Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Landry lingered beside his table, pretending to adjust a napkin dispenser.
Peter didn’t mind her presence. He’d set aside an hour to speak with Alex, and they’d barely taken thirty minutes.
Now, he found himself watching Landry, drawn in by her easy charm.
She had that girl-next-door appeal—warm brown hair, striking green eyes and a dusting of freckles that made her look like she belonged in a sunlit field rather than behind a café counter.
“What kind of professor are you?” she asked, curiosity sparking in her eyes.
“A temporary one. I’m a visiting historian at Collister College. I specialize in art and design history. I’ve come to teach and to immerse myself in Caroline Charles, who lived in GraceTown from 1941 to 1946.”
This was usually where people’s eyes glazed over, where they nodded politely and changed the subject.
But not Landry. Her interest ignited, burning bright. “I know all about Caroline Charles.”
Peter arched a brow, unable to hide his surprise. “You do?”
“I do.” She gestured with one hand, a challenge in her expression. “Come with me. I have something I think you’ll find interesting.”
Peter pushed to his feet. Not knowing how far they were going, he grabbed his messenger bag and slung it over his shoulder before following her to the café’s entryway.
She stopped beside an ornate mailbox, resting her hand lightly on the top as if in reverence.
“Vern, the owner, collects memorabilia related to the old city hall,” she explained. “This building is one of the two in GraceTown that Miss Charles designed. But then, I’m sure you knew that.”
He glanced around, studying the craftsmanship of the structure with fresh appreciation.
“This beauty,” Landry gave the mailbox a light tap and drew his attention back to the box, “is from the cottage Caroline Charles rented while she was here.”
Peter examined the box, intrigued but uncertain of its deeper significance.
As if sensing his hesitation, Landry gave him a knowing smile. “Since you’ve done all this research on her, you know of her ill-fated romance.”
“I’ve made it my mission to dissect her life and works,” Peter admitted, a modest smile tugging at his lips. “I’m considered an expert on all things Caroline Charles.”
Landry’s fingers traced the edge of the metal box. “Have you heard about the magical letter box?”
Magical? The word sent a flicker of intrigue through him. “I haven’t. Please, tell me more.”
“Caroline had a fighter pilot fiancé. He served in World War II but was lost when his plane crashed.”
“This part I know.” Peter nodded. “She traveled to France in an attempt to find him, but sadly her search didn’t end well.”
A dreamy look settled into Landry’s eyes. “For years, before he was lost and she went to find him, Caroline wrote love letters to her fiancé and mailed them from this box.”
Peter smiled. “Is that magic, or just good postal service?”
Landry bumped his shoulder with her own, and Peter found the familiarity of the gesture charming.
“It’s said that if you send a letter through this mailbox, it can lead your heart where it needs to go.”
Peter tilted his head, skepticism warring with curiosity. “This isn’t even a working letter box.”
This time, Landry rolled her eyes. “Exactly. Magic.”
When Peter remained silent, she lifted her hands and let them drop with a half smile. “What can I say? GraceTown is known for the unexplainable.”
His colleague, folklore professor Dr. Joe Wexman, had mentioned GraceTown’s peculiar reputation. While Joe seemed convinced of its mysteries, Peter had yet to make up his own mind.
“Anyway, when Vern heard the house where Caroline lived was to be torn down, he approached the owners and purchased the mailbox.” Landry’s tone turned matter-of-fact. “Instead of setting it up outside somewhere, he had a base made and brought it here.”
Peter scanned the café, noting the vintage photographs and old-town relics scattered throughout. “There is a lot of GraceTown memorabilia in here.”
“It’s Vern’s thing.” Landry shrugged. “I like it. Seems fitting since we’re in the old city hall building.”
“This is a gorgeous building.” Peter’s lips curved slightly. “I love the art deco style—its clean, modern lines, its quiet confidence.”
Landry’s gaze flickered over him, something unreadable passing through her expression. “Well, I better get back to work.”
Peter hesitated, then met her eyes. “Thanks for showing me this. I appreciate it.”
“Happy to help.”
He took a picture of the letter box with his phone.
Landry turned to leave, then pivoted back to him. “You’re not from around here.”
He grinned. “What gave me away?”
“The accent, for one.”
“I’ve tried to get rid of it,” he admitted, “but it’s not that easy.”
A hint of something—wistfulness, perhaps—crossed her face. “If it were me, I’d hold on to it with both hands.”
Peter leaned in slightly, intrigued. “Why is that?”
“For one thing, it sounds cool.” Her voice softened as if she were speaking more to herself now. “And for another, it would remind me that I hadn’t been stuck in the same town forever, that there was a time when I traveled the world.”
Her words hung between them, carrying an unspoken longing.
Peter felt something shift. A pull. A whisper of understanding.
And though he didn’t say it, he understood exactly what she meant.
Before he’d temporarily relocated to GraceTown, Peter could count on one hand the number of weddings he’d attended. Once he and bridal shop owner Hope Calloway became friends, every few weeks, he found himself strolling into a church or reception hall as her plus-one.
They had dated briefly after he’d arrived in town but quickly realized they were better off as friends.
Still, he liked Hope—her mass of espresso-colored hair, big brown eyes and easy laughter made her one of the most approachable people he’d met.
Like him, she wasn’t a native of GraceTown, but she had carved out a space for herself, building Hope’s Bridal into a thriving business with sheer determination and savvy.
“It blows my mind that all these brides invite you to their weddings.” The ceremony had been a family-only affair, but Hope—and her plus-one—had been invited to the massive reception at a renovated warehouse.
“This bride invited everyone she’s ever met.
” Hope smiled as he parked in the large lot.
“Darcy is young, twenty-three or twenty-four. She and her fiancé are at that age where an open bar and loud music equal a perfect reception. The ceremony was simple—except for the dress, of course—but the real money went into this party.”
When Peter only smirked, Hope nudged him playfully. “And that’s probably more information than you wanted to know.”
She looked effortlessly elegant in a royal blue linen sheath dress cinched at the waist with a gold belt, her strappy sandals accentuating her long legs.
He was glad he’d taken her advice about not overdressing. His navy chinos and pinstripe shirt, left casually unbuttoned at the throat, fit right among the crowd of men wearing variations of the same, with a handful in jeans or even shorts.
“We don’t have to stay long,” Hope confided as they neared the entrance. “I just need to make an appearance. Darcy bought her dress from me and sent several friends my way.”
“I understand.” He offered her a reassuring smile. “But don’t rush. I like parties—you’ll probably be ready to leave before I am.”
“Good sport.” She looped her arm through his as they stepped inside.
The noise hit Peter first—a wall of sound reverberating through the vast space. Whoever had renovated the warehouse hadn’t bothered with sound baffles, making the live band’s energetic playing nearly deafening. The place was packed, the energy infectious.
Hope, ever the optimist, simply took it all in with a delighted smile. “Darcy did a stellar job with the decorations.”
The string lights draped along the walls and hanging from the ceiling softened the industrial edges of the space, while sheer curtains and vintage furniture created intimate seating areas.
Instead of traditional floral arrangements, clusters of potted plants gave the place a lush, almost magical ambience.
“It’s nice,” Peter admitted. Not the stiff, black-tie events he’d attended in the past, but there was something undeniably charming about it. “Shall we get a drink?”
“It’s practically required.” She grinned. “Choices are beer, wine or soda. I’d love a glass of red, but I’m going to play it safe and go with white.”
“What’s the fun in that?” He wiggled his eyebrows, making her laugh.
They skirted the dance floor, where a few early-bird couples swayed to the music, and made their way toward the drink stations. Along the way, they passed a buffet table laden with pizza, Caesar salad and breadsticks.
“I’ve never been to a wedding reception that served pizza,” Peter mused, inhaling the mouthwatering scent of melted cheese and spicy pepperoni.
“This is what Jason and Darcy ate on their first date,” Hope explained, her expression warm with approval. “I love that they made it personal.”
“It really does smell amazing,” he agreed, grinning. “Though it might get a little messy.”
Before she could reply, a young woman with nearly black hair and bright blue eyes stepped into Hope’s path, flashing a small diamond ring.
“You’re Hope Calloway, right?”
“I am.” Hope’s smile was immediate. “Have we met?”
“No, but I’m a friend of Darcy’s, and she mentioned she got her wedding dress from your shop.” The young woman hesitated, biting her lip. “I don’t have a lot of money, but—”
“Excuse me a second.” Peter squeezed Hope’s arm. “While you two talk business, I’ll get us some wine.”
Peter had barely reached the line when Hope appeared at his side.
“Done already?” he asked, surprised.
“I gave her my card and told her to call me.” Hope placed a hand on his arm. “I’m afraid, though, that you’re on your own for a little longer. I have to help the bride with her dress. But when I come back, tell me which bridesmaid you want to meet, and I’ll hook you up.”
Peter laughed. “Stop it. I don’t want to meet anyone. I’m a visiting professor. I won’t be here long.”
As Peter took his place at the end of the line for drinks, he idly scanned the crowd.
He wondered if he’d run into any colleagues from Collister.
Though he was slowly getting to know people in GraceTown, he was still very much the outsider.
Hope had helped widen his social circle, but the feeling of being a temporary guest lingered.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling aimlessly until a voice cut through the din.
“I believe it’s bad form to be on your phone at a reception.”
Lowering his device, Peter turned—and found himself face-to-face with Landry.
Dressed for a night out, she looked different from the barista he’d met before. The red jersey dress hugged her in all the right places, her brown hair falling in soft curls over her shoulders. Silver hoops caught the light as she tilted her head.
“Landry,” he said, surprised. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. What a stupid thing to say. If anything, this crowd was more her demographic than his.
She smiled, unbothered. “Friend of the bride or the groom?”
“Neither,” he admitted.
Interest flared in her green eyes. “You crashed the reception?”
Though he was tempted to play along, honesty won out. “I came with Hope Calloway.”
“The bridal shop owner.”
“That’s right.”
She gestured vaguely toward a broad-shouldered blond man across the room. “I’m here with Chad.”
Before he could respond, a familiar hand clapped his back. “Elliott, you’re the last person I expected to see here.”
Peter turned to find Joe Wexman grinning at him. The folklore professor had been one of the first people to befriend him at Collister.
“I could say the same,” Peter replied.
Joe turned to Landry. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Joe, and this is my wife, Sophie.”
“Landry Fisher.”
“You look familiar.” Joe studied her. “Did you attend Collister?”
“Graduated with a business degree a few years ago.” She lifted her chin slightly. “I work at City Hall Coffee. And I’m writing a novel.”
“How wonderful,” Sophie said, sounding sincere. “Coffee and books are two of my favorite things.”
“What kind of novel are you writing?” Joe asked.
“It’s a mystery set in London.” Landry felt heat creep up her neck. “Before you ask, no, I’ve never been there. But I have done extensive research.”
“A trip to see the city firsthand would be a nice plus,” Peter said, “but I don’t see it as an absolute necessity.”
“I agree.” Sophie gave a solid nod. “I know you always hear that you should write what you know, but if authors only wrote about places they visited, it would severely cut back on all the wonderful books out there.”
Their conversation flowed until they reached the bar and ordered drinks, then Joe and Sophie went on their way.
Peter lingered, glancing at Landry and then searching the crowd for the blond guy. “Where’s your date?”
“He’s around.” She shrugged, setting Chad’s beer on a nearby table. “I could text him, but it’s so loud he probably wouldn’t hear it.”
Peter hesitated. “I can help you find him.”
She waved him off with a small smile. “Thanks, but I’ll track him down.”
As she walked away, Peter watched her go, an unfamiliar tightening in his chest.
Hope appeared, watching him closely. “Well, that girl is cute. Who is she?”
“A barista I know.”
“You going to ask her out?”
“She’s here with her boyfriend.”
But if she hadn’t been, Peter would be tempted.