The Letter Box (GraceTown #7)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Landry Fisher watched her boss, Vern Washburn, and the burly Ted wrestle the vintage letter box through the doorway of City Hall Coffee Company.

The gold-colored metal gleamed under the entryway lights, dulled only slightly by the patina of time.

The cast-iron base scraped against the tile as they carefully set it down with a muffled thud, the weight of history settling into place.

“Thanks, Ted.” Vern clapped the young man on the shoulder, his palm landing with a solid whap. “I got it from here.”

Ted, ever the quiet workhorse, gave a short nod before disappearing to where the hum of the dishwasher awaited him.

Landry casually walked over to where Vern stood gazing at the gold box with the kind of reverence usually reserved for priceless relics in a museum.

His tortoiseshell glasses slid down his nose as he examined the details, and he absently pushed them back up, his fingers lingering as though steadying his thoughts.

“It sure is pretty,” she remarked, tilting her head.

Vern’s gaze flicked to her, his smile slow and knowing. “They don’t make ’em like this anymore.”

There was something almost wistful in his voice, and Landry had seen that look before—the look of a man standing at the edge of nostalgia, peering in.

Landry studied the cast-iron base. The metal had been painted to match the gold exterior, but something about it looked too new. She narrowed her gaze. “That base doesn’t look original.”

“It’s not.” Vern put his hands on either side of the letter box and attempted to rock it back and forth.

A pleased smile lifted his lips when the box didn’t budge.

“Sturdy. It stood in front of the cottage on Hill Avenue until the place was torn down.” Vern slapped his hands together, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

“I got it for a steal. This is a piece of GraceTown history—one that ties directly to this building.”

Landry’s gaze flicked between Vern and the old mailbox, its once-pristine metal dulled by rust and age.

The coffee shop occupied the corner of what had been GraceTown’s old city hall.

She was familiar with most of the memorabilia on display—old council meeting ledgers, faded photographs, even a salvaged piece of the original stone facade.

But a residential mailbox? That didn’t fit.

She opened her mouth to ask, but Vern, ever the storyteller, was already diving in. His enthusiasm was unstoppable, rolling forward like a steam engine.

“Caroline Charles,” he said reverently, “designed this building and the old post office.”

His voice dipped slightly as if he was sharing a secret. “Since you grew up here, you probably know that the old post office building is now part of Collister College.”

“I didn’t realize the same person designed both,” she admitted, tilting her head in thought. “But now that you mention it, the similarities are obvious.”

“Art deco with clean lines and geometric patterns.” Vern nodded approvingly. “Even the terrazzo floors—practically identical.”

“Were female architects common back then?”

“Not even close.” Vern scoffed. “Architecture was a boys’ club through and through. But Caroline Charles? She was a trailblazer.”

Despite the admiration in Vern’s voice, Landry remained focused on the mailbox. She tapped her fingers against its metal side, the sound hollow and soft. “I’m still not seeing the connection. This was for a house.”

She pushed up the metal flap, revealing the slot beneath. The word LETTERS was embossed in bold, capitalized letters, as if giving orders to an era long past.

Experimentally, she slipped her fingers into the opening—only to jerk them back when she caught the flicker of steel in Vern’s narrowed eyes. The flap dropped with a quiet clang.

“This,” he said, his voice dropping to just above a whisper, “valuable antique stood in front of the home Caroline Charles rented when she lived in GraceTown.”

A shiver crawled up Landry’s spine. It was one thing to know history. It was another to touch it.

Mila Horton, Landry’s friend and coworker, suddenly appeared at her side, her dark eyes gleaming. “Is this the magical letter box?”

Landry’s pulse kicked up a notch. Magical? Then she smiled as a memory surfaced. “Are you referring to the fact that the mailbox leads your heart to wherever it needs to go?”

Vern smiled. “Not exactly a fact, and it’s kind of sappy, but that’s what some believe.”

Mila, all serious now, nodded sagely. “Well, GraceTown is known for the unexplainable.” Her voice lowered as if she were about to reveal something profound. “Caroline Charles had this boyfriend—”

“Fiancé,” Vern corrected.

Mila shot him a quick look but continued, “He was a pilot in World War II. He was from GraceTown, which is how she ended up here. While she was here designing city hall and the post office, she wrote to him. She mailed her letters to him via this very box.” Mila gestured with her head toward the letter box.

“Then his plane crashed. Or something bad happened. He was presumed dead.”

“That part always makes me sad,” Landry murmured. She was a sucker for happy endings, and this one always felt…unfinished.

“Even after his parents were notified that he was MIA, Caroline kept writing him letters.” Mila hesitated, looking to Landry for assistance on the story. “I can’t remember what happened next.”

Vern opened his mouth, but Landry beat him to it. “His body was never found,” she said softly. “After the war, Caroline left GraceTown. She traveled to France, to the area where his plane was shot down, hoping to find answers.”

“She didn’t get any,” Vern finished. His voice was quieter now, the weight of the story settling around them.

“Some say putting a letter in the box will lead you to your true love. Or, as Landry said, it will lead your heart where it needs to go.” His lips twitched slightly as if the words were too sentimental to take seriously.

“Others say your wish will come true if you write it on paper and put it in the box.”

Landry exhaled. “What I’ve never understood is how any of that ties into what happened to Caroline and her fiancé. I mean, I could see if they reunited, but—”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Vern agreed. “That doesn’t change the fact that this is a piece of GraceTown history. It’s a beautiful antique.”

His gaze softened as he looked at it one more time. “And now it’s right where it belongs.”

The next day, Landry returned to City Hall Coffee for another shift. Home away from home.

The thought brought a smile to her lips as the familiar scent of espresso and freshly baked croissants wrapped around her like a favorite sweater.

The hum of conversation hit her first—a low murmur punctuated by bursts of laughter—followed by the occasional scrape of a chair against the wooden floor and the steady hiss of the espresso machine.

For a Wednesday morning, the shop was slammed. The usual midmorning lull between the early rush and the lunch crowd was nowhere in sight. Instead, a line snaked from the counter, customers clustered near tables, and the air carried that electric energy of a weekend surge.

Landry barely paused before slipping behind the counter, rolling up the sleeves of her light knit sweater. She liked this—the controlled chaos of a busy shift, the rhythm of taking orders, crafting drinks and making each customer feel like they belonged.

Her parents didn’t get it. They thought she was wasting her business degree, “playing” barista instead of chasing a steady paycheck in an office with fluorescent lights and a desk she’d be chained to for the next forty years.

They kept emailing her job postings, forwarding contacts of so-and-so’s cousin who works in finance—as if she hadn’t already explained, a hundred times, that this job paid as much as most entry-level corporate positions. More than that, the flexible hours gave her time to write.

Her mystery novel wasn’t real to them. Just a pastime. Something to fiddle with in the evenings, like knitting or scrapbooking.

Landry gritted her teeth, shoving the thought aside.

“Medium vanilla latte, extra shot,” a voice called out, snapping her back to reality.

Landry refocused and threw herself into work, her movements precise, automatic. Smile, take the order, ring it up, move on. She barely noticed the door chime, barely registered the next customer stepping forward—

Until she heard his voice.

“You’re bright and chipper this morning.”

Deep and smooth with the faintest hint of a British accent, the voice sent a flicker of awareness down her spine.

Landry looked up.

He stood on the other side of the counter, watching her with a quiet intensity that made her pulse skip a beat.

Sandy-colored hair, just unruly enough to be interesting.

Hazel eyes that weren’t just hazel—when the light hit just right, flecks of gold burned through.

Sharp cheekbones, the kind that made him look effortlessly distinguished, like someone used to deep conversations over whiskey in dimly lit rooms.

She’d seen him before. Usually with a group from Collister College, laughing over some intellectual debate. But today, he was alone.

For some reason, that made this moment feel different.

“Coffee. Black,” she said before he could.

His lips quirked, slow and deliberate, like he was pleased she’d remembered. “That’s right.”

Her stomach did an odd little flip.

Heat crept up her neck, and she cursed her tendency to blush. She could already feel Mila watching from the espresso machine, practically vibrating with interest.

Without a word, Mila slid the coffee across the counter before the man even had a chance to reach for his wallet. “On the house.”

The man lifted it in acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

Then, just like that, he was gone, sauntering toward a corner table, setting down his leather messenger bag with practiced ease.

Landry caught the gleam of a silver watch on his wrist, the way his fingers moved with precision as he flipped open his laptop.

“You’re staring,” Mila murmured.

“I’m not,” Landry shot back, turning just a little too quickly.

Mila leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s a hunk. A single hunk.”

Landry snorted, wiping down the counter with quick, sharp movements. “How do you know that?”

Mila wiggled the fingers of her left hand. “No ring. That’s why I delivered his coffee. So I could check.”

Landry shook her head, but she couldn’t stifle the small laugh that escaped. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Mila countered, then shot a glance toward the corner table. “You have to admit he is cute. Ridiculously cute.”

Landry sighed. Fine. Yes. I have eyes.

“And he has the dreamiest accent…” Landry admitted before she could stop herself.

“I know.” Mila practically swooned. Then, after a beat, her expression turned serious. “Who is he? Any idea?”

Landry tapped the damp cloth against the counter, thinking. “Last time, he came in with a group from Collister. I’m betting he’s a professor there.”

“You’re probably right.” Mila tugged at one of her braids. “He’s too old to be a student. And he’s just so…so sophisticated.”

“It’s the accent.” Landry smirked. “And those tiger eyes.”

Mila blinked. “Tiger eyes?”

Landry stole another glance in his direction, but this time, she was caught.

For just a second—barely a heartbeat—his gaze flickered up from his laptop and met hers.

The breath hitched in her throat.

For a moment, she swore he knew she’d been watching. That tiny smirk of his deepened—just enough to make her stomach twist. Then, as quickly as it had happened, he looked back at his screen, as if it were nothing.

As if he hadn’t just wrecked her composure with a single glance.

Landry turned back to Mila, heart hammering. She needed to pull herself together.

“Most of the time, they’re hazel,” she murmured, her voice lower now. “But when the light hits just right, they’re gold. Super sexy.”

Mila’s expression turned sly. “Sexier than Chad’s baby blues?”

The question hit harder than it should have.

Landry’s grip on the rag tightened.

She didn’t answer right away.

She wouldn’t compare them. That wasn’t fair. Chad was her boyfriend. This guy—this enigmatic, subtly British, golden-eyed professor—was just a customer. Just a harmless crush.

Just a guy who probably didn’t even notice her.

A guy who—

She caught herself looking again.

Landry exhaled sharply and tossed the rag onto the counter. Nope. Absolutely not.

She wasn’t even going there.