Not Quite by the Book

Chapter Twenty-Two

A little searching in Floriography: The Secret Language of Flowers revealed honeysuckle and daisies to represent admiration and affection, two concepts that melted my heart when coming from my little sister. I felt the same way about her, and I made a mental note to order a similar bouquet for her the next time I went to town.

I tucked the flowers into a vase and set them on the kitchen counter, then checked on my homemade noodles. The dough was finally dry: some of the long strands were bendy, others easily broken. I bagged them all and hoped I wouldn’t regret it. Then I started dinner, knowing it would take hours to prepare. I’d chosen a recipe from Emily’s era and inspired by Davis: asparagus soup. Still not a fan of cooking, I poured a glass of wine from one of many bottles I’d procured during Cecily’s visit and got to work.

“Beef, bacon, ale, spinach, cabbage,” I read, setting the ingredients on my countertop and acknowledging their presence. “Asparagus, salt and pepper, flour, mint, sorrel, beet leaves, and marjoram.” I paused to wrinkle my nose. Hopefully the soup would survive without beet leaves because I had no idea where to procure those, and I didn’t have any marjoram. I tossed an extra mint leaf onto the pile of veggies for good measure. “Why did everything require so many ingredients two hundred years ago?” It wasn’t as if they could hustle to the local Whole Foods for all these things.

As I worked, I reflected on my time in Amherst. For the ten goals I’d set, my progress so far was mixed. I journaled, read, and wrote a lot of haiku. I’d found new perspectives on my troubles and made amends with my mom. But I hadn’t become more like Emily, as planned.

In truth, the woman I’d longed to emulate didn’t live a life I wanted. She’d been riddled with anxiety and probably as unhappy as I’d been in Willow Bend, if for different reasons. I’d put her on a pedestal all my life because her poems spoke to me and helped me through hard times. But I’d confused the things Emily did—like writing poetry, baking, and gardening—with who she was, and I’d done something similar to myself as well.

I, Emma Rini, ran my parents’ bookstore, but that didn’t define me, and I controlled my destiny.

I found happiness in Amherst, just not in the solitude as expected. I’d found happiness in getting to know myself and making strides to heal the unacknowledged wounds in my family. I found hope in a future of my making. Becoming Emily wasn’t the goal anymore. And giving up on love was something that would take more than a handful of weeks to do, no matter where I was.

Methodically, I cubed the beef and rolled the pieces in flour, then dropped them into a pan with bacon on the bottom. Step by step, I followed all the numerous and boring instructions until I finally added a lid to my stockpot and refilled my glass with chardonnay.

While I waited for the soup to boil, I relocated to the study to look through the plans for my revised shop and brainstorm more. Emily’s words came to me as I scribbled, my mind moving faster than my pen could capture the thoughts. She believed beauty wasn’t made. It simply was .

I agreed. Amherst was beautiful, as was my life here. I felt alive for the first time in too long, and I closed my eyes to soak in the joy.

The bell rang a while later, startling me awake. I blinked, confused by the darkness and wholly unsure if the wall clock indicated it was six in the morning or six at night.

“My soup!” I’d accidentally fallen asleep. A wild trip down the hallway to the kitchen revealed a lot of smoke and a truly horrendous smell.

The bell rang again as I unlidded the stockpot, whose contents had boiled down to sludge, then extinguished the flame.

“Coming!” I called, sending up prayers that Davis hadn’t come to visit right when I’d set the house on fire again. I sagged in relief at the sight of Grace at my door.

“Hello, sorry to disturb,” she said pertly. “I found these in your cubby when I closed up tonight and thought you might like to have them.”

I accepted the little pile of envelopes with a grin. “Thank you.” I’d missed my usual evening trip to the store thanks to the chardonnay and impromptu nap.

“Everything okay?” she asked, giving a delicate, but audible, sniff.

I dared a look over my shoulder, thankful the smoke alarms were playing nice. “Failed recipe,” I said. “I’m getting used to it.”

Her smile was strained as she nodded, and the idea she had something more she wanted to say crossed my mind.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” I offered. “The patio is nice this time of day. We can sit outside and watch the bunnies enjoy my garden.”

“I would love that.”

Several minutes later, we sat in the cool air, a tray with cups and teapot between us. I’d snacked with Cecily at this table not long ago, and it occurred to me that having guests and playing hostess was nice. I made mental plans to continue the practice in Willow Bend. Maybe I’d invite my family to my place for a change.

Grace sipped her tea, ankles crossed beneath her chair as she scanned the rear yard. “So many memories here,” she said.

I wondered if anything particular came to mind. Tea with her sister? A toddling Davis playing in the grass? “I’m really sorry about your sister.” The words came out before I thought better of them. I couldn’t imagine her loss.

Her eyes flickered to mine, misted with emotion. “Thank you. Iris was an incredible woman. Much younger than me, but fiercely independent. I never dreamed anyone or anything could get the best of her.”

A lump formed in my throat, and I nodded, honored by her willingness to discuss someone so dear to her. “Davis said she gardened too.”

Grace set her cup aside and blinked back her unshed tears. “She was amazing at everything she tried. The best mother I’ve ever known.”

I smiled. “How fortunate for Davis to have two strong and loving women in his life.”

A tear fell over Grace’s fair, wrinkled cheek. She laughed softly as she swept it away. “Raising him was an honor. He’s turned out quite well,” she said. “I think Iris would be pleased.”

I was certain of it.

“I wasn’t perfect,” she continued. “I did the best I could, having never raised a child of my own. Davis still had his father, after all. I was only a stand-in. There was a tricky balance involved.” Her expression softened. “From what Davis told me, it’s much like your situation with Annie.”

“No.” I felt my eyes widen. “I didn’t raise her.” Suddenly the idea of taking any credit from a sick mother and worried father seemed callous and selfish. “I helped where I could. That’s all.”

“Ah.” She nodded, and her lips pursed into a small grin. “Mr. Rogers’s mother said when there is tragedy, look for the helpers. They’re always there.”

Now it was my eyes that blurred with unshed tears. “I’m not a hero,” I croaked.

“To her, and to your parents, you were.”

Her words hit like torpedoes, spoken with such assurance I sucked in a ragged breath. The possibility my family saw me as a hero gutted me in multiple ways. I wanted so badly for them to see my sacrifices and acknowledge them, but I didn’t want credit for credit’s sake. I wanted them to know I did it all from love. I’d do it again, a thousand times.

And I knew with certainty any one of them would do the same for me.

The thought made me so homesick I could puke.

“I know I come off as meddlesome at times where Davis is concerned,” Grace said, interrupting my internal meltdown. “It’s only because I love him so dearly. I want him to be happy. He’s worked all these years to be different from his father and to make a difference he can be proud of. Not that Carter is all bad,” she added quickly. “Few people are all one thing. Iris wouldn’t have loved him if he was truly awful, but her loss changed us. Carter turned to business instead of fatherhood to fill the void. Sometimes I worry Davis has forgotten to prioritize himself. He rarely spends his free time with anyone but Clayton.”

“And Violet,” I said, thinking of how the sweet doggo looked at him as if he were her whole world.

“He thinks he saved that dog’s life,” Grace said. “I think she saved his. Maybe not literally, but if not for her, he’d work more and get out less. She needs him, so he goes home. They take walks. Get fresh air and sunshine. Socialize. He’s not the sort to leave her alone more than absolutely necessary.”

“He’s her hero,” I said.

Grace raised her cup again, looking pleased at my assertion. “Yes, and all heroes need a break. It’s nice when they find one another, don’t you think? Seems like that sort of relationship might be a love story for the books.”

My cheeks heated at her implication, having called me a hero moments before. Then I thought of all the ways a potential romance with Davis had tanked, and my cynical side reared its head. “Yeah. Fairy tales.”

I cast my gaze over the garden, embarrassed by my response.

“How about you?” she asked.

“Me?” I dared a look in her direction. Were we still talking about relationships?

“How’s your mission to connect with Emily Dickinson coming along? Davis told me all about it.”

I wondered what else Davis had told her about me but kept that question to myself. “I’m revising the plan as I go.”

She grinned. “Smart girl. The tree that bends grows strong.” She checked her watch, then stood. “I hate to rush off after one cup of tea, but pickleballers wait for no one.”

I smiled. “Of course.” I walked her back to her car and waved as she reversed away.

I hurried back to the kitchen and fanned the remaining smoke through open windows before it permeated the walls. I thought about my conversation with Grace and the way she made it seem as if Davis’s life was the only one she meddled with.

She’d told Davis about the letters I received from classmates. Did she think my potential suitors affected Davis somehow? Why would they? And why hadn’t I asked her to clarify?

A sudden bout of coughing changed the direction of my thoughts. I cursed my ruined soup and ability to fall asleep in a heartbeat these days. Darn peace and tranquility.

The doorbell rang again, and I abandoned my fruitless efforts to clear the smoke to find Davis on my porch.

He wore his usual jeans, with a gray boatneck sweater over a white T-shirt, and he’d traded his work boots for deck shoes. His hair was damp from a shower, and the moment I opened the door, I wanted to drown in the fresh, clean scent of him.

His brows furrowed before I said hello. “Is that more smoke? Seriously?”

I grimaced. “It’s under control. A minor mishap. No big deal.”

He stared at the space behind me. The pointed downturn of his lips suggested he could smell the burned beef, bacon, and veggies.

“I was making asparagus soup, but I fell asleep.”

He shook his head, apparently equal parts amused and flabbergasted.

“Can I help you with something? Or did you sense the smoke and rush over to complain?” I asked.

Slowly, his attention returned to me. “I got a call from the magazine,” he said, a spark of happiness lighting his eyes. “They want to send a photographer this week. I invited Grace out for dinner to celebrate, but she suggested I ask you instead.”

I nearly laughed at the timing of his request. She was tenacious. “Honored to be your second choice again today,” I said, only partially teasing.

“Would you like to join me for dinner at Clayton’s pub?”

I dithered.

“Come on,” he said, with the wave of a hand. “We can talk about my nosy aunt. And you can get away from that horrid smell.”

The burned-soup scent registered again, and I frowned. “Give me ten minutes to change.”

On the way out, I grabbed my purse, phone, and key from the entryway table and gave the butterflies in my stomach a stern, but silent, warning. This was not a date.

“More letters?” he asked, nodding toward the pile of envelopes I’d left on the table.

“Grace delivered them.”

Davis raised his eyes to me and stiffened.

“What’s wrong?” I glanced down at myself, turning one way then the other. My ice-blue sweaterdress and suede booties were both seasonally appropriate and fantastically comfortable.

“You’re overdressed.”

“I like this outfit,” I said defensively. Something in the clench of his jaw suggested he was deflecting, and I nearly asked if it was my dress or the fresh stack of letters that bothered him.

I pushed the idea away, afraid of reading too deeply into my conversation with Grace.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke or moved.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Nope.” Davis opened the front door and motioned me through it.

I snatched the letters from the table on my way outside.

We climbed into the cab of his truck a moment later.

The interior smelled like Davis, with underlying tones of leather and the outdoors. I focused on the letters in my hand as a necessary distraction.

“Grace said you get a lot of love notes,” he said flatly, shifting into reverse.

He’d pushed up his sleeves, revealing thick ropes of muscle that flexed beneath his skin when he turned the wheel.

Instinct tickled my spine.

“Why would she say that?” I asked.

He slung one arm over the back of the seat and twisted at the waist to look behind us. He used the opportunity to give me extensive side-eye. “That’s not a denial.”

I returned my attention to the envelopes, wondering what Davis would think if they were love notes. “Just letters from classmates, family, and friends,” I said, flipping through the stack. “Cecily, Mom, Daisy, Paul, and—” I stared at the unfamiliar script on the final envelope. “Huh.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure.” Curious, I opened the last envelope and tugged the paper from the sheath. Perfect calligraphy filled the page, with a signature at the bottom that read, “Forever yours.”

“Who’s it from?”

I turned the paper over, then looked at the envelope more thoroughly. “I don’t know,” I said. My eyes returned to the short message.

Emma,

I was reading a classic today and thought of you. Having never been a fan of Mr. Darcy, I can see his dilemma now firsthand. He was a man previously in command of his own being who quickly became powerless in love. The shift is immeasurably frustrating. The results, unsettling. Yet I remain a glutton for more.

Why is it that authors a century gone can so easily know our modern hearts? Were some of us born in the wrong era? Or do some things simply transcend time?

Forever Yours

“That’s how it’s signed,” I said, feeling a little breathless.

Davis turned curious eyes my way.

I cleared my throat, unexpectedly touched by the anonymous letter. I read the page again, pausing at the final line. Had the author forgotten their signature? Or was Forever Yours meant to be a pseudonym?

“So you do get love letters.”

I folded the letter and tucked it away, unsure what else to do. “This is a first.”

I turned my attention to the world outside my window, watching the small town and its happy pedestrians pass by.

“Did you get any further with your store plans?” Davis asked, changing the subject when silence dragged between us.

“A little,” I said. “I didn’t come up with a lot of new ideas, but I broke everything down that I already had in the notebook. I made sensible lists, charts, a budget, and timeline. Then I looked more carefully at my predicted costs to decide if I’ll need a small business loan.”

Davis grunted as he made our final turn. He piloted his big truck onto the edge of a slim lot outside Clayton’s pub and turned off the engine. “You’ll need a business plan to get the loan. Have you written one before?”

“I have an MBA,” I said. “Business plans are directly in my wheelhouse. So, if I need to get a loan, I’m confident I can. But I have savings too. I used a little of it to stay here, but it’s still enough to make a significant dent in how much it will cost for some of the necessary changes.” I looked around more carefully. “Is this a parking space?”

“It is now,” he said, climbing out.

I gathered my things, then turned to find him opening my door.

Davis offered me his hand, and electricity sizzled through me like always, curling my toes at his touch. He helped me down, then pulled me close to his side. “Mud,” he said, pointing to the dark ground.

“Thanks.”

Music spilled from the pub as we approached the door, and it didn’t sound like the jukebox. “Is that a band?”

Davis steered me through the crowd by my shoulders until we reached a booth near the kitchen with a Reserved sign on it. “This is us.”

We took seats on either side of the table, and a woman in a logoed T-shirt appeared.

“Hey, Davis.” Her smile was warm, and her expression curious. She was petite with lots of makeup, but I guessed her at around fifty. Her name badge said Tina .

“Hey, Tina. This is my friend Emma. I told Clayton we were coming.”

“You want your usual to drink?”

He nodded, and Tina looked at me. “What about you, doll?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “What do you recommend?”

“Our hard ciders are good.”

“Sold.”

She winked, then swung her gaze to Davis and pumped her brows before heading toward the bar.

“That’s Clayton’s aunt,” he said with a chuckle. “She might not look like she’d be one of Grace’s friends, but she is. They’re thick as thieves. Tina and my mom grew up together.”

“Ah.” I smiled. “This really is a small community.”

“You have no idea.”

The kitchen door swung open, and Clayton appeared. I recognized him from the night I’d publicly confronted Davis on his dirty deeds. He was better looking than I’d originally thought. His eyes were bluer. His beard tidier. His smile mischievous and bright.

Davis rose to clap his friend on the back. “Clayton, this is Emma Rini. Emma, Clayton Darning.”

“Hi,” I said, offering him my hand.

He accepted the shake, then rocked back on his heels. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Davis scanned the room, appraising the crowd. “Looks like the band’s a hit.”

“That is no joke.” Clayton clasped his hands together and bounced his attention from his friend to me, then back. “Why don’t you two have a spin on the dance floor. I’ll get dinner started.”

The opening notes to “Brown Eyed Girl” rose from the guitar, and Davis tented his brows. “Should we?”

I only debated for a moment, knowing full well what my heart would think of this later. The absolute last thing I should do was spend time in Davis’s arms.

So why was my hand already in his? And why were we moving toward the dance floor?

Davis stopped where tables and chairs had been moved back to accommodate the band and crush of bodies. He caught my waist and pulled me close as another couple spun past. Heat from his nearness singed my skin and sank deep into my bones. I would absolutely regret this in the morning.

Then we began to sway, our bodies falling into step as if we’d danced together a thousand times.

“A photographer is coming to see your progress on the manor?” I asked, circling back to his incredible news. How had we gotten sidetracked from something so incredible?

He nodded, a glint of pride in his heated gaze.

I tried desperately not to think about his big hand splayed across my back, or my chest only inches from his.

“I know exactly what I want to show them. If you aren’t opposed to wearing a hard hat, I could take you into the work area later and see what you think.”

“I’d like that.”

We drifted around the floor with the other couples, a familiar tune weaving the moment into a memory.

“Everything okay?” he asked after a few moments.

“I was thinking about the house,” I lied, then something true came into mind. “I gave Cecily a tour. She’s an enormous history buff. She scrutinized every detail.”

“Did she approve?” he asked.

I nearly smiled at the quiet confidence in his tone. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“She thought the stained glass on the landing was out of place.”

Instead of the frown I’d anticipated, a soft smile curved his lips. “I almost forgot about that,” he said. “It’s for my mom.”

“Iris.”

He dipped his chin. “You remembered her name.”

“Of course.”

The song ended, and a slower melody began, but Davis didn’t release me. So I stayed, telling myself this was just another conversation between friends. We were simply in one another’s arms instead of seated on a couch or across a table. I had to believe this moment meant nothing, because if I let myself hope for more, it would be my undoing. Losing him briefly after learning he’d lied had crushed me, but it had set me back on the path I started. I’d grown and healed in the days since, and I’d resolved old family wounds. I had a solid plan for the bookstore and my future. And my time in Amherst was dwindling. I couldn’t bear to spend another minute nursing a broken heart. So if holding me meant nothing to Davis, it couldn’t mean anything to me.

“Emma,” he said cautiously, his voice so low I might’ve missed it had my ear not been pressed against his chest.

A round of applause crashed through the moment, and I sprang away.

The song had ended, and the band announced a break.

I had a feeling I’d dodged an unnecessary and night-ruining letdown. Davis probably sensed how completely I’d relaxed in his arms and wanted to remind me this wasn’t a date. We were here to celebrate his accomplishment with the magazine.

Tina waved from our table, where a number of dishes had appeared.

“I guess that’s our cue,” I said, moving woodenly in her direction.

She greeted us with a broad smile as we reclaimed our seats. “Welcome back. I’ve got your spinach-and-artichoke dip with pita chips,” she said, pointing at a bowl-and-plate combo. “Tomato-and-basil bruschetta.” She pointed to a long wooden board at the table’s center. “And blueberry goat cheese salad with house vinaigrette.”

I set a hand on my stomach, willing the butterflies away. “This looks delicious. Thank you.” Maybe if I ate enough, the food would settle my nerves.

“I can’t claim any glory here,” she said, flashing a smile at Davis before taking her leave.

Davis served a little from each dish onto two plates, then passed one to me. “What kind of soup did you say you were making?”

“Asparagus.”

Davis wrinkled his nose before tucking a bit of bruschetta into his mouth. Then he sucked a drip of oil from his thumb.

I looked away, hating the ideas that move had given me.

“How’s the progress on your goals list going?” he asked, pulling my eyes to meet his.

“So-so.” I sipped my water to ease my dry mouth. “I’m satisfied overall, I think.”

“How do the flowers and all your suitors work with your need to give up on love?” Davis asked.

“The bouquets are from Annie,” I said, enjoying the surprise on his face at my reveal. “And the suitors are a figment of your aunt’s imagination.”

“Not all of them, I’m sure.” Davis’s lips quirked as he dug into his salad with new gusto.

It was possible he wasn’t wrong, so I bravely showed him my mysterious letter.

Davis wiped his mouth on a napkin, eyebrows high. “You’re letting me read it?”

“Why not,” I said, smiling again. “You claim to know everyone in town. Maybe you can help me figure out who sent this.”

Something like satisfaction flashed in his eyes, and he reached for the letter. “Challenge accepted.”

We divided the next two hours between the table and the dance floor, enjoying a multitude of amazing foods and speculating on the identity of Forever Yours.

By the time we left, I was a little tipsy.

“I’m not sure you should drive,” I said. “You’ve had a lot to drink.”

“I had two beers in almost three hours and plenty of food. You had four ciders, and I’m at least twice your size.”

I folded my arms and leaned my head back to frown at him. “Are not.”

I lost my balance, and he caught me with a shake of his head. “I’m not sure if you’re arguing your size or the number of ciders, but either way, you’re wrong.”

“I think I should walk it off,” I said, gripping his wrist with both of my hands while I regained my bearings. The air felt crisp and cool, guaranteed to shape me up before I got home.

Davis wiggled his hand free from my grip and set it on my back, silently nudging me forward. “All right. I guess we’ll walk.”

“Yay!”

He chuckled.

We walked in companionable silence for several moments before a sleek black car pulled up to the curb at our side.

Davis stiffened, and he tucked me behind him as the dark window powered down.

I peeked carefully around his arm, clinging to the back of his sweater for balance.

“Hey, kiddo,” a man said, a strangely plastic smile on his face. “Kind of late to be out for a walk, isn’t it?”

A pretty blonde leaned across from the passenger seat. Her tight red dress rode high on her thighs as she waved.

Davis didn’t acknowledge her.

“What do you want, Dad?” he asked, sounding immediately exhausted. It was Carter. The man I’d met on the porch of Village Books. Davis’s father.

He sucked his teeth, apparently irritated by Davis’s response. “You haven’t responded to my messages.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Clearly.” Carter’s gaze flicked to me.

Davis’s hand, still bent behind him, tightened on my hip. “I started the reno at Hearthstone Manor. Architectural Digest is coming to photograph it this week.”

We stood there in silence before his dad made a low, disappointed sound. “Avery Lindor made an incredible offer on that property, and I’ve already accepted.”

I gasped, the buzz of the cider burning away.

“You had no right,” Davis replied, his tone cold and flat.

“You sure about that?”

My stomach tightened, and my heart rate rose. Had Carter sold Hearthstone Manor? To an investor? Why?

As if on cue, Davis’s father spoke again. “One old house and a bookstore isn’t enough reason to tie up all that land. Not with a multimillion-dollar deal at stake. Another set of condominiums will bring more money into this community than you can imagine, and it will continue to do so for decades to come. Don’t be childish and sentimental. Be reasonable and realistic.”

“The property is in a trust,” Davis said. “It’s intended for me.”

Carter’s brows rose. “Is it?”

My mind ping-ponged with the conversation. How could this be true? And why hadn’t Davis mentioned the possibility of his father selling the property before?

His dad wanted to turn his childhood home, where all his memories of his mother still lived, into condos.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Dad.” Davis turned and urged me forward. “Now’s not the time.”

He dropped his hand from my hip, and the inches between us felt like a chasm.