Not Quite by the Book

Chapter Twenty-Six

Davis arrived the next morning in black dress pants and a pale-blue button-down that emphasized the cool gray of his eyes. His face was smooth shaven, and his hair slightly damp from a morning shower.

Something had shifted between us the night before. His confession, and my easy acceptance, seemed to smooth the cracks between us. We’d lingered in the driveway later, watching stars and prolonging the goodbye. Even several feet apart, I’d never felt more connected to someone.

Seeing him back on my doorstep in the sunlight, I whistled. “Wow. You look nice. Someone should come and take your picture. Oh, wait.” I grinned and swung the door wide, inviting him inside.

“I haven’t been this nervous since prom,” he said. “Maybe not even then.”

I had plans to make myself scarce when the photographer from Architectural Digest arrived.

“What if I trip over something and fall on my head?” Davis asked flatly. “What if I accidentally left something on the floor and the photographer falls on their head?”

I laughed and motioned him forward. “Nothing’s going wrong today. It’s your time to shine. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?”

“No. I’ve had more than my share already. Dear lord. What is that smell?” he asked.

“Vinegar.” I ignored the disgust in his tone. Mostly because I didn’t disagree. I closed the door and went back to the kitchen.

“I should probably be glad the place isn’t on fire again,” he said, following. “Are you cleaning?”

I sent him eye daggers over one shoulder. “I’m cooking, thank you. And for the record, I’ve never set the place on fire.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

I washed my hands and returned to my work with a shake of my head.

Davis nervously paced the floor. His gaze traveled over the collection of vases scattered throughout the space. “That’s a lot of flowers.”

“And I love them all,” I said, casting a smile to the multitude of honeysuckle and daisies in question.

I’d found a recipe in a book about colonial life and decided to give it a try. Hopefully it was still good after one hundred and fifty years. The canning jars I’d discovered in a cupboard were washed and waiting near the sink, as were a pile of cucumbers I’d picked up at the farmers’ market. I sliced the vegetables into spears and set them in a bowl, then added dill and garlic. In a pot on the stovetop, I heated water, cider vinegar, sugar, salt, and some pickling spices to a boil. So far this was my favorite recipe, mostly because it didn’t require ninety ingredients, so it was unlikely I’d mess it up. I had a Cornish hen in the fridge I planned to prep for dinner.

“No breakfast pastries today?” Davis asked.

“In the pantry. Help yourself.” I pointed over my shoulder, then hefted the pot with an oven mitt.

Next, I slowly poured some of the mixture into each jar.

A sudden crashing sound rent the room as the jar before me splintered. Hot water splashed off the broken glass and countertop, stinging my cheek. I released the pan in a scream, and the rest of the steaming concoction dashed over my bare feet and ankles.

“Fuck!”

“Whoa.” Davis’s calm tenor seemed to echo through the cacophony of terrible sounds.

He caught me by my waist as I backpedaled away from the water, then set me on a chair. He threw towels over the mess on the floor, tossed the pot into the sink and turned on the water. He came to my side while I examined the red splotches on my arms and legs. “Here.”

Davis passed me a washrag doused in cold water, then pressed a second cloth to my stinging feet. “You okay? Are you cut anywhere?”

“No, but damn.” I pressed the back of one hand to my eyes, always ready to spill a few tears.

“Good. You take this, and I’ll handle that.” He gave me the second cold compress, then turned back to the disaster in my kitchen.

The urge to scream again nearly overcame me. I wanted to flip my chair and stomp the broken glass. Pickles? Really? I couldn’t manage the simplest recipe on earth without nearly needing a paramedic?

“Emma?” Davis said, brows arched in concern. He tossed a wad of sopping paper towels and a dustpan of glass shards into the trash. “You’re moaning.”

I slumped in my seat. “I just want to make one decent recipe before I leave here, and I thought this was something I couldn’t possibly ruin.”

“This had nothing to do with you,” he said. “It happens. Like when a bartender fills a clean glass, then lifts it and the bottom falls out? It’s science.”

“Yeah, well, I used to be good at science.”

“Maybe you should extend your stay,” he suggested. “Give yourself more time to do the things you want to do. Or, since you’ve already made a nice little niche for yourself”—he stood with another full dustpan—“why leave at all?”

My gaze snapped to his, and the world stilled. I’d considered staying in Amherst not long ago. I could be happy here, could easily build a life. For Davis to suggest the same was almost too much to bear. Why would he say it? Did he want me to stay? For him?

Again I wondered if Davis was my secret admirer, the anonymous letter writer slowly stealing my heart. Why couldn’t he be?

Then I remembered my track record for love and the fact Davis had his hands full. He was at odds with his father, concentrating on his career, trying to protect Hearthstone and Village Books. How could he possibly have time to think of anything else? Never mind enough time to write love letters?

I quickly returned to reality.

Davis was simply being kind and reminding me I had friends here.

“I’ve given that more thought than you know,” I admitted.

Emily’s perfect attitude on the matter came to mind. Wherever we are, that is home. Here in Amherst, the sentiment seemed exactly true. But once I was back in Willow Bend again, I’d be home there too. My trajectory had changed these last few days. My path of perceived obstacles had cleared. “I have a store to run back home. I have to go.” I set the rags on the table and crossed my legs.

He dumped the pan with a dip of his chin.

Something about the small movement made me hollow with regret. Why couldn’t things be different?

“Are you still working on ideas for the revised bookstore?” he asked, kindly breaking the tension.

“I finished the business plan last night, and it looks good.” Inspiration had hit before bed, and I’d wrapped most of the details with a bow. “It’s going to be hard to say goodbye to Amherst, but I’m looking forward to getting a start on revamping the store. Maybe if I’m wildly successful, I can open a satellite shop here one day. At a good distance from Grace’s shop, of course. I wouldn’t step on any toes.”

“Paws,” he corrected, and I grinned.

I’d miss my new friends, but we had the internet to connect us. And I hoped to continue with the letter-writing classes, at least a couple of times a month.

“The changes at Rini Reads are going to be great,” he said. “I’ll try to come up and see them when you finish.”

I blinked, completely thrown by his offer. “Really?”

“Sure,” he said. “And you should come back to check out the renovations here when they’re complete.”

I nodded, and Davis checked the now cleaned space around him. “If you’re okay, I’d better give the renovation space another look.”

“I’m good.” I rose and forced a smile, frustrated by the pickles, but heart-warmed by his offer. “Break a leg,” I said. “I’ll bet the camera loves you.”

A few hours later, I dialed Davis on a whim and burst of excitement. Seated in the bookstore after letter-writing class, I clutched a gently crumpled page in my sweaty grip.

“Emma,” he said. “I was going to stop by the manor tonight after work. I wanted to tell you first. They interviewed me today! A reporter freed up in time to ride with the photographer, and we did the whole piece this afternoon. It was amazing. And no one fell on their head.” He laughed, and the sound reached my heart through the line.

“Really? That’s amazing!” And he’d wanted to tell me first? Not Grace or Clayton? Or anyone else? I’d surely lose sleep over this, which was fine, because I’d already be up thinking about his suggestion I stay in Amherst.

All these small things meant something, right?

“I know!” Davis exclaimed. “Thank you so much for encouraging me and for putting up with me the last few weeks. I really do appreciate you.”

“I feel the same,” I said.

There was a beat of silence. “What made you call?” he asked. “You never call. Not even when you’re freezing to death, or the house is on fire.”

“Stop.” I laughed. “It’s about my secret letter writer, Forever Yours.”

“Yeah,” he said cautiously.

“I wrote him and asked for his name. He wrote me back, and he wants to meet. Maybe you’re the wrong person to call, but ...” I’d wanted to tell him first. Wanted to know what he would say. Should I go? Was it weird? Was it safe?

Did he already know about the letter because he wrote it? I shook away the thought and silently chastised myself for projecting my desires onto him.

“When?” Davis asked.

“The letter was in my cubby when I got to class.”

A bout of laughter drew my attention to Michael behind the counter.

He raised a hand and winked.

I hoped it wasn’t him. Michael was great, but he wasn’t the one I wanted. Not by a long shot.

“When does he want to meet?” Davis asked.

“Tomorrow night. For coffee.” I took a moment to breathe, but it didn’t calm me. “What should I do?”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.” Until I met the man behind the letters, I was free to hope for what I wanted. Once I knew the truth, I’d have to deal with it, even if I didn’t get the answer I wanted.

“Can I come by tonight?” Davis asked. “We can hash this out over pizza and wings? Maybe I can even get that relic of a television at the manor to play the UMass away game for us.”

“Deal!”

We said goodbye, and I hurried outside.

A cool autumn breeze ruffled my hair as perfectly calligraphed words raced through my mind.

Emma,

Of course I will tell you my name. I doubt I could deny you much of anything. Meet me at the café on First Street tomorrow night at seven, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.

Forever Yours

I spent the afternoon under a gorgeous autumn-leafed tree outside the manor, making preliminary notes on a proper business plan. When the wind grew chilly, I took the opportunity to journal inside Village Books. I left a short note for Forever Yours in my cubby, agreeing to meet the next night.

I passed Grace and Michael stocking a fresh display on my way back out.

“Hey,” I said. “Looking good!”

Grace beamed. “Thank you.”

We made small talk for a moment before she switched gears. “Have you spoken with Davis?” she asked. “I’m dying to know how it went at the manor this morning. I’m sure it was great, but I wish he’d have stopped by on his way out.”

“I hear it went well,” I said. “He’s coming by to watch the game tonight.” I glanced at Michael to catch his reaction. “Pizza, beer, and the game. What else could I ask for?”

He smiled but made no comment.

I tried another approach, nodding toward the Outlander display. “The IBOOMers were worked up about that one this month.”

“Why?” Grace asked, confirming once again she wasn’t Historically_Bookish. Not that I needed confirmation. “Oh, can you ring them up?” she asked Michael, motioning to a family headed for the checkout.

He hurried to the register.

A customer pulled Grace aside, inquiring about Nathaniel Hawthorne.

I sagged, no closer to knowing who was behind the Historically_Bookish handle than I was when I’d arrived. Honestly, Emily Dickinson could probably conduct a better investigation from her grave.

I buttoned my wool coat to the top before stepping outside. Then, in the spirit of new routines, I dialed my mom.

She answered on the first ring. “Hey, hon! How’s it going? Did you find your secret admirer? Made any more bookstore plans? What’s going on with the bunnies?”

I dashed the toe of my sneaker against the porch and laughed. “You really are hooked on my shenanigans.”

“We are,” she agreed. “Your dad wants answers, too, but he asks me to relay the information. So, start with the bunnies. We worry about those little guys.”

“Well, don’t. Because the bunnies are living their best lives,” I said. “I’ve been working with Grace’s friend, Olivia, to make a little veggie town for the family, and they love it.”

“She’s the farmer, right?” Mom said. “The one who owns Seeds of Love?”

“That’s the one.”

I told her about Olivia’s recent delivery of items for a small-scale flower bed display. “A wheelbarrow, a picnic table, a statue of a gnome in a pointy hat. It’s all so cute. We set it up outside a hutch, also hers, where the fuzzy bunny family can get out of the elements this winter and stay warm. She filled the hutch with hay, and I removed the string and pie plates from the garden’s perimeter. Grace plans to feed the bunnies when my plants die. Until then, there’s plenty of produce to keep them busy and full.”

Mom groaned. “So stinking adorable. I can’t stand it. What else?”

Then I filled her in on the status of my admirer.

“You can’t go alone,” she said. “He could be deranged.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Ask someone to go with you,” she said. “Just in case.”

I ran through a mental list of people in Amherst I knew well enough to request as a personal protection detail. “I’ll see.”

“Do you think this could be your guy?” she asked, implication of happily ever after thick in her tone.

I sighed. “I’m trying not to.” I was here to break that habit. So why was it so hard?

“What if it’s your soulmate?” she asked.

I kicked a mound of stones. “I don’t know. I guess if that’s true, things will have to take shape on their own, because I can’t keep trying to force an outcome that isn’t meant to be. Maybe I’m just not meant to have what you and Dad have, and I need to get okay with it.”

Mom made a small sad sound. “Oh, hon. You’re meant to have your heart’s desires, so be careful with your thoughts. Sometimes the lies we tell ourselves are the most dangerous ones.”

“Mom.” A lump rose in my throat, and I glanced toward the manor at the end of the lane. “I’ve made some more plans for the bookstore. Do you want to hear?”

“Please!”

I opened my mouth with the intention to outline the barest of concepts for her, mostly to direct the conversation away from my love life. But once I started talking, the words kept coming. My enthusiasm snowballed as I spoke, and I had to force myself to stop. She’d previously assured me that I could make any alterations I wanted once the store was in my name. But hearing my detailed plan to dismantle the shop as she and Dad had made it might be hard for her to hear.

“I love all of this!” she cheered, drawing a shocked smile over my face.

“You do?”

Something tightened in my gut as I thought of Davis. This was the kind of support he should receive from his father.

“Of course! I can’t wait to tell your father. Will you really get a retired greyhound?”

“I think so,” I said. “I’ll know more once I spend some time at the rescue.”

A small noise cracked over the line, and I stilled, listening closely. It took a long moment for me to understand what I’d heard. “Are you crying?”

“No.” Mom sniffed. “I’m just so happy.” She laughed through a loud sob then, no longer trying to hide her outburst. “It’s just that you’ve been unhappy for so long, and when you left I was afraid you wouldn’t want to come home. But instead, you call now, and we talk about the important things, and you’re making brilliant plans for your future. I’m just so proud of you, and so happy to be included.”

“Mom,” I croaked, wiping at each of my leaking eyes. “Jeez. Now I’m crying.”

We spoke for several more minutes before saying heartfelt goodbyes.

I dialed Cecily next.

“Should I call 911?” she asked at ten times a normal conversational speed. “You never call me, so this must be an emergency.”

“Funny,” I said, smiling against the phone. “I’m letting go of the eighteen fifties, and I miss you, so I had to call immediately. Tell me everything. Then I have news for you too.”

“Hallelujah. Okay. Let’s see. I worked a triple; then I slept like the dead until I hit snooze too many times, woke up late, and ran out the door again. My body is on autopilot. My brain is operating on sheer fatigue and madness. I’m not even sure this conversation is really happening.”

“You sound like an audiobook I pumped up to times four. Is it okay for you to be in the ER like this? Not as a patient?”

She snorted. “Adrenaline will take over when it’s time. Meanwhile, I’m talking fast because there’s so much to say and not enough time. What’s your news?”

“Forever Yours, the anonymous letter writer, wants to meet. Should I go?”

“One hundred percent,” she said confidently. “But don’t go alone in case he’s deranged.”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay. Your turn. What else is going on?”

“I googled your boy Davis last night while looking for his friend Clayton, who is also hot, by the way. Shame on you for gatekeeping.”

I laughed. “Okay.”

“Turns out Davis is a big freaking deal, Emma. Did you know? He lives in a restored home that was featured on the local news last year. He made Architectural Digest ’s top thirty under thirty a few years ago, won up-and-coming talent of the year while he was still getting his degree, and he was on his college swim team. You have to look that up, because the photographs ...,” she said, slowing her speech to emphasize each syllable of her final word.

“I’ll be sure to ask him about it. Meanwhile, what should I wear to the café tomorrow?”

“Something hot.”

“Helpful. Any chance you’re coming back to Amherst this week? Got time for one more girls’ day out?”

“I might be able to swing that if I trade a shift with someone,” she said. “Let me see what I can do. But if I manage it, we need to visit that pub.”

“Deal.”

“Now listen to this,” she said. “I set an alert to let me know if Davis’s name popped up again, and I got a notification as I was rushing out the door. He’s in Architectural Digest magazine again! I think it’s that interview you wrote me about. The photos were taken at the manor!”

“What?” I gasped. “They were just here this morning.” She had to be mistaken. The article was surely from some other time. “What was he wearing?”

“Blue shirt, black pants, a whole lot of sexy all over. Shoot. I’m at the hospital now. Read that article! Immediately. Gotta go.”

I leaned against the tree trunk to catch my breath, thumbs dashing across the screen in search of the Architectural Digest website. I stilled when a text notification arrived. Annie had sent a message.

Stunned. I hurried to see if she’d gone into labor early.

Annie: I’m half in love with Forever Yours on your behalf

I typed a response at high speed, thrilled she’d gotten my letter on the subject already.

Me: Meeting him tomorrow night

Annie:

Annie: Be careful

I grinned. This was the kind of relationship I’d missed having with my sister. I couldn’t wait to get home and finish mending ours.

Me: How’s my niece or nephew doing?

Annie: So far so good

The sense something wasn’t quite right overcame me again, and I forced my fingers to type.

Me: Are you and your baby okay?

Long minutes passed before Annie responded. I spent each with bated breath. Finally, the little bouncing dots appeared. My sister was typing.

Annie: I’m just done being pregnant

Annie: Baby is ready to meet you

I wasn’t sure she’d answered my question, but I knew better than to ask again.

Me: I’m going to be a stellar auntie

Annie: It’ll involve long hours

Me: Yep

Annie replied with a single question mark, so I sent one back.

Annie: Won’t you be at the store?

I grimaced, hating that I’d missed so much of her pregnancy and a million other things, assuming she didn’t want me around. In reality she’d been mad at me for not being around.

Yet another vicious cycle.

Me: Nope. I will be playing with my new niece or nephew

Annie: I hope you mean that

Me: I do

I meant it more than she would likely understand until I showed her.

I was returning home an improved, happier woman, who would always make time for my family, my friends, and myself.

Annie responded once more, this time with a single red heart.

I thought of the heart drawn on a card for my second bouquet of flowers, then sent a final text too.

Me: Thank you for the flowers. They mean more than you know

I pocketed my phone, feeling as if my life was finally coming together in the ways it was meant to all along.