect. The book made her life seem dull and grim, a popular take on the subject. History regularly painted her as averse to people, obsessed with death, and more than a bit sad. Not the image I held of her, or the one I wanted. Emily saw beauty in the world. Her writing proved as much. She valued love, family, and friendship. Her heart was pure and open, the way I wanted mine to be.
My bag of novels from Village Books caught my eye, and I switched gears. I needed something light to improve my mood before class, so I closed my eyes, reached in, and pulled out my next read. A story of lifelong best friends fulfilling a childhood promise to open a historic bed-and-breakfast together in Cape May. Two dozen chapters, a lot of laughs, and a round of tears later, the grandfather clock in the foyer announced it was time to go.
I filled my favorite canvas tote with the supplies Grace had given me and a pair of ballpoint pens and hurried to Village Books. Shoppers lingered in aisles and lined up at the checkout. Others had gathered near the wooden cubbies and the long rectangular tables in the back.
Michael waved to me from the register. “You made it!”
“I did,” I agreed, thankful for the friendly face. “Fancy seeing you here again.”
“You’ll find me here nearly as often as you find Grace,” he said. “Are you ready for class?”
I looked at the gathering letter writers and bit my lip. “I hope so.”
A customer approached the register, setting me free to join the others, and I lifted a hand to Michael in goodbye.
A man carrying a cup of coffee paused when he noticed me. His shy smile put me instantly at ease. “Are you here for the letter-writing class?” he asked.
I smiled and nodded. “I’m new.”
“I’m Paul,” he said, offering me his hand. He was tall and lean, probably only a few years older than me. His grip was nice, warm, and gentle.
“Emma.”
“Emma,” he repeated. “Are you new to the area? Or just new to the class?”
“Both, I guess. I’m in town for an extended vacation,” I explained.
“In that case,” he said, swinging an open palm toward the refreshments, “let’s get you a cup of coffee and introduce you to everyone. It’s always good to have a few friends in a new land.”
I followed Paul to the refreshments table and watched while he poured me a cup of coffee. His congenial disposition was a welcomed change from the grumpy handyman who’d helped me build a fire.
“Where are you from?” he asked, as we settled in with a cluster of men and women around our age.
“Willow Bend.” I smiled when a few of the people nodded in recognition. “I run my family’s bookstore.”
“I think it’s safe to say you’ve found your people.” Paul adjusted the glasses on his nose. “We’re all a little bookish here.”
Grace approached the group a moment later with an affectionate grin, trading hugs and air-kisses with the folks I’d just met.
Slowly, everyone settled into their seats.
“Welcome, class,” Grace said sweetly, moving to the head of the table. “I’m glad, as always, to see so many familiar faces, and I’m delighted to see a few new ones as well. This is my Lost Art of Letter-Writing class, where we get back to the pretexting, preinternet, and pre-instant-messaging times of ole and actually write our thoughts on paper to communicate with others.” She clasped her hands before her and widened her eyes, as if to say “Imagine that!”
“In a time when messages are everywhere,” she continued, “posted on social media for all the world to see, or thrown into a tweet, this class will help you focus on writing what’s important and what it is you truly long to say. You can’t backspace or even erase, so you should think carefully about what you intend to convey, then say exactly that. If you make a mistake that can’t be overlooked or eliminated satisfactorily by drawing a single line through it, you’ll have to get a new piece of paper and start over. A letter full of scribbles and black marks is a no-no. The message won’t be received in the same way as a letter that was clearly written after careful thought. Keep that in mind before you begin. Now, for today’s inspiration.”
She lifted a sheet of paper in one hand and positioned glasses on her nose with the other. “I’m going to give you some food for thought from author John Steinbeck, often called a giant of American letters. He wrote this letter to his son, Thom, in response to Thom’s letter from boarding school announcing he’d fallen in love.”
Grace offered a warm smile to the class. “Love is something we can all understand, whether romantic, platonic, or the sort we have for family. Love is the little silver thread connecting all of humanity, around the globe, century to century, forevermore.”
My heart sank and stomach tightened. Whatever I’d expected from letter-writing class, it hadn’t been to discuss love, the exact thing I was in Amherst to denounce.
“Steinbeck begins with a greeting, of course, and then jumps right into the good stuff. He tells his son that being in love is a good thing, maybe the best thing, and he tells him not to let anyone ever make light of that. Then, he issues a warning about the sorts of people who wield love like a weapon, who are unkind and use the attachment to control their partners or break them down. But the right kind of love, that sort that comes from all that is good in oneself and based on true respect for their partner, will lift you to new heights of confidence, strength, and wisdom.”
Grace paused to let us process the words. A classmate or two jotted something down. I waited, invested and eager. She raised the paper, and my breath caught in anticipation. The immortal romantic in me danced, giddy for more. “He goes on to say love should be reveled in. Rejoiced in and deeply, truly appreciated.”
Grace dragged her hand down the page, letting the top portion of the printed work droop backward as she skimmed.
I found myself thinking of Steinbeck as more than a Nobel Prize–winning author. He’d been a regular person with a life and a family. A father giving advice on love.
“Here we are,” she continued. “Another fatherly bit of advice. Sometimes people find themselves in love with someone who doesn’t return their affections, but that does not invalidate the feeling, because it is always beautiful to love. And as a final note, Steinbeck reminds his son that his words come from a place of understanding, because he, too, is in love, and he’s quite happy that his son has found this great joy.”
She set the paper down and searched our expressions. “Steinbeck loved. His son loved. They loved romantically. They loved one another. Love is powerful, crippling, and motivating. But always universal. So”—she set the paper aside and clasped her hands—“let love be your inspiration this week. Write to someone you love. Write about someone you love. Write with love. Your choice. Take a deep breath. Think. Then write.”
Several classmates went to work immediately.
I stared, unsure how I could muster anything good enough to follow Steinbeck.
Eventually Annie came to mind, and I began to write. The words were casual at first, like a diary entry, then too formal. I crumbled the sheets and started again, this time writing to my parents. It didn’t take long before my hostility over a million small offenses stopped me midsentence. I balled that page up as well.
The woman on my right sighed. “Why is this so much harder than it should be?”
“Right?” I rolled my eyes, then lowered my forehead to the table briefly.
“Is this your first class?” she asked.
I puffed my cheeks as I straightened. “Yep.”
She smiled. “Me too. I’m Daisy.”
We fell into an easy rhythm, writing for a few minutes, then taking breaks to complain, refresh our drinks, or get to know one another a little more. Daisy was Annie’s age and a graduate student at UMass working on her MFA. Her big blue eyes, golden curls, fair skin, and dusting of freckles reminded me of the china dolls my grandmother had collected.
“Did I hear you mention Emily Dickinson?” Daisy asked. “I’m writing my dissertation on her vivid portrayal of nature in prose.”
“That’s amazing,” I said, loving Daisy all the more. “I’ve been in love with Dickinson’s poetry since I was ten. I’m here on a quest, and she’s my muse.”
Daisy chewed her powder-pink lip. “I love a good quest. How much do you know about Emily?”
“Quite a bit,” I admitted. “I’ve been obsessed with her poetry since I was a kid. I plan to visit her home while I’m in town. Maybe even today.”
“Excellent idea. Society tends to romanticize her, but in truth, she was a bit of a weirdo.”
An unexpected bark of laughter broke on my lips. I was on the side of society.
Daisy wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. An eccentric?” she tried.
“You’re the expert,” I said, still smiling. And by most accounts, my life in Willow Bend made me a bit of a weirdo too. Thirty-one and single, spending all my time alone at the bookstore, wishing for something big to happen and hating every day that it didn’t.
“So far, the most relatable thing about Emily Dickinson for me is her love of ice cream,” Daisy said. “Do you know the story?”
I did, and I searched my memories for the details.
“She rarely left home, but she went to Washington with her father and sister when she was around my age,” Daisy said. “He was a member of the Whig Party.”
A little zing of electricity carried up my spine. I’d never met anyone else invested in Emily’s life. “That’s right.”
“She had her first taste of ice cream in Washington,” Daisy said. “She loved it, which wasn’t surprising. She loved all sorts of sweets. Cakes. Doughnuts—”
“And she loved to bake,” I said.
Daisy’s smile grew. “She went back for more ice cream every day in Washington. I’ve never related to anyone more.”
We laughed, and I lifted my coffee cup in a toast. To new friends, I thought. Thanks, Emily!
“Who are your letters for?” Daisy asked.
I looked at the growing pile of paper carnage. “Family, but I think it’s going to take more than this class period to write anything worth reading.”
“I feel that.” Daisy checked her watch. “Oops. I have to go—I have class in twenty minutes. But I’ll see you back here this week?”
“Absolutely.” I waved, then opted to pack up. I needed to give my letters more thought. Anything I said to Annie she would surely use against me, and I didn’t know what to say to my parents. Maybe I’d start with a letter to Cecily.
Paul made his way in our direction, stopping at the seat Daisy had vacated. “What’d you think?” he asked. “Is this going to be your new favorite hour of the week?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I didn’t make any progress today, so I’ll be back again soon.” According to the schedule, the class met three days a week. I would likely attend them all.
Paul crossed his arms, and his fair brows tented. “Are you a writer?”
“What if I say I love the idea of writing?”
He smiled. “Bookstore manager loves reading and writing. Makes perfect sense to me.”
“How about you?” I asked. “What do you do when you aren’t here?”
He adjusted round Harry Potter glasses on his narrow nose. “I teach creative nonfiction to bored upperclassmen at the college. The rest of the week I try to recuperate and keep my creative juices flowing.”
“Ah,” I said. “That makes perfect sense.” No one had ever looked more like a professor than Paul.
“It’s easy to get stagnant delivering the same material for years.” He rocked on his heels, looking slightly embarrassed. “And I’m an oversharer.”
I grinned.
Paul dug in his satchel and removed an envelope. “I hope it’s not weird, but I wrote a letter for you. It’s supposed to be welcoming and maybe a little encouraging.” He cringed. “Now that I’m giving it to you, this feels a little weird and creepy.”
I laughed. “Grace said we could leave letters for one another. I think it’s nice you thought of me. Thank you.” I accepted the offering with a sincere smile.
Then I let Paul walk me out.