Chapter Twenty
Cecily left the next morning, and my heart sank at the loss. But her visit had revived me. She’d helped me uncover some uncomfortable truths about my faulty thought processes and made me question things I’d blindly accepted about myself and others for too long. Most importantly, I’d realized that, in some ways, my family was still recovering from Mom’s cancer. That revelation alone was profound enough to change everything. Healing and nurturing those relationships would be the first thing I worked on when I got home.
I’d been making myself miserable, working around the clock in search of love via earning praise, instead of opening myself up to share time and receive affection. Which meant I’d essentially created a lifestyle that had kept me away from the things I wanted most. I’d never even adopted a dog because I was too busy to take on a new responsibility. More irony. Because the dog would’ve cheerfully given me its time and affection, if I’d made room for it.
I was willing to bet my family would have as well.
Round and round I’d spun, working to earn compliments and thanks. Believing that would make me happy, and knowing it was never enough.
Attagirl s were not love.
I’d had it twisted from the start.
And busy or not, surrounded by people or not, I’d been a recluse in my own way in Willow Bend. But unlike Emily, my aloneness had been unintentional.
Another line from Emily’s poetry circled in my mind as I began a new journal entry.
A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.
As usual, I agreed. Cecily’s words had spoken straight to my heart, and in turn, she’d opened my eyes.
I made a trip to the mailbox, then to Village Books, delivering letters and picking up a small stack addressed to me. Afterward I took my sweet time walking home. I knew how few trips like this one I’d have before I returned to my life in progress in Willow Bend.
I planned to make big changes in the way I treated myself and interacted with my family, but I wasn’t sure six weeks would be enough time to cure all my problems. Something wiggled and itched in my mind, telling me I had more work to do.
I made my way to the study, eager to begin another routine I’d come to cherish. I tucked both feet beneath me on the velvet armchair and watched leaves fall from trees outside the study’s window. A new favorite indulgence. Time to be still and enjoy the beauty. For once, the silence didn’t feel stifling or oppressive. I felt swaddled and safe. I had a full evening of soaking and self-pampering ahead that would keep me busy until bedtime, and an entire day of visits, phone calls, and other things planned for tomorrow. The only question was how soon to run the bath and pour the wine.
I dragged my attention to the stack of letters in my hand. Paul wrote to me faithfully, and I’d begun receiving messages from Mom, Cecily, Daisy, and other classmates as well.
Headlights flashed over the drive, and the shape of a large pickup truck came into view a moment later.
Davis was back.
I watched, rapt, as he climbed down from his truck, no signs of Violet or his work gear, as he headed for my front door. Had he forgotten something when he left for the day? I rose to get closer to the window when he moved into the light cast from my porch. He wore fresh jeans and a button-down shirt, unbuttoned at the top to reveal the neckline of a white tee beneath. His hair, no longer damp with sweat, lifted on the breeze.
Maybe he’d come to visit me.
Why would he do that? And why did my heart skip recklessly at the prospect?
I glanced down at myself, still neatly dressed from a morning out with Cecily before she’d gone. I looked comfortable but cute, and shockingly not covered in ashes or dirt.
The doorbell rang, and I hooked curly hair behind my ears, straightened my glasses on my nose, and headed for the foyer.
I opened the door as casually as possible with my heart pounding erratically in my ears. “Hey.”
“Hi.” Davis smiled, appraising me slowly. “I was placing orders for materials and realized I need to get a measurement on something for the new en suite bath.” His eyes lifted over my head, indicating the rear portion of the manor where he’d been working. “I didn’t want to let myself in the back without letting you know I was here.”
“Well, come on in,” I said, slightly deflated.
He stepped into the foyer while I closed the door. “More letters from Paul?”
I glanced at the envelopes in my hand, suddenly—unreasonably—self-conscious, and set the stack on the table. “Among others,” I said.
“I was never great at writing. Much to the dismay of my aunt.” He grinned. “Luckily my taste in books seems to please her.”
A smile formed on my lips as I imagined Davis bantering with Grace about reading and writing.
Davis moved past me, slowing slightly as he passed the stairway. He gave the stained glass above the landing a long, silent look before continuing to the jobsite.
I softened as I watched and decided to wait in the kitchen for his return.
“Accomplish what you came for?” I asked when he reappeared a few minutes later.
“Almost. Need to grab a better measuring tape from the truck. Be right back.”
I lit the flame beneath a freshly filled kettle as he breezed to and from the front door. “Would you like to stay for hot chocolate?” I asked when he rounded the corner once more.
“I’d love to. Give me five minutes.”
“Perfect.” Cecily and I had bought a ton of toppings, and I hated when things went to waste.
Davis washed up at the sink a few minutes later, then took a seat at the table. He watched as I moved to the pantry.
“Water’s almost ready,” I said. “I’m grabbing the toppings.”
“Whipped cream and sprinkles?” he guessed.
As if this were amateur hour.
I retrieved my hot chocolate charcuterie tray and set it on the table before him. “Yes. And more.” It was heavily laden with mini marshmallows, peppermint sticks, chocolate, caramel, mint, and peanut butter chips, plus a variety of brightly colored sprinkles, jimmies, and sugars.
His eyes widened.
“Whipped cream and chocolate syrup are in the fridge.”
Slowly, he turned his awestruck expression to me. “Were you Martha Stewart in a former life?”
“No, but I did have a local chocolatier speak at Rini Reads last fall. She brought a similar tray with accoutrements from her shop. I just ripped it off.”
He stole a chocolate chip and tossed it into his mouth. “Grace’s speakers always seem to talk about birds and history. Nothing as delicious as hot chocolate.”
“Sounds like Grace needs to up her speaker game,” I said, joining him at the table to wait for the water to boil. “Also, Martha Stewart is very much alive.”
The familiar zing of energy coiled in the air between us, and I smiled.
“Tell me more about your friend Paul,” he said, dropping another chocolate chip into his mouth.
I selected a small piece of peppermint from the tray, unsure how to answer his question. “Paul’s a nice local professor.”
Davis munched, nosy but unbothered. “Ever find out who sent you flowers?”
“Why?” I asked, adding a bit of challenge to my tone.
“Is there a reason it’s the same bouquet every time? Are those your favorites or something?”
“They are now,” I said. “They’re a message sent in the language of flowers.”
Davis’s expression turned painfully bland. “Adorable,” he said, not sounding as if he thought it was adorable at all.
I beamed just to watch his frown deepen, a little trick I’d learned recently.
“Does that smile mean you’re removing Give up on love from your list?”
The kettle whistled, and he stretched upright. “Never mind. I’ll get that.”
We remained silent a long while as we stirred our drinks, then perfected our topping selections. I admired the care Davis took in building a perfect hot cocoa, as if he might receive a grade at the end. Then I forcefully peeled my eyes away before he noticed me staring.
“You never answered my question,” he said.
“You told me to never mind.”
He pursed his lips, the old grumpy expression falling back into place. “Have you changed your mind about giving up on love?”
A lump formed instantly in my throat and chest, forcing me to look briefly away. I took a steadying breath then shook my head, wishing I could answer differently. “No.”
I wasn’t in the market for romance, but I was learning to love myself and this town more with each passing day. I hadn’t anticipated wanting to stay, but I did. I wasn’t sure where that left me.
Dammit, Emily. What am I supposed to do now?