Chapter Fourteen
At Puffers park, I walked the trail until I found a perfect spot to enjoy the pond and people. It was too cold to swim, but I could easily imagine the beachy area packed with families and college students on a summer day. For now, the still water reflected the gorgeous display of early-fall colors, and the view from my elevated location was absolutely breathtaking.
I spread a blanket and took a seat, then unpacked my bottled water and leftover charcuterie, along with my new journal and pens. As an added bonus, my cell phone had two bars of signal, and I planned to use them before heading home. Until then, I had a lot to process.
For starters, I’d realized last night that I hadn’t yet allowed myself to think about my parents’ big request. They wanted me to take over their shop, their life’s work. Their dream. They’d cleared it with Annie before asking me, but they wanted the whole thing to be mine. I swallowed a lump of emotion. It was an enormous honor. But was it my dream? And if they were already old enough to retire, how much longer would Annie and I have them with us? Was that morbid to think?
I couldn’t imagine a world where my brilliant, kind, loving parents didn’t exist. I didn’t want to. A world like that would forever be darker. The thought pressed the air from my lungs.
I pushed the awful idea away, unable to sit with it a moment longer, and I asked myself two tough, but important, questions.
What was I doing with my life? What did I want to do?
Emily once wrote that she found life so startling there wasn’t enough time to do anything else. If I truly wanted to emulate her words, I needed to start living. If I wanted to be more like her, I was beginning to realize, it would mean continuing on as I was. Emily had hidden behind her door in the later years. I’d spent my twenties hiding in plain sight, behind my busyness.
The thought was as unexpected as it was jarring. So, I sat with it a moment.
Cecily had known at twenty-one that she was on the wrong path, and though it’d cost her a lot of money and nearly two more years of education, she’d changed directions, gone into nursing, and never looked back.
I’d never been that certain about anything, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever been truly happy. Not just complacent.
I stacked a small slice of cheese onto a cracker and pushed it into my mouth. I should’ve taken inventory of my life sooner. Instead, I’d been running full speed in the same direction since college without questioning why. That wasn’t something I could blame on anyone other than myself.
And this, I thought, is why I’m filling notebooks at breakneck speeds. There were a lot of things I hadn’t given enough thought over the years, and once I’d started, it was as if a dam had broken. I uncapped a lavender-inked pen, opened my new journal, and began to write. The words flowed until my head felt light and my heart unburdened. When I raised my eyes to the beauty around me, I felt as if I were coming up for air.
A kayak glided into view on the water, carving ripples over the smooth surface and distorting the perfect reflections of orange- and amber-leafed trees.
Maybe it was all the time I’d spent thinking lately, or all the poetry I’d been writing. Maybe it was my dramatic side showing. Whatever the reason, as I looked out at my new favorite park view, I realized that my life so far had reflected the world around me, like the water. But at the moment, I was changing like the trees.
My pen hit the paper in a burst of inspiration and emotion.
Choices are power
The decisions are all mine
No more feeling weak
My mission to become Emily Dickinson had failed on several fronts, but the more disturbing truth was that, for a long while, I’d made a terrible Emma Rini too.
Maybe Cecily had been right when she’d said I was looking for an excuse to run away. I’d been sad and unsure what to do about it. I’d blamed all my unhappiness on my lack of romantic love, but I had far bigger problems than that. I just hadn’t been willing to examine them. I’d long thought Emily’s solitude enhanced her poetry because she had time to see the world clearly and choose the perfect words for each moment. Now, alone on a hill, I felt closer to her than ever before. Thanks to her inspiration, I’d never be an incredible poet, but my world was finally coming into focus.
As for finding my soulmate—if he existed at all—now certainly wasn’t the time.
I lay back onto the blanket and stared into the sky. Wanting what I couldn’t have made me sad. So, I had to either get over it or manifest what I wanted.
I closed my eyes and smiled. Cecily said I always came up with two extremes. I folded my hands on my torso, then imagined myself twenty years older, surrounded by nieces and nephews, in a home I’d bought with income from my unnamed business, and I was perfectly happy about it all.
What kind of business did I own in this vision? Why hadn’t I automatically assumed it was the bookstore? Was I still single? I concentrated on the image of myself, and willed a man to take shape then wrap his arms around me, perhaps ask me how work was today at my ... office?
The sound of a barking dog made me open my eyes. Violet appeared, carrying a stuffed hot dog, presumably intended for tug-of-war. She happily lunged at me as I rose to a seated position. Her thumping tail wagged her entire body until she began to weave as she walked. Low guttural sounds of sheer doggy joy slid around her mouthful of hot dog stuffie.
“Hello,” I cooed, sliding directly into baby talk. “Beautiful lady. I’m so glad you’re here. Who is this?” I stroked her fur and tugged gently on the toy.
She pranced in her spot whining and harrumphing, unable to hold still.
Davis strode up the hill behind her, stopping at the edge of my blanket to smile down at me. “We keep running into one another.”
“Are you following me?” I asked.
Or was mindful manifestation more fast acting than I’d realized?
He grinned. “I finished up at Village Books and stopped at home to walk Violet before going to the office. She was too wound up to go back in her crate.”
“And you came here?”
“She loves this place,” he said. “We avoid it this time of day in the summer when it’s packed with people, but dogs can be off leash early in the morning, which she likes too.”
I raised my brows.
“Find out who sent your flowers yet?”
I blinked at the swift change of subject. Was he jealous? Or just nosy? “No.” Though I’d planned to call my family and ask before he’d appeared. I motioned to the empty space at my side. “Want to sit?”
“Woof!” Violet circled the space before me and sat.
I laughed. “Come on. You too. Pop a squat.”
Davis lowered himself beside me.
I opened my plastic snack container. “Can she have cheddar?”
“Violet loves all cheese.”
“A woman after my own heart,” I said, offering her a chunk on my palm.
She dropped her toy.
“That’s Frank,” Davis said, nodding toward the stuffed hot dog.
I laughed as Violet’s big pink tongue swept out, gently scooping the cube away.
“How are things going with the garden?” Davis asked. “Any more bunny problems?”
I frowned. “There are babies, and I think I’m providing the family’s main food source. Don’t laugh,” I complained, attempting to give him the stink eye for his chortle. “They’re too cute to chase away, and I can’t let them go hungry.”
“So you’re feeding them.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes. Did you know bunny babies are sometimes called kittens? And a group of rabbits is called a fluffle?” My lips turned down, and I clutched my palms against my chest. “It’s too cute. I have to feed them.”
Davis snorted and wrapped big palms around bent knees. “My mom kept a garden at the manor.”
I stilled, thinking of the place I’d planted my vegetables. “It was where mine is now, wasn’t it?”
He nodded slowly. “She fed the local wildlife too.”
My heart swelled, and I told it to pipe down. “I’m thinking of starting an herbarium.”
“A what?”
“It’s a collection of pressed flowers, plants, and leaves. Emily Dickinson was big on it.” Considering the amount of time I’d spent outside walking and exploring local parks the last few days, creating an herbarium seemed more achievable and realistic than any of my previous goals.
Davis stretched out his legs and crossed his feet at the ankles. “She was also a big reader and writer. Have you tried that?”
I shot him my most infinitely bland expression.
“Woof.”
I gave Violet another piece of cheese and a head scratch.
Davis watched me. “Of course you’ve already thought of that. So, what do you write about?”
I plucked the journal from the blanket and stuffed it into my bag. “Nothing.” My every thought, feeling, and emotion. My very unhelpful attraction to you.
He leaned back, planting his elbows on the blanket—unusually fidgety, it seemed. “The other night ...,” he began, then drifted off. “I overstepped.”
I stared, wondering why he felt that way and why he kept bringing it up. I hadn’t wanted to kiss anyone in a very long time, and I’d never made the first move. But I did, and he’d reciprocated. While the moment had lasted, I’d been happy.
“I don’t normally kiss women I’ve only seen twice, or tenants of the manor,” he said, glancing briefly away as he spoke. “Your presence here has caught me off guard, I think.” He gave his head a little shake. “You aren’t at all what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” I asked, baffled. “Never mind.” I exhaled sharply, putting the conversation away and pulling my knees to my chest. “Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.” No need to talk about it again. Ever.
Silence lingered between us, companionable yet charged, until all I could think about was kissing him.
His hand drifted closer to mine on the blanket. For a moment, I thought he might twine our fingers or cover my palm with his. Instead, his attention shifted to the soft fleece. “Is this from the Nifty Knitter on Pleasant Street?”
“Yes.” I’d purchased the stadium blanket straight from the shop’s window, instantly in love with the checkered pattern and desperate to stop freezing at night.
“For picnics and park days? Or because you’re still struggling with the fireplace?”
I considered lying, but sighed and went with the truth. “I can make a decent fire, but it gets incredibly cold upstairs at night, and I don’t want to sleep in the sitting room.” I’d been thinking about buying a space heater.
For a moment, Davis appeared torn. “I’ll come by tonight,” he said.
“That’s not necessary.” Hope sparked in my chest, unbidden. I immediately shut it down.
Davis had sought me out, and he wanted to make plans to see me again later, but he couldn’t stop apologizing for our kiss. Couldn’t stop reminding me he wasn’t interested. Irritation surged as the thoughts registered.
I’d been enjoying a perfectly nice afternoon of reflection, exactly what I’d come to Amherst to find, before he’d arrived with his fluffy dog and charming smile. Hadn’t he apologized days ago for disrupting my quest for solitude? I really liked Davis, but his confusion only increased mine, and my time for finding peace was limited.
I rose, spell broken. “Actually, I forgot I have some errands to run, so I should go.” I packed my things, wishing I could pull the blanket out from under him like a table magician.
“Now?” he asked. “At least let Vi and me walk you back to your car.” He rose, but Violet remained curled contentedly at the edge of the blanket, Frank squashed beneath one of her front legs.
“You should stay,” I said. “Enjoy the sunset. I’ll get the blanket another time. Maybe leave it at the bookstore,” I suggested, already hurrying down the hill.
Daisy climbed out of her car as I finished the walk to Village Books that evening. I raised a hand in greeting, and she hurried to my side. “Emma! How was your day?”
“Long,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “How about yours?”
“Same. I feel as if I’m about to drop. I had classes this morning, then worked a few hours afterward. I met friends for a chat and finished some homework. Now my brain is squishy, and I could really use a nap, but it’s too late for that and too early for bed.” She rolled her head over her shoulders while also rolling her eyes. “I figured this class is a great way to stay awake. Plus it’s fun. Who cares about a little fatigue anyway, really?”
“It’s a grad student’s badge of honor,” I said.
She frowned. “So much truth.”
I held the door for her to enter the shop, then I slipped inside behind her. “How’s your dissertation coming along?”
“Not bad. Our Miss Dickinson was a real mystery. Research keeps me busy. How’s your quest? On a scale of one to ten, how Dickinson are you now?”
A laugh burbled from my chest. “I’m getting better at journaling and letter-writing, though I spend far too much time choosing my words, and I can’t use a fountain pen for more than chicken scratch and ink blobs.”
Daisy wrinkled her nose, then smiled sweetly. “I love Emily, but she isn’t someone I’d want to emulate.”
“It isn’t turning out the way I expected. I definitely like people too much to be a recluse,” I admitted. “And I like concepts like faith, fate, and destiny. I’m not sure Emily had any real spiritual faith or where she stood on the other things.”
“A mystery,” Daisy repeated.
“I hate how little success she had with her work before her death. I wonder if that made her sad. What would she think of the way the whole world knows her now?”
“Excellent questions,” Daisy agreed.
“I’m getting better at baking,” I said. “I can see why she enjoyed it. There’s a bit of art and magic in the process.” Much like gardening, I realized.
Daisy perked up. “Emily Dickinson was an incredible baker. She shared her finished products generously with family, friends, and neighbors.”
“Something I’ve been doing as well.” Though not yet with my family.
“She even kept a basket and rope in her bedroom,” Daisy continued. “She used it to lower gingerbreads and baked goods down to the children who drifted over while her brother and his wife entertained next door.”
I thought of standing in Emily’s bedroom when I’d visited her home. I’d looked through her window and wondered what she saw as she wrote. Now I imagined the green grass dotted with children in search of fresh sweets.
“Folks found drafts of her poems on the backs of old recipe cards and flour labels after her death.” Daisy’s expression turned wistful. “As if inspiration had struck in the kitchen and she’d stopped in her tracks to write. I’d kill to be that inspired by anything other than a nap and promise of graduation next spring.”
Paul hooked his satchel over a chair at the table and raised a hand to us in greeting.
Daisy grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the refreshments table. “What does he write in all those letters he gives you?” she whispered.
“He tells me about his days. Sometimes he’ll recommend a book he’s reading or tell me about something he saw that reminded him of me.”
Daisy pressed a palm to her collarbone. “That’s so romantic.”
“It’s not like that.” I moved aside so she could grab a snack. “I think he’s just a nice guy, and I’m new here. He’s been trying to make my stay more comfortable since we met.”
“Or he’s been crushing on you and trying desperately to woo you into feeling the same way.”
“There’s no wooing,” I assured.
“He’s a hopeless romantic,” she said. “Word around campus is that he married his high school sweetheart.”
“What?” I whipped my head around in search of him. “He’s married?” I whispered.
“No.” Daisy shook her head. “She left him a few years ago.”
“That’s awful.”
“That’s life sometimes,” Daisy said.
I didn’t argue.
Paul joined us at the coffee station, his genuine and easy smile in place. “Hi, Emma, Daisy. What’s up?”
I looked away, ashamed by our gossip.
“We were just talking about what goes into a good letter,” Daisy said.
“If you figure it out, let me know.”
I rocked back on my heels, relieved by his humor. “The process is harder than I expected. There’s so much pressure to say the right thing. To not waste space or words.” Those were my struggles, anyway.
“It helps not to overthink,” Paul said. “Keep it simple and have fun.” He lifted his cup in cheers before taking his leave.
My gaze trailed after him, wondering if I’d ever reach that level of letter-writing confidence. I was pretty sure my current level of Dickinson was two out of ten.