Not Quite by the Book

Chapter Eleven

We moved into the sitting room, and Davis walked me through the process of using the old fireplace. I split my attention between listening to his instructions and thinking about ways to get him to stay a little longer.

“Have you lived in Amherst all your life?” I asked, taking a seat on the couch.

He turned when he had the fire going strong. “I lived right here, actually, for my first ten years.”

“ Here here?” I asked. “You mean in this house?”

He nodded. “With my parents.” His tone and expression softened slightly. “Dad never liked it here, but Mom insisted. She loved this place and ran the bookstore with Grace.”

“Grace is her sister?”

“Yeah. Older by eleven years. Dad moved us into one of the more sought-after communities on the edge of town as soon as he could. He’s still there. Technically,” Davis corrected. “Though it’s probably more accurate to say he lives at the office.”

I put that detail, and the way his voice hardened when he said it, into a little mental box to look at later.

“Did you like the new place?” I asked.

“It’s okay.”

The idea of Davis as a kid was intriguing, and questions piled on my tongue at the thought. What had his life been like before? Before he’d become an architect, landlord, and object of my unfortunate fascination.

“There’s a pool,” he said. “I thought that was nice.”

I smiled. “I’ve never lived anywhere with a pool. How’d your dad talk your mom into leaving this place?” Was that when they turned the manor into a rental property?

“She died.” Davis folded his hands and averted his eyes for a long beat. “Ovarian cancer,” he said, answering the question I’d yet to formulate. “She caught it early, but the disease was aggressive. She tried everything to defy her odds, and it was a long, exhausting fight to the very bitter end. Which was barely more than a year from diagnosis to loss.”

Tears gathered in my eyes as memories of my mother’s fight with cancer flooded through me. I’d been the same age as Davis when we’d gotten the news. Knowing his mom had lost her battle a year later, when my mom was in remission, crushed my chest like an empty soda can. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks,” he said, lifting his eyes to mine. The vulnerability I saw there gutted me, and I fought the urge to cover his hands with mine.

“What was her name?”

“Iris.” His cheeks darkened and his voice deepened when he spoke her name.

I nodded, understanding some of the pain there. “My mom had breast cancer when I was ten.” I coughed lightly to clear the lump in my throat. “She recovered.”

He looked briefly away. “Good. It’s nice to be reminded cancer doesn’t always win. I hope to see a day when it loses far more often.”

In that instant, I felt both connected to and a million miles away from the hurting man before me. Because we’d both suffered too much, too young. But my mom had lived.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I asked, hoping he’d at least had someone to help carry his grief. No one could understand the loss of a parent like a sibling.

Emily had written a number of poems about death. I’d skipped over them when I was a kid, then grew obsessed with them as a young adult. These days, the topic of death was something too sad for me to enjoy. Nonetheless, her words seemed especially poignant as I sat with Davis. She believed that those we love never truly die. They live on in us and in our hearts. In that way, our love gave them immortality.

I was sure his love kept Iris alive.

He shook his head. “None. You have a sister?”

I smiled through the pain clenching my heart. “Annie. She’s seven years younger.”

“Are you close?”

“Not as much as I’d like. She can be a pill.”

He grinned. “I hear that’s the job description for younger siblings.”

“Yeah, well, she could lead the union.”

Davis checked his watch and moved toward the foyer.

“You’re close to your aunt?” I asked, knowing he was. I saw it in his eyes and hers, anytime one mentioned the other.

“Grace is like a second mother,” he said. “She raised me after my mom passed. My grandparents, Mom and Grace’s parents, were in Florida. Dad’s a workaholic, and I was a grieving kid. Grace became everything I needed. Comforter, cook, chauffeur, confidant. I owe her a lot more than I can ever repay. I help with the shop whenever I can, but she mostly asks me to deal with tech related things, especially her websites and social media. When she needs me, everything else waits.”

That information didn’t dampen my crush at all.

“Do you like helping with the bookstore?” I asked. Selling books was a far cry from restoring historic homes, even if he loved the shop’s owner.

He looked almost wistful as he nodded. “I might be happiest surrounded by books.”

I set a hand on my collarbone, melting a little at his perfect words. “Me too.”

“The store’s social media, on the other hand, is going to be the death of me,” he said with a chuckle. Probably trying to lighten the mood. “It’s something Grace has no interest in doing, but it’s necessary, so I’ve been trying to build a following.”

“I met Grace online,” I said. “I’ve been talking to her for years without realizing she’s my parents’ age. Older, actually. She’s one of my favorite people.”

Davis watched me intently, seeming as if he had something to say.

When my cheeks began to heat under his stare, I started talking again. “Social media campaigns for the store are tough. I work at it all the time. Do you have to handle those things for your job too?” I asked. “Grace told me you’re an architect.”

“Did she?” His brows rose. “What else did she say?”

I shrugged, hoping to look more casual and less eager than I felt. Also wishing he’d skip dinner with his friend and stay. “She seemed quite proud. She told me you prefer to work with historic properties.” Now that I knew how much his mom had loved Hearthstone Manor, and his unimaginable loss, it was easy to understand his passion for homes like this one. “Are you any good at it?”

Davis gave a small, suppressed laugh. “I try.”

“And you’re the one renovating this place?”

He appeared conflicted for a long beat before nodding. “As soon as possible. There’s a national historic restoration competition going on right now. The winner gets their work on the cover of Architectural Digest and a feature story inside. The recognition would be monumental to my career. It might even remind my dad there’s value in what I do.”

Davis had followed his dad’s career path, yet his dad somehow faulted him for his restoration work? That didn’t seem fair. Shouldn’t a child’s only remaining parent work double time to foster the relationship? “Is there prize money too?” I asked instead, hoping to change the direction my thoughts had taken.

“Some,” Davis said.

“What will you do with it?” I asked, hoping to find out even more about him. In my experience, the way people treated money reflected their character, or at least their personality. Was Davis a saver? A spender? Would he travel? Buy a new truck? Maybe a new property investment? Or pay off his student loans?

“I’d donate it to the Ovarian Cancer Research Alliance.”

Davis was a giver.

My mission was doomed. How could I possibly resist a kind, handsome, successful man who loved his aunt and mourned his mom? Who followed his passion and made a difference in his community, who gave to charity and loved books?

I imagined dropping my head dramatically forward in defeat.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. “Looks like Clayton is canceling. Someone didn’t show up for their shift, and that puts him on duty.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “Feel like sharing your cognac?”

“Absolutely.” I hurried into the other room and returned a moment later with the brandy bottle and our teacups; then I poured a little of the amber liquid into each.

“You buy the good stuff,” he said, tapping his cup to mine.

“It’s for baking.”

He gave the bottle, significantly depleted from my sampling, a long look, then fixed me with a wry smile.

“I did some taste testing.”

He snorted, then took a sip.

“How’s your list coming along?” he asked.

“Not bad. I’ve been journaling and reading about Emily Dickinson. I visited the Homestead and planted a garden. My poetry sucks, but I’m working on it.”

“You also baked,” he said, lips quirking on one side.

“I baked,” I agreed, fighting a smile of my own.

“And the other things?”

The other things on my list. I bit my lip. Embrace the solitude. Become my best Emily. Be happy. Give up on love. “It’s a work in progress.” And that would have to be good enough for now. At least I was finally trying to change, instead of doing the same things every day and complaining that nothing ever changed.

“Why Emily Dickinson?” he asked. “There are plenty of great poets out there. Why choose to emulate her when you seem nothing alike?”

I frowned. Emily spent her time observing and contemplating things I regularly buzzed past without noticing. Always on my way to the next set of goalposts. “I feel like I know her,” I confessed. “Like I’ve always known her. And sometimes it feels as if she knows me. I love the way she saw the world. She wrote heartfelt poems about the smallest things, like birds, bees, and dandelions. If not for her words, I’d rarely think of those things at all.”

To my surprise and delight, Davis didn’t laugh or mock me, so I made another unexpected confession. “When my mom was sick, we’d lie together in her bed and read from a book of Emily’s poetry. Mom gave me the collection before finding out she had cancer. When she was at her weakest, I’d rest my head on her shoulder and read to her. The words seemed to soothe her. In a lot of ways, Emily’s been with me through all the most crucial moments of my life. Good and bad.” I shifted to look more closely at him, searching for the right description of what Emily’s poems meant to me. “If my life was depicted on a massive tapestry, showing all the most important parts in order, beginning to end, her words would be a golden thread running through it all.”

My thoughts jumped to something similar Grace had said during class. Love is the little silver thread connecting all of humanity, around the globe, century to century, forevermore. How sweet to know there were things in life that touched us all.

I looked to Davis. Had he ever been in love? If so, what had she been like?

Approval flashed in his eyes. “You appreciate her.”

It took a moment for me to understand what he meant. My thoughts had fixed on the imaginary, gorgeous, intelligent supermodel who once held his heart. I nodded. “I do.” I doubted anyone other than Emily could’ve motivated me to leave my life in search of something more, and I was deeply thankful for that.

I was also immensely thankful for Davis’s company. “What will you do to this place?” I asked. “It’s so beautiful already.”

“I’m going to gut it.”

“What?” I asked, a little too loudly. “Why would you do that?”

Davis grinned at my response. “The plan is for a complete overhaul and update. I’ll stay true to the era and preserve the integrity of the original craftsmanship as much as possible. But it’s time for major changes.”

I gaped at him. “I’m no architect, but the words gut it sound like destruction to me.”

“Sometimes it’s necessary,” he said. “My goal here is to honor the past while serving the present. Old and outdated plumbing, wiring, heating, and AC, for example.” He hooked a thumb over one shoulder. “That’s all on the way out. No one sees those systems, but everyone will appreciate it when they’re updated. I’ll also put in premium Wi-Fi and all new appliances. Because it’s not the nineteenth century anymore. I think we can love and appreciate history without suffering for it.”

“What about all this gorgeous woodwork?” I asked, mesmerized by the idea of giving the beautiful home a complete overhaul as he described. And already regretting that I wouldn’t be around to see the finished product.

“I’ll take the wood out before the demolition. I plan to repair and refinish it myself, then return it when everything else is in order.”

The look on my face must’ve said I still had questions, because he kept going.

“First the paint has to go.” He pointed to a tall piece of baseboard with a chip in the top layer of paint, revealing pale green and yellow below. “I’ll use a solvent to do most of the work for me. Then I’ll sand the pieces by hand and stain them in a natural tone. I’ll use the same process on the floors. Once the hardwoods are resurfaced, I’ll bring in era-authentic area rugs. The biggest and most incongruous changes will be on this floor, to make everything ADA compliant. I’m widening doorways for wheelchair accessibility and adding a bathroom with a roll-in shower. Not everyone can or should manage the stairs. Soon, they won’t have to, and this place can be enjoyed by far more guests. The space I’m currently using for storage will become a primary bedroom with access to the new bath. The bedroom with the fireplace upstairs will get an en suite bath as well. I’ve already consulted a number of designers who specialize in this era to talk about fresh decor. I’ll probably add a busy wallpaper in the study. Something with ridiculous birds, or giant flowers. What?” he asked, stopping abruptly.

I schooled my smile. “You’re very passionate about this. I like it, and I’m a little jealous.”

He frowned. “You don’t have a passion?” he asked, sounding a little saddened by the notion. “What about the things you’re doing here?”

I lifted and dropped a shoulder. “I’ve always thought of books as my passion. Or Emily Dickinson, if a poet can be a passion.”

“And now?”

“Now, I’m not so sure.” I’d struggled in the short time since my arrival, and I wanted to go home more than I let myself believe. “Sometimes I wish I could revamp the bookstore. Get a dog. Emily Dickinson loved dogs. Mine could be a Rini Reads mascot. Or maybe all pets would be welcome on leashes while their humans browsed or read from a favorite book.” I waved the thoughts away with one dismissive hand. “I don’t know. It’d be a complete overhaul, like this house.” And I hadn’t come all this way to think about the place I’d left.

“Sounds like an excellent project,” Davis said.

“And a lot of work and money.”

“If anyone can do it, you can. So, what’s the problem?”

I bristled at the challenge in his tone. “Of course I can do it. I’m just not sure how.” At the moment, I was in the midst of a complete overhaul on myself. My eyes narrowed. “How do you know I can do it?”

“What?” he asked, smile faltering.

“You said if anyone could do it, I could. How do you know?”

Davis’s expression sobered. “You said you run the store already. You’re obviously unflappable and tenacious, coming here alone for six weeks, determined to live in a home that really isn’t worthy of a long-term occupant.”

“Six weeks is hardly long term.”

“It is when the house is two hundred years old,” he countered. “Which is why I need to get in here and start the overhaul.”

I considered his words. I was long suffering and exhausted, but was I unflappable and tenacious? I used to be. Could I be again?

More importantly, was it awful of me to want to finish my time here? Grace didn’t seem to think so, but she wasn’t the one burdened with managing the property while I bumbled around, fighting the buggy furnace, stove, and water heater. And I wasn’t standing in the way of her career’s full potential.

Davis rose and carried his cup to the sink. “I should get going,” he called from the kitchen.

The sudden announcement rattled my thoughts. Why was he leaving?

“You have things to do,” he said, as if reading my mind. “Baking. Writing. Embracing your inner Emily.” He turned for the foyer and held me in his gaze a moment longer than polite or necessary.

I frowned briefly at the reminder he’d read my list, but the wave of heat rising through me pressed the breath from my lungs. Did he feel that too?

“Thanks for the nightcap.” He offered a sad smile. “Emma—I want you to get everything you came here for.”

The words felt pointed and hard as they entered my heart. “Thank you. I appreciate your help today, and the company. I’m trying to be happy on my own, but it gets lonely.”

“I hope you won’t become a recluse like Dickinson.” He looked me over. “I don’t think her life is one to aspire to, but maybe that’s me. There’s a big world out there to explore, and you strike me as someone who’d thrive on adventure.”

I followed him into the night, stopping when we reached his truck. His words circled my heart, tightening like a vise. “I think I’d like adventuring.”

His cool gray eyes met mine, and the air charged between us. “Do it. Be fearless,” he dared. “You’ve come this far in search of happiness. Don’t be afraid to find it.”

I thought of my list. I wasn’t becoming a very successful Emily Dickinson for more reasons than one. For starters, I hadn’t yet given up on love.

Davis raised a gentle hand to my cheek, brushing away a strand of hair caught on the night breeze. His fingers slid onto my neck, curling beneath my hair, and tilting my face to his. The invitation open. I only needed to respond.

We stood frozen and on the verge of a kiss until my heart thundered in my ears, and I couldn’t think of a single reason to walk away from this man. I stepped forward, closing the space between us, and rose onto tiptoes.

His lips were soft and yielding when I pressed my mouth to his. His protective arms, a refuge against all that pained me.

My body melted against him.

Maybe it was the historic manor at our side, the starry sky above, or magic in the air, but our kiss felt otherworldly. As if we’d done exactly this a thousand times.

I stepped back a moment later, before I was fully ready, when my breaths came short, my nerves undone.

Davis blinked, eyes belatedly finding focus. He scraped a hand through his dark hair, looking both stunned and miserable. “I’m so sorry, I—”

He was sorry?

I took another step away, accepting the gut punch I totally deserved. “No.” I shook my head and lifted my palms. “My fault.”

“Emma.” My name broke on his lips, carved through with audible regret.

“Good night, Davis.” I waved and hurried inside.