Chapter Nineteen
Cecily arrived two days later, an apple pie in hand. “I stopped at a roadside stand. I couldn’t help myself. I had cider. It was amazing.”
“Bless you,” I said, drawing her into a tight hug. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
She released me with a grin. “Back at ya.”
Her thick brown hair hung over her shoulders in carefully constructed waves, and she wore a fuzzy red wrap sweater and jeans in place of her usual scrubs.
She passed me the pie, then turned in circles as she moved through the foyer. “This place is incredible. It looks exactly like the online photos. If your SUV hadn’t been parked outside, I would’ve thought I landed back in time.”
“It’s pretty great,” I agreed, unsure if I ever wanted to leave.
“Show me around!” Cecily rocked onto her heels. “I want to see everything.” She dropped her overnight pack on the table beside my vase of fresh flowers. “Wait. Are these—”
“Yep.”
“Still no idea who sent them?”
“Nope.”
I glanced through the nearby window, where the sun had yet to set. If I hurried, I’d have time to show her around the manor and the town while it was still light. She was sure to go bonkers over downtown at sunset. I thought of Emily and her appreciation for nature and all its wonder. She’d written that nature never knocks, but also never intrudes. And I thought of it often in the fall.
“Let’s get started.” I set the pie on the table and clasped my hands. “The home was built in 1812,” I said, affecting an overly formal tour guide tone and leading the way through the foyer.
Cecily fell into step at my side.
We embarked on what I’d mistakenly thought would be a quick spin around the property, but Cecily was an obsessive history buff. Specifically where fashion and interior design were involved.
Cecily ran her fingertips over the wallpaper and wooden trim. We stared reverently at the ornately plastered ceilings and admired the study’s crown moldings until my neck hurt and my eyes dried out.
“Look at this fabulous handrail and spindles,” she said as we ascended the main staircase. “And this carpet runner is marvelous. I can picture us in nineteenth-century ball gowns, making our entrance to a party with men in tails and caterers carrying silver trays with champagne flutes.”
I paused on the landing to admire the stained glass. The stunning piece caught my eye on every trip up or down the stairs. “This might be my favorite detail,” I said. “In the morning, sunlight streams through and casts everything in a soft golden glow. It gives me goose bumps.”
Cecily stopped beside me, her attention sliding across the glass without interest. “Pretty.”
“Pretty?” I gaped. “You don’t have a lengthy and thorough description of the work? Or a story about its origins and relevance when compared to the overall design scheme?”
“Sadly, no. It doesn’t belong here.”
I frowned at her, then at the stained glass. “What?”
“It’s probably from this decade. Odd, because it’s the only thing I’ve noticed so far that doesn’t fit the era.”
When I didn’t move on, she added, “It looks high quality, and stained glass is certainly appropriate for the time, just not this particular piece. The placement is nice, though, overlooking everything and creating that heavenly glow you mentioned. I can see why you enjoy it.”
Her words rattled around my head for a long moment. Then I suddenly saw the stained glass with new eyes. “Iris was Davis’s mother’s name.” Something told me the window represented her and her influence over him and this place.
“Davis lost his mother?” Cecily asked.
“To cancer,” I said, hooking my arm with hers and towing her onward. I had so much more to tell her. “Let’s talk about that after the tour.”
Three hours later, Cecily and I moseyed along Pleasant Street, feeling the warm buzz of local wine in our systems and the satisfaction of our very full stomachs. We’d created a personalized tasting tour of Amherst, stopping at each café to order small plates and generous pours. We finished every sip and bite between bouts of gossip and laughter.
In no hurry to go home, we’d decided to wander. Eventually we parked ourselves on a bench, the perfect seats to watch the unobstructed sky.
Cecily noshed on fudge she’d pretended to buy for a coworker, eyes fixed on the heavens. “You’re thriving here,” she said. “Doing all the things you said you’d do. I didn’t understand why you needed to leave Willow Bend, but I’m glad you did. It’s like you’ve come alive again. And it’s amazing.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, side-eyeing her as I reached into her bag for a bit of fudge.
“You,” she said, as if that explained everything. “You’re a go-getter. A doer. A busy person who makes the rest of us look like slackers. I don’t think you’ve ever set a goal you didn’t meet. Or surpass!” She sighed, obviously deeply content. “You said you needed to come here to change your path, and look.” She stretched one arm out like a game show host. “You did it. I’m always so cautious. You give me hope by making things look easy. Like anything is possible.”
I snorted. “Well, you’re drunk, because nothing is easy for me. Ever. Except maybe our friendship.” I rested my head on her shoulder. “As for the rest of it, I just want to make people happy. Accomplishing things does that. So, I keep going.”
Cecily pulled back an inch, turned my way, and frowned. “You do all the things you do to make other people happy,” she said, paraphrasing my statement.
I raised my brows. “Yeah.” Duh. I wouldn’t run myself ragged just for me.
Her frown deepened. “You don’t have to earn people’s love. Tell me that’s not what you think.”
“Of course not.” I huffed a small laugh. That wasn’t what I’d said. Or meant.
Was it?
I inhaled a deep, shuddering breath, unsure.
“Emma.” Cecily’s tone sobered. “People love you because you’re you. You’ve got this great big heart, and you share it with everyone you meet. Your love of books, music, laughter, and terrible jokes is contagious and inspiring. You give great hugs, and you always know what to say to lighten someone else’s load. You’re a wonderful and kind human who makes people feel seen and appreciated, even if all they did was pass you on the street. And you’d still be all those things, even if you never completed another task, or checked another thing off a list.”
My mouth opened, and the pressure in my chest increased. I wanted to believe her, but I wasn’t sure I did. And I knew that was a problem.
Cecily squeezed my hand. “I know we never talk about this, because it was a dark time for your family, but it’s been on my mind since you left town. So far, this conversation is supporting a theory.”
I dared a glance at her, terrified by what she might say next and still recovering from what she’d said last.
“Is it possible your ten-year-old heart and mind misinterpreted the praise you received for all your efforts while your mom was sick? Maybe you got it twisted, way back then, and started thinking you needed to trade works for love.”
I blinked. “No. I don’t think that’s it.” But again, I wasn’t so sure.
Had I equated service with worthiness and created my own misery in the process?
I sucked in an audible breath as so many things began to grow clearer. For the first time, I could imagine what my choices might look like from my parents’ perspective. They’d seen me hustling for so long, it probably seemed as if I wanted to stay busy. But I didn’t put all this pressure on myself because it brought me joy. I was trying to make their lives easier, the way I had when Annie and I were small. When Mom was sick and Dad was spread too thin.
At ten, I’d been too young to verbalize the pressure I’d felt or to ask for the hugs and attention I needed. So I’d clung to what I was given. And praise soon took the place of affection. “Wow,” I whispered. “It’s so fucked up.”
Cecily wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me against her side. She rested her head to mine as we watched twilight swallow the sun. “You are worthy, Emma Rini. You are loved. And you are worthy of love. Just. As. You. Are. Somewhere along the line, I think your family started to believe being busy made you happy, so they let you do more and more until you’d traded your life for their happiness. I’m sure it hasn’t occurred to them that you think you have to do all this to maintain their love.” Her arm tightened on my shoulder. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner. Now that I know, I’m going to be more conscientious of what I ask of you. And I’m going to insist you take breaks when you can. I think you should do the same for yourself.”
I wiped a budding tear from the corner of my eye. Maybe living like Emily wasn’t my only reason for wanting to leave Willow Bend, I realized. Maybe part of me hoped my family would miss me. The thought was so unexpected I didn’t know what to do with it. “I’ll try.”
Something told me that attempting to slow down in Willow Bend would be much more difficult than anything I’d hoped to accomplish in Amherst, and that was saying a lot.
“That’s all anyone can do,” she said. “Now, not to pile on the big stuff, but I think we need to talk about that handyman.”
I let my eyelids close for one beat, then reopened them and straightened. “I’ve got bigger things to think about now. I’d rather not talk about Davis.”
She released me to fish another bit of fudge from her bag. “Okay, but remember how much I love you, and be gentle with my best friend while you work on her. She’s incredibly important to me.”
My phone rang, and Annie’s name centered the screen.
Cecily squeezed my hand, then rose. “I’m going to try to get a good photo of the shops with their little twinkle lights,” she said, stepping away to allow me some privacy.
I took a deep breath and answered. “Hi, Annie.”
“Hey.” Her tone sounded cautious, but light.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“No.”
My muscles tensed as I waited for the bad news, or a verbal thrashing. When Annie remained silent, I nudged. “What’s up?” When she didn’t respond right away, I tried again. “Talk to me.” The words were an overdue plea.
Annie huffed. “Some pain in the ass keeps sending me handwritten letters like she thinks it’s the nineteenth century. One of them was pretty mean.”
I stiffened, thinking immediately of the letter I’d sent inspired by Benjamin Franklin. “She sounds terrible.”
“She’s not,” Annie said, with a sigh, and my heavy heart grew instantly lighter. “Why are you sending me letters, Emma?”
“I miss you,” I said. “And there are things I want you to know. Like the fact that I love you, even when you’ve been mad at me for years.”
“I’m not mad.” Annie paused, and silence gonged. For a moment I wondered if I’d somehow dropped the call. “I’m—I don’t know. Frustrated. Dissatisfied.”
“With?”
“You.” She groaned. “Us. Ugh!”
I tracked Cecily with my eyes as she snapped photos of the cafés and shops, backlit by the rising moon. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for letting things between us get this bad or go on this long. I’ve recently come to realize some things need said so other people don’t draw the wrong conclusions.”
“Are you sorry you called me a brat?”
A laugh broke on my lips, and I covered my mouth with one hand. “I don’t think I used that word, but I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. I’m taking a class, and we were assigned to write letters that put our negative feelings front and center, so I tried.”
“Well, you get an A,” she said. “I have been a brat.”
Tears welled in my eyes, and my hands dropped to my lap. “Can we please talk this out?”
“I think you’re ridiculous for taking this dumb sabbatical right now,” she said. “But I like getting your letters.”
My heart filled with hope as the first threads of repair wound through our rift. “Will you write me back?”
“I’d rather text,” she said. “I don’t want the things we say to take two days to arrive. I like the twenty-first century. I belong here, and so do you.”
“Then I’ll text,” I said.
I wasn’t as much like Emily as I’d hoped to be at this point, but I was sure she’d approve of anything that could heal my relationship with my sister.
There was a long beat of silence before Annie spoke again. “You haven’t mentioned my flowers.”
The words hung between us for several seconds before I understood what she meant. “You sent the bouquets?”
“I wanted to say I’m sorry for being distant and grumpy lately. And for being a brat before you left.” She exhaled long and slow. “I’m not good at writing how I feel, so I tried saying it with flowers. You’re living in the past, and I remembered people used to send messages in bouquets. I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance you’d know what they meant, and even if you didn’t, they’re still flowers, and you love those.”
“I do,” I whispered.
“At least tell me they’re pretty.”
“They’re perfect.” A wedge formed in my throat, and my eyes welled with unshed tears. Annie missed me, and not my busyness. She’d made an effort to reach me where I was, in Amherst, being overly dramatic while searching for my inner nineteenth-century poet. Even though she thought it was silly. “Thank you.”
Annie made a throaty and disgruntled noise. “Mom’s calling on the other line. She’s so far up my ass lately, she’ll probably meet the baby before I do.”
“Oh, sweetie,” I said. “That’s not where your baby is.”
“Gross. I have to go. Love you.” Annie disconnected before I could respond, but the overall conversation was an incredible win.
Cecily and I woke to the sounds of Davis working outside the next day. We’d slept until nearly lunch, so we made coffee and raided the fridge, then ferried it all onto the patio. The sun was warm, a minor resurgence of the extended summer, soon to be snuffed by fall.
We wore yoga pants and sweatshirts, our hair tied into matching messy knots.
We’d gotten in late after enjoying a UMass game from nosebleed seats. Then she and I had talked in front of the fireplace until nearly dawn, making short work of the apple pie. The perfect end to a very good night. UMass had won.
I’d even impressed her with my fire-building skills and pantry full of baked goods.
“This is the life,” Cecily said, digging into our robust spread of fresh veggies, chunked cheeses, and fruits. “No wonder you aren’t in a hurry to come back to Willow Bend. I love it here.”
I bit my lip, contemplating my next words. The idea of staying in Amherst had taken up space in my head, and I wanted her opinion on the possibility. Was moving here permanently a legitimate option? Or was the coward in me simply plotting a longer escape? Cecily had a way of seeing things I missed, and I needed her insight. “I really do like it here,” I hedged, not sure I was ready for the hard truth.
“Who could blame you. This place is rife with history. The people are fun. The town is quaint. The house is gorgeous. And the views are—”
Davis appeared at the corner of the manor, as if on cue, already sweaty from hauling baseboards and wooden trim, and heading in our direction.
It seemed out of his way to pass by the patio, but I didn’t comment. And I refused to acknowledge the way his T-shirt clung to his torso and biceps.
Cecily was sure to do that for me.
“Ladies,” he said, nodding as he passed.
Cecily gaped, and he fought a grin.
“Stop that,” I hissed when he was gone.
“Tell me that was Handsome Handyman.”
“No. That was Davis.”
She whistled softly, attention fixed in the direction he’d disappeared. “Nice.”
I rolled my eyes and shoved her shoulder. “Stop. We’re friends, and I’m here to work on myself.”
She watched me closely, probably fighting the urge to make a joke about working on him instead. “It’s no wonder you fell for him,” she said, more contemplatively. “He’s unfairly attractive. If he’s half as kind and bookish as you claimed, you never stood a chance.”
“He’s also focused on his career, and I’m working on me.”
Davis reappeared, carrying a pair of folded sawhorses. “Emma,” he said, a little too gravelly. “Would it bother you if I worked out here? It’s a beautiful day. I’d hate to spend it indoors if I don’t have to.”
“Knock yourself out,” I said, feigning cool and making a little cheese-and-cracker sandwich. I considered introducing him to Cecily but didn’t want to start a conversation that might derail my efforts to let him go.
He nodded, then carried on.
Cecily crunched a carrot. “Do you think he’ll take off his shirt?”
I pointed at her in warning.
The clatter of wood jerked my eyes back to Davis. He’d set up the sawhorses and arranged several lengths of baseboard over the supports. He pulled a set of leather gloves from his back pocket, slid his hands inside, and widened his stance.
Cecily hummed.
He palmed a block of sandpaper and began making slow strokes over the wood.
“Holy f—”
I spun to glare at Cecily. “Do not.”
She shoved a chunk of cheese between her lips and chewed. “Fine. What’s the scoop on this Paul guy?” she asked. “When do I get to meet him?”
The rhythmic scratch of sandpaper on wood stuttered, then stalled for a moment before beginning again.
Cecily grinned.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Everything you’ve told me so far makes me think he’s into you, and he’s the kind of guy you always saw yourself with,” she pointed out. “Smart, sweet, into books and history. And he writes you all those letters. Pretty romantic, no?”
A shadow stretched across the grass, drawing my attention and pulling Davis along behind it. He paused to run a forearm over his brow as he approached. The opposite hand pressed to his hip. Sweat-dampened hair clung to his temples and forehead. “Care if I grab a glass of water?”
“Not at all,” I said brightly. “Since you’re not working at the moment, I’d love to introduce you to my best friend, Cecily.”
He flashed his most charming smile in her direction. “Davis. Nice to meet you.”
“You as well,” she said. “I’ve heard so many things.” Being Cecily, she dragged the smallest word in her statement as long as she could.
Davis’s brows knitted, unsure how to take the implication. “Can I get either of you anything while I’m inside?”
“No, thank you,” I said, as Cecily announced, “You should join us. Have you eaten?”
I kicked her under the table, which would’ve been stealthier if our table had a cloth.
Davis gave me a terse look. “No, but thank you. I have a lot of work to do, and I know how much Emma’s missed you. I don’t want to interrupt.”
She shot me a stinky look.
“Maybe the next time you’re in town, you can swing by my buddy Clayton’s pub,” he suggested. “Food’s great, and so’s he.”
“I’d love that.”
Davis went inside and closed the door.
I fought a smile. “Do not try to encourage anything. It’s not going to happen.”
“At least tell me his friend is that good looking,” she said. “Then point me in the direction of that pub.”
I shook my head slowly. “You’re a nut.”
“I’m on vacation, and all the doctors I work with are married or obsessed with themselves.”
A pang of guilt hit my chest, and I cracked. “Fine. Clayton is nice looking, but I’m definitely not going back to his pub.”
“Never say never.” She shrugged. “Besides, maybe he delivers.”