Not Quite by the Book

Chapter Eighteen

I received another bouquet of flowers the next morning and considered tossing them into the trash can. The card contained only a heart as before, and a call to the florist ended in frustration. Apparently it was a breach of confidentiality to tell me the name on the credit card that paid for them.

Since I couldn’t confirm Davis had sent them, and I loved flowers, I added them to the vase on the kitchen counter and removed the blooms that had already faded.

I decided to fully concentrate on my goal to understand and emulate Emily for the next few days, and I chose to embrace only the positive. Words from the poem that helped me get out of my shell during college came back to inspire me.

Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.

I had only a few weeks to pursue this major life quest, and I couldn’t stop seeking opportunities to embrace the journey and all it entailed.

During my letter-writing classes, and walks in town, I mentally evaluated every interaction I’d had with men since arriving in Amherst. And a few women as well. Someone was sending me flowers. But who?

The mystery was driving me bonkers and taking up more mental bandwidth than I wanted.

Back at the manor, I finished two more embroidery projects. Neither was any better than the first.

When it rained again on Friday, I holed up in the study with another book on Emily Dickinson. I set the tome aside when my eyes grew tired and my lids began to droop. Stretching onto my feet, I waffled between taking an afternoon nap or making a pot of tea. Something on a nearby shelf caught my eye, stalling the decision. An image of a golden peony, embossed on dark-green cloth binding, drew me to the bookcase. I plucked the book from the shelf. Floriography: The Secret Language of Flowers .

Curiosity soared as I thought of the bouquets of white peonies and purple hyacinths. Hardly the typical floral combination. I took the book with me to the kitchen, put on a kettle, then began to read.

It seemed unlikely that my bouquets held a secret message, but the possibility made me smile. I knew flowers were used to send silent messages in the Victorian era. I’d heard, for example, that certain kinds and combinations had special meanings. The petal colors and stages of the bloom did as well. And that the art became very nuanced in an era when eligible women were closely monitored.

I flipped to the glossary where the flowers were grouped by common meanings. My traitorous eyes and hopeful heart ran straight to the romance-related categories. None of those contained peonies or hyacinths.

It couldn’t be a coincidence that I’d received the same set of blooms on repeat. But who would send them?

Mom, Dad, and Cecily had already confirmed the flowers weren’t from them.

Grace didn’t have any reason to send a bouquet. She’d already provided a lovely vase of wildflowers upon my arrival.

I skimmed the names of flowers in every list until I found what I was looking for. Purple hyacinths signified sorrow and regret. White peonies, shame over one’s behavior. Both meanings were tied to Greek mythology, specifically to the god Apollo. Both were meant as apologies.

Davis.

I closed the book, shoved all thoughts of him aside, and doubled down on my embroidery.

I was elbow deep in dough when the doorbell rang two days later. Davis stood outside with my blanket from the park in one hand, a bag of takeout from Clayton’s pub in the other.

I stared coldly, despite parts of Old Emma clapping internally at his arrival. “Yes?”

He perused my flour-covered face, arms, and apron with a cool, blank stare. “I washed your blanket and picked up a repeat of your order from the other night.” He lifted the bag between us. “I thought it might’ve been cold by the time you got home in the storm.”

My stomach gurgled on cue, delighted by the delicious scents wafting upward.

“Am I too late?” he asked.

For a moment, I hoped his words held a double meaning.

His blue-gray V-neck sweater highlighted his eyes. His jeans and loafers implied he’d come from the office rather than a jobsite. And he’d brought me dinner. “It looks as if you already have plans.”

“I’m making homemade noodles.” From a two-hundred-year-old recipe designed to torture me. “They won’t be ready tonight.” In fact, all I’d managed to do so far was to create a giant wad of unruly dough, which I still needed to cut into strips and hang to dry.

“So, no plans?” he asked, looking slightly confused.

“No.” In fact, until the doorbell rang, I’d considered pairing day-old muffins with wine and calling it a night.

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Peace offering?”

I felt my will weakening as I met his gaze.

“I messed up,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”

I rolled my eyes and leaned against the jamb. “Fine.”

I’d already spent hours imagining this exact scenario and all the ways I could respond when he came back asking for forgiveness. Initially, I’d fantasized about shutting the door in his face, but as the days passed, I remembered how limited my time was in Amherst, and I’d started to think of our falling-out as a blessing. Davis was officially an obstacle removed from my path by fate.

I took the blanket and bag from his hands.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah, but I’m not ready to trust you again,” I clarified. “And I’ve been thinking we might as well figure this out.” I waved a hand around, indicating the house.

He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean there’s no reason you can’t get started on your renovations while I’m still here. A lot of the things you want to do won’t affect my stay. So, for the next three weeks, I think we should split the manor. You can work in the areas I’m not using or don’t have access to anyway, and I’ll stay out of your way. We both get what we want.”

“But—”

“You can start tomorrow morning. Thank you for the food.” I stepped backward into the foyer; then I shut the door in his face.

Davis arrived early the next day and set up shop in the locked supply room, where he intended to create a first-floor primary bedroom and en suite bath. As promised, I stayed out of his way.

He returned the following day with a tool belt fastened around his hips, worked for several hours, then left before dinner.

On day three, I passed him in the driveway on my way to letter-writing class at the bookstore.

“Morning.” He leaned over the tailgate of his truck, digging through a toolbox.

“Hello.”

He’d pinned his wavy hair away from his forehead with the help of a backward ball cap, unleashing the full power of his ethereal eyes. “Emma—”

I raised a palm. “Have you been sending me flowers?” I’d received another bouquet of hyacinths and peonies after dinner the previous night, identical to the other deliveries and again with no indication of the sender. I’d gone through half a bottle of wine trying to make sense of the little heart drawn on the card. Was it supposed to mean something to me? Was it a clue?

His brows arched. “Someone is still sending you flowers?”

I stared, waiting for something in his expression to suggest he was behind the deliveries and playing dumb to cover it up. I found nothing of the sort. “Never mind.”

If the flowers weren’t from Davis, then who?

“I’m late for class. I’ll catch you later?” I asked.

“Sounds good.”

The morning sun shone warm and bright as I hustled up the lane. Determined dregs of summer still warring with fall. The previous cold snap had passed, and according to the local meteorologist, we were in for a few days of relatively warm temperatures. I certainly wouldn’t complain.

I was making progress on my mission to find happiness.

“Hey, Emma,” Daisy, said, joining me as I entered the bookstore. Her golden waves spilled over the shoulders of a maroon UMass sweatshirt.

I appreciated her contagious enthusiasm.

“Did you finish your letter?” she asked, eyes sparkling with mischief.

During our last class, Grace had read us a short but direct letter written by Benjamin Franklin, to his friend William Strahan, British printer to the king. Strahan voted for use of force against America, inciting Franklin to write:

Mr. Strahan,

You are a Member of Parliament, and one of that Majority which has doomed my Country to Destruction. You have begun to burn our Towns and murder our People.—Look upon your hands! They are stained with the Blood of your Relations!—You and I were long Friends:—You are now my Enemy,—and

I am,

Yours,

B. Franklin.

Our assignment was to think of someone who needed a piece of our minds and to write to them. Whether we sent the letters or not was up to us. Completing the exercise was all that mattered.

I’d written Annie.

I didn’t deserve the strange cold shoulder she’d given me lately, or her overreaction to my taking time for myself. Something had been broken between us for too long, and the feelings had crested the surface like an iceberg when she hit her third trimester. I wanted to know why. I deserved an explanation at the very least. An apology at most.

“Yes,” I said, answering Daisy’s question. “You?”

“Boy, did I. At least seven to ex-boyfriends as far back as middle school and several professors who shall not be named.” She grinned. “Definitely never sending any of those, but it was cathartic.”

Her mention of professors reminded me of the one I’d had in common with Davis, and his face popped into my mind’s eye. Thankfully, I had better things to think about.

We waved at Grace, arranging snacks on the refreshments table, then headed her way. She smiled warmly as we approached.

“What happened to your fingers?” Daisy asked, as I set my basket of exceptionally good muffins beside Grace’s bowl of apples.

“These are my embroidery wounds.” I frowned at the numerous tiny bandages.

She laughed. “Haven’t given that up yet, huh?”

“Never.”

Grace studied me. “You ladies look lovely, as always.”

“Thank you. So do you,” I said, admiring her soft green pashmina and simple drop earrings.

She’d secured her white hair in a nice chignon and looked utterly at ease in her skin. “I hope my nephew isn’t ruining your peace, working at the manor every day now.”

Daisy’s eyes widened at the information. “Davis Sommers is at your place, and you’re here?”

I shrugged. “He’s busy making a name for himself in the world of historic properties, and I love this class.”

“Davis has a way of getting what he wants,” Grace said. “Just ask his father.” The cat-that-ate-the-canary look on her face told me she was referring to something specific.

“The barns and farmhouses?” Daisy asked.

Grace nodded and winked.

Daisy pumped a fist. “Yes! Take that, Big Commerce.”

Grace’s smart blue eyes slid to me. “I saw him talking to you not long ago.” She pointed a finger to the door at the front of the store. “Carter stopped by to rattle Davis, but he wasn’t biting, so he left. I’ve been meaning to ask you what he said.”

It took a long moment to recall meeting anyone named Carter. Then the handsome man in the black suit and orange tie came to mind. “That was Davis’s father?” He’d seemed so young. Far younger than my parents. Also strikingly handsome and confident. On second thought, I should’ve realized the connection immediately. “He said you told him I was staying at the manor.” I wrinkled my nose. “And that he would’ve stayed at a condo with a view.”

Daisy stuck out her tongue in disgust.

Grace sighed. “That’s Carter.”

Paul appeared, and Daisy and Grace greeted him before breaking away from the refreshments table. Daisy chose a seat and took out some paper. Grace greeted other classmates.

“Apple cinnamon?” Paul asked, tilting his head toward my muffins.

“Pumpkin spice,” I corrected.

His smile widened. “My favorite.”

“Try one,” I encouraged, pride filling my sails.

As it turned out, once I’d unfucked my oven, I was a pretty good baker. I’d moved on to using more modern recipes, which also helped. And everything I’d made in the last few days had been delicious. The noodles were a work in progress, but I had a list of other Victorian-era meals I also intended to try.

He peeled the paper back and raised the little pastry. “Sorry I missed you at the last class,” he said. “My TA was out with the flu, which left me with about two hundred papers I hadn’t planned to grade.”

“Yikes. How’d it go?”

“I have new appreciation for my TA and residual nightmares.” He took a bite of muffin and hummed pleasantly.

Grace frowned from afar, and I wondered if she was eavesdropping. I blamed Davis, yet again, for putting the unflattering thought in my mind.

I left Paul to finish his treat and headed for the chair beside Daisy.

“Ems,” Michael said before I reached my destination.

I turned toward the checkout, where he raised a hand in greeting. I wondered again about Michael. I didn’t know much about him. I knew he worked part time and went to school full time, pursuing his master’s degree in business administration. He was handsome and fit. Kind and funny. But was he the one behind the Historically_Bookish handle? Was he my longtime online friend?

I pointed to my basket on the table. “Get a muffin when you have a minute. They turned out great.”

He bobbed his head, then started ringing up the next customer in line.

I had to find a way to ask him about IBOOM without sounding like a nut if I was wrong.

“Look at you,” Daisy said, as I lowered onto the chair beside hers. “Your muffins bring all the boys to the class.” She pumped her shoulders as she sang.

“Stop.”

Her grin widened. “Okay, boys is a stretch of the word here, but you get it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Paul is here because he wants a creative escape. Just like us.”

She leaned closer. “If you say so.”

“Welcome, class,” Grace said sweetly, moving to the head of the table and saving me from an uncomfortable conversation. She gave her usual explanation of purpose for any newcomers and encouragement to those of us still trying to get the hang of things. “Letter-writing is truly a lost artform,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t bring it back.”

She donned her glasses and smiled slyly as she lifted a page before her. “Today I want to read a passage from Moby-Dick author Herman Melville to Amherst’s own Nathaniel Hawthorne. The men were friends for a time, sharing a mutual respect and admiration of talent and calling. Until Melville, more than fifteen years Hawthorne’s junior and at least as many times more audacious of personality, scared him away with sheer, unbridled infatuation.

“Melville writes

“ No man can read a fine author, and relish him to his very bones, while he reads, without subsequently fancying to himself some ideal image of the man and his mind ... There is no man in whom humor and love are developed in that high form called genius; no such man can exist without also possessing, as the indispensable complement of these, a great, deep intellect, which drops down into the universe like a plummet.

“Melville couldn’t contain his enthusiasm, and it eventually pushed the more subtle Hawthorne away. Melville was still writing about the loss decades later. It begs several points of thought. How well do we really know others? How easy is it to overstep when we are full of energy and words like Melville, but the object of our affection is guarded and quiet like Hawthorne? Today, let’s think of someone opposite of ourselves and send them a letter of appreciation.” She removed her glasses and tucked the paper into a folder on the table, signaling it was time to begin.

Daisy guffawed. “I had no idea those two men were even friends.”

“Melville dedicated Moby-Dick to Hawthorne,” I said.

She shook her head and lifted her shoulders. “I knew that, but it never occurred to me that they knew one another outside of reading one another’s work.”

I pressed my lips. I’d heard somewhere that the men had only lived about six miles apart, but I supposed that was a much greater distance then than it was today.

Grace patted Daisy’s shoulder. “How’s it going over here?”

“We’re just getting started,” she said.

“Who will you write to?” Grace asked, eyes sweeping to meet mine.

“Yeah, Emma,” Daisy said, picking up on Grace’s pointed tone and faux innocent expression. “Who are you writing to?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted cautiously, unnerved by Grace’s quiet intensity and wondering where she was headed.

The older woman smiled sweetly. “Davis gives me the impression the two of you are becoming quite close.”

Daisy’s eyes bulged.

I briefly considered unloading every sordid detail, just to get it all off my chest. Instead, I went with the simpler version. “Yes, we’ve become friends.”

Grace’s smart blue eyes widened by a fraction. “He seems awfully affected by the other men in your life, for someone who’s just a friend.”

“I don’t have other men in my life,” I said. What had she said to him?

“You receive letters every day, and I hear you’re still getting flowers. You certainly are the belle of the ball at class time.” She tipped her head slightly, and I followed her gaze to Paul, then Michael.

“Also friends,” I said.

“What about the flowers?” Daisy asked.

“I have no idea.”

“You have a secret admirer,” Daisy said. “It’s so romantic. Especially since you’re swearing off men. What if the sender is your soulmate?”

I fought the urge to drop my head against the desk.

Another classmate called to Grace, and she moved on. Daisy got to work, apparently inspired.

I turned my attention to the stark white paper before me, and I knew exactly who needed a letter from me today.

Dear Emma,

I paused, allowing myself a moment to enjoy the endearment. I needed to be nicer to myself more often. And I should expect others to be nicer too.

I want to remind you that you’re resilient. You thought you were defeated more than once in your search for peace and joy, especially during your early days in Amherst, but you understand yourself better now, and you’ve begun to heal. That took guts. And I’m proud of you.

I hope you never stop writing letters to yourself and the other people you love. What a wonderful way to make them feel special.

The words flowed freely; then I wrote a half dozen more letters before leaving Village Books. I stuffed three into envelopes headed for Willow Bend. One to my folks, another to Cecily, and the last to Annie. I discreetly tucked a letter into Daisy’s cubby and left one with Grace’s name on it at the counter. I added the letter to myself to a collection of kind words I planned to take out and read whenever I was down.

Whatever else had happened during my time in Amherst, I was grateful for the progress I was finally making on me.