Not Quite by the Book

Chapter Sixteen

I dragged myself up the steps to my room, alone and miserable. Davis and I had been students together at UMass. I’d never given thought to us being on campus at the same time, having the same teachers, and walking the same paths.

I couldn’t help wondering if we’d have hit it off then, or if there were versions of us in another life who enjoyed the good without all the bad. How long could I endure the mixed signals that kept me confused and on edge? Never mind his hasty departures, yet another form of rejection. Annie and Jeffrey met at UMass; so had Mom and Dad. I’d never begrudged Annie’s opportunity to follow in our parents’ footsteps, living on campus and meeting her mate there. I was proud of the sacrifice I’d made so she could have the college experience she wanted. But I’d also silently mourned that I hadn’t had the chance to do the same.

I supposed, in a way, my experience was similar to Emily’s. She’d attended Amherst College for a short time before returning home, where she stayed until she died. I’d simply skipped the part where I left home.

Until now.

Fire crackled in the fireplace as promised, and I sloughed off my blanket cape, overheated by my catastrophic frustration. I needed twelve hours of sleep to clear my head, and a long phone call with Cecily to untangle my thoughts.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t use my phone as much more than a flashlight in the manor. So, I’d have to settle on writing another letter.

Cecily would flip when she heard about the possibility Michael, not Grace, was Historically_Bookish. I still didn’t know who’d sent my mystery bouquet. And I was pretty sure I’d nearly kissed Davis again tonight. Leave it to Professor Donohue and his yardstick to ruin my fun, even twelve years later.

Emily Dickinson once wrote that she considered her friends her estate.

I couldn’t agree more. And I hated being separated from my best friend when I needed her most.

I stayed in bed as long as I could manage the next day, avoiding my life. When my stomach growled and my bladder cried, I forced myself upright and slogged downstairs.

Ten minutes later, I carried a mug of coffee up the lane to the mailbox, eager to send off my latest to Cecily. The morning grew brighter when I saw a letter from her awaiting me. I tore it open immediately.

Dearest Emma,

I had no idea you really liked this guy. I think you should call so we can talk about this properly. Writing letters isn’t getting the job done for me. Friendly reminder, you don’t actually live in the eighteen hundreds.

I could practically hear her huffing, and I smiled.

I love that Davis and his dog make you happy. I want you to be happy. Are you happy? Please tell me the answer is yes, because that was literally on your list of things to do there.

I considered the question, unsure how to answer. I wasn’t un happy. I liked the town, the manor, and my new friends, but I wasn’t reaching the goals I’d set for myself, and that frustrated me. I blew out a long breath and read on.

You say you’re a subpar Emily Dickinson, but I think you’re a really great Emma Rini, and isn’t that better?

All my love,

Cecily

P.S. Call me you nut!

I wiped my eyes and nose with a wad of tissues I’d tucked into my bra. I squeaked when the phone in my pocket rang.

Cecily’s name graced the screen, and I nearly broke a finger answering so fast.

“Finally!” she said. “I miss you. How are you? Tell me everything. I’m trying to respond to all your letters, but work has been intense, so I’m behind.”

“I miss you too,” I said, voice cracking as tears welled and began to fall.

“Are you crying?” She gasped. “Is it the handyman? I can be there in an hour. If he’s done something to hurt you, I can make it in forty-five minutes.”

“No,” I said, waving a hand she couldn’t see. “It’s not him. Not really. Amherst Emma is just an emotional mess.”

“I’m not sure I like you speaking about yourself in third person,” she said. “I’d say this whole trip has pushed you over the edge, but it’s more likely this is the first time you’ve let yourself feel anything other than busy in a really long while. Brace yourself. You might’ve opened the floodgates.”

I thought something similar not so long ago. “Great.”

“Hey. Letting yourself feel things is good,” she said. “You’re not hiding behind checklists and the store anymore. All that time alone probably has you paying attention to yourself, your thoughts, and your needs for a change. That can be hard. You can always come home if this isn’t what you wanted. You call the shots.”

I tensed but couldn’t speak. I didn’t love the way things were going in Amherst, but I wasn’t ready to return to Willow Bend.

“Just remember,” she encouraged. “You’re hurting, and you have a huge support system here. Family, friends, the store, the community. No one will care or judge you for coming home early. We’ll just be glad you’re back.”

I took a seat beneath a tree and pulled up a handful of grass. “Thanks for saying that, but I have to see this through.”

“Are you sure?”

A couple I recognized from class waved as they crossed the sidewalk at the end of the lane. “Morning, Emma.”

I waved and smiled, hoping I was too far away from the street for them to see my puffy, red eyes and tearstained cheeks.

“Who was that?” Cecily asked.

“Pam and Jack. They came to one of the letter-writing classes on a date. They own an alpaca farm outside town.”

Before Cecily could comment, a woman jogging by called out as well. “Hi, Emma!”

“Hi, Kate,” I called. “Kate works at the café where I have lunch sometimes,” I explained to Cecily. “My friend Daisy introduced us.”

Cecily hummed, the small thoughtful sound she often made when coming to an internal conclusion. “Sounds like you’ve found a community there too.”

I let the warmth of that truth settle over me. “I have.” And for a moment, I imagined what life might be like if I stayed in Amherst long term.

“Well, that changes things,” Cecily said. “I didn’t like the idea of you in that big house, all alone and sad. But I guess you aren’t alone. So—you’re staying?”

I nodded absently, still caught in the dream of laying down roots for a fresh start. “Yeah.”

If I didn’t live in Willow Bend with my family, would our time spent together during visits be more enjoyable? Would the moments mean more? I could still come home on Saturdays for family dinner. Though I’d be tempted to get season tickets to UMass if I lived right down the street.

“I’m still trying to get enough time off work for a proper visit. Until I do, you need to call me sometimes. Hang on, I’m sending you something.”

My phone dinged with a text message.

“That’s my work schedule. The letters are fine, and texts are, too, but I like to hear your voice and know you’re okay.”

“I wish I could hug you.”

“Soon,” she said. “What’s on your agenda today? More baking? Gardening? Journaling?”

“I don’t know. The bunny has babies, so I’m mostly raising the produce to support its family now.”

Cecily snorted.

“I’ve started pressing flowers, though, and that’s kind of nice.”

Cecily was silent, probably waiting for me to crack.

“Okay, it’s a little boring, but it’s pretty.”

“That sounds more realistic. How’s the baking?”

“I don’t hate it, but I’m not a huge fan. I’d rather be anywhere than trapped in the kitchen.”

“Hard to bake from somewhere else,” she said.

Accurate. Not to mention I’d accumulated a stockpile of muffins and breads. Probably enough to survive an apocalypse.

A small hatchback turned down the lane, and I watched as it rolled to a stop in front of me.

“Someone’s here,” I said, pushing onto my feet and wiping the hollows beneath my eyes.

A girl with black hair and goth makeup rose from the driver’s seat. “Emma Rini?”

“Yeah.”

“Who is it?” Cecily asked.

“Not sure.”

The woman fished in her back seat and came up with a bundle of flowers wrapped in familiar paper. “For you.” She passed the bouquet to me, then returned to her ride and reversed away.

“Emma,” Cecily said. “What’s going on? I knew we should’ve done a video chat.”

“Flowers,” I said, admiring the white peonies and purple hyacinths. “They’re just like the ones I got before, but this bunch is way bigger.” I peered into the paper, searching through the stems and buds for a card.

“Still no idea who they’re from?”

My fingers connected with the corner of a small card-stock rectangle, and I pulled it into view. “This one has a card.”

“Oh, tell me, tell me, tell me,” she sang. “Are they from Davis? Apology flowers? Maybe from the guy who writes you all those letters? Paul?”

Or Michael, I thought. I needed to fill her in on that revelation too. I’d written it in the letter, but she was right—talking was faster.

“What does the card say?”

I stared at the inky curves. “It’s just a heart.”

“Is that romantic or creepy?” she asked. “I’m confused by your dual timeline. In the twenty-first century, I’m leaning toward creepy. In the late eighteen hundreds, I’m guessing sweet?”

“You and my family are the only ones who know what I’m doing here,” I said. “So, if it’s from one of them, definitely sweet.” Though Davis had seen my original list of goals. Becoming Emily had been one of those. Could he have sent me flowers?

I wrapped up the chat with Cecily, eager to ask my parents if the flowers were from them. But first I texted Annie.

I sent a set of quick messages letting her know I loved her and looked forward to becoming an aunt. I probably didn’t tell her either thing often enough, and that was on me. I also let her know she could visit me in Amherst anytime, if she wanted to get away before the baby arrived. The invitation was a long shot, but also an olive branch. I hoped she’d take it. I didn’t bother asking if she’d sent the flowers. She was still unhappy with me when I’d left.

A call to my parents quickly confirmed they hadn’t sent the bouquets.

And the mystery continued.

I walked back to the manor, interest piqued, and filled my mug with fresh coffee.

I was in the market for a new hobby, so I headed to the study. I’d incorporated journaling, reading, writing poetry, baking, and gardening into my days. It seemed like the right time to further embrace the era, especially since I couldn’t manage to embrace the solitude.

A set of books outlining life in the late 1800s, specifically for women of Emily’s social status, caught my eye. So I pulled one from the shelf then settled onto the window seat. I nearly laughed at the first few suggestions for female hobbies. I couldn’t sing, paint, or draw, so I immediately dismissed those possibilities and also skipped the sections on playing the piano or violin. Croquet had grown in popularity during Emily’s lifetime, but I couldn’t exactly invite a bunch of modern-day women over for croquet without seeming mad.

I skimmed onward several chapters, then paused to read aloud.

“Women frequently held salons, or small gatherings of friends and acquaintances of particular note in society. Participants traded stories and gossip while enjoying tea or hors d’oeuvres.” A salon sounded nice, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to host anything. Emily wouldn’t have, especially by the time she reached my age. In fact, she sometimes spoke to people through a crack in the door. And she’d only attended her father’s funeral by leaving her bedroom door open and listening to callers and the pastor from the second floor.

I sighed and made a note to circle back to salons if necessary.

The pages on embroidery seemed promising. I was sure I could buy everything I needed at a craft store in town. I made a list for reference and moved on.

When I made it to the chapter on crafting with human hair, I closed the book. “Embroidery for the win, then.”

The next day, I met Daisy and Kate at the coffee shop on Elm and Vine. Kate told us about a new set of condos going in a few blocks from downtown. The land developer planned to raze a pair of historic farmhouses and their respective barns to clear the way.

“Those buildings have been standing there longer than the colleges,” Kate said. “Why not make the land into parks or living museums? Why not designate the homes as historic and use federal grant money to restore them?”

Daisy patted her mouth with a paper napkin. “Davis Sommers tried.”

My ears perked. “What did Davis do?” I asked.

“Everything he could,” Daisy said. “That’s what I heard, anyway. My roommate’s boyfriend works in the history department at the college, and I guess Davis was there all last month, working with a professor to apply for grants. When that wasn’t going to happen fast enough, and without guarantees, he talked to someone in the law school about possible legal actions he could take to slow the land developer long enough to acquire the grants.”

“The land developer is his dad,” Kate said.

My jaw dropped. “No.” I thought of Michael and Grace saying the Sommers men were a big deal in town and how different their goals were. I couldn’t help wondering what that meant to their relationship. My parents and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but I’d never have to consult legal counsel to settle a disagreement.

“Mr. Sommers has saved a lot of small businesses, but I think he’d trade every historic property in town for something with ten floors and fifty potential rental units,” Kate said. “I don’t know how many people realize his kindness has a price. He offers help that leaves folks feeling indebted to him. Like making big donations to little league teams, dance schools, and community projects. Then no one wants to step on his toes because he helped them. That’s how he ends up getting his way on the big things like this.”

I frowned. “That sounds incredibly manipulative.”

Daisy gave me a pointed stare, and Kate nodded.

My phone began to buzz in my pocket, drawing my attention to a series of notifications from IBOOM. A quick peek revealed a GIF and snark war happening in real time between Historically_Bookish and a part-time clerk in Salem we often teased for being too uptight.

I gave my friends a polite lift of one finger to let them know I needed a second; then I scrolled through the comments to see what all the commotion was about.

Witch_Please_1692 worked a couple of days a week at a mystic-themed shop, and only responded to posts when they wanted to complain. This time they’d taken issue with the Outlander display post made days prior.

Witch_Please_1692: Not sure what’s worse, that joke or the display itself. No one’s reading that series anymore. I suppose being stuck in the past is typical for anyone in Amherst.

Historically_Bookish: You realize you have 1692 right in your handle, yeah? Who’s obsessed with the past?

Historically_Bookish: Also, Outlander books are literally timeless

Historically_Bookish:

Witch_Please_1692:

Historically_Bookish: You just don’t understand time travel. I made a similar joke tomorrow, but you didn’t get it then either

Witch_Please_1692: (GIF of a child wearing a painfully bland expression)

Witch_Please_1692: Defending yourself today? No @ED_Fan to rescue you? Surprised the two of you aren’t attached at the hip with them in your town

Historically_Bookish: Most things probably do surprise you

I snorted an indelicate laugh, then quickly pressed the Like option on that comment, because it was hilarious. And because I couldn’t resist, I began to type.

ED_Fan: I think @Historically_Bookish is holding their own

Witch_Please_1692: Me too. Likely every night

My jaw dropped, and a rumble of laughter burst from my lips. I pressed a palm to my mouth. A few heads turned my way in the café, including Daisy’s and Kate’s. I pretended not to notice, too rapt in the online battle.

Other members of IBOOM began to jump on board, with images of things going up in flames or otherwise being burned.

“Everything okay?” Daisy asked. “I can’t tell if you’re amused or ready to throttle someone.”

“Amused,” I admitted, tucking my phone away.

How had I ever thought Historically_Bookish was Grace?

Was Michael really the one behind the handle? I recalled him smiling and winking from his spot at the register. He’d been exceptionally warm and welcoming from the day we met in person. I remembered him asking me about the manor and sticking up for Davis when I’d called him a grouch. In fact, it was Michael who told me Davis was an architect like his dad. Not Grace. Almost as if Michael and I weren’t meeting for the first time that day, but old friends.

I sat with the possibility for a moment, comparing my interactions with Michael in person against my relationship with Historically_Bookish online. There were definite similarities. Both were playful and funny. Both loved the Minutemen. My gut said the energy wasn’t a perfect match—but I’d once thought Historically_Bookish was a seventyish woman, so what did I know?

The threat of thundershowers in the forecast kept me inside most of the next day. This time I was prepared for hours alone indoors. I’d purchased everything needed for the art of embroidery. And I tried. But I was bored and restless before sunset. Not to mention injured. Loose threads piled on the floor at my feet. My thumbs, and multiple cotton canvases, were dotted with my blood.

“Masochists,” I whispered to the ghosts of women past.

I’d accidentally stabbed myself with a needle at least one hundred times in two hours, and I couldn’t take it anymore. The nearly finished scrap in my hands wasn’t worth the pain. A series of small black Xs formed a rough circle where a garland of delicate flowers should’ve gone. Jagged, chicken-scratch letters leaned against one another inside. If I squinted, I could make out the words Salty Bitch . Which I absolutely was.

I dropped my masterpiece onto the arm of the couch, then tipped over sideways, dragging my feet up beside me. I was exhausted and starving. I wanted comfort food. Something warm and savory, like mashed potatoes or baked macaroni and cheese. I’d attempted a recipe for something called scalloped eggs several hours prior, but it had involved slicing hard-boiled eggs, then dipping the slices into a mixture of butter and beaten eggs before baking them over fat-moistened breadcrumbs and covering them with minced meat. I’d barely avoided getting sick before shoving the casserole into the oven. By the time it’d finished baking, I’d lost my appetite, but I better understood why women were so much thinner in those days.

Regardless, I refused to miss dinner too. Which meant I had to order out.

I grabbed my keys, phone, and purse, then headed into the night. Too much time alone with my thoughts was making me batty. While embroidering, I’d silently rehashed every awkward or unpleasant conversation I’d had in a decade, and I needed fresh air.

My thoughts moved immediately to Davis, still wondering about the historic barns and farmhouses he’d been trying to save. Had it worked? Did he have a new plan? Or would his father win in the end? Didn’t he see the value in protecting history? Wasn’t that half the draw of this town?

A crooked smile worked its way across my face as I thought about Davis reaching out to the law professors for help. Probably a good idea, considering he hadn’t been able to properly fix my water heater, and that kind of work was supposed to be his forte. Maybe he wasn’t always the quickest student in class.

It felt good knowing I’d handled things myself. I supposed I usually did manage to reach my goals, whatever they were. I’d just never taken any time to appreciate that. There was always something else in need of my immediate attention.

Honing my embroidery skills, however, might break my success streak. Hours spent alone stabbing a cheesecloth and my fingers had made me edgy. The hunger didn’t help.

It was probably a good thing I hadn’t had cell service or internet access all day. I might’ve picked a long-overdue fight with Annie, or demanded Davis explain his erratic behavior toward me. I had plenty of male friends, and I’d experienced my share of chemistry, but never both at once. And I’d never met a stranger whose presence consistently made me feel as if I’d finally come home. Until he ran away.

Apparently life in the 1850s made me extra dramatic. Perhaps I’d soon swoon.

The air felt cool and refreshing as I strode along the sidewalk toward town. Thankfully, my oversize hoodie and yoga pants kept me cozy and warm. I placed an online order with the local pub as I walked.

The wind picked up quickly, pushing gray clouds over a black velvet sky, moving my feet a little faster as well.

Several minutes later, I arrived, entering through heavy wooden doors and leaving the blustery wind behind. The pub’s interior was dimly lit and decorated in a vaguely nautical theme. Warm, buttery scents hung in the air, drawing me in further.

I approached the bar with a smile, curly hair piled haphazardly on my head and dark-rimmed glasses perched on my nose.

The bartender raised her brows to me, then delivered a tray of drinks to a group of women on red vinyl barstools. “What can I get you?”

“Pickup for Emma.”

She nodded. “Just a sec.”

I stepped aside to wait.

A familiar figure came into view. Davis’s broad shoulders curled over a tall glass of amber liquid as he spoke with a man I didn’t recognize. The man appeared amused, but Davis looked grim.

Then I remembered his friend Clayton owned a local bar.

And apparently that was where I’d chosen to order my dinner.