Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Peter wasn’t really in the mood to go out tonight.
Lately, a strange kind of restlessness had settled over him, and it had nothing to do with the endless stack of papers waiting to be graded.
It had everything to do with the white envelope he’d placed in the cubbyhole—the one that had vanished as if it had never existed. No hands had touched it, no shadow had lingered in the grainy security footage. One second it was there, the next…gone. A magician’s trick without a magician.
No new letters had followed. No new words to slip under his skin in a way he didn’t expect.
Maybe that was for the best.
Despite the restlessness—maybe because of it—when Hope had called, he hadn’t hesitated to say yes.
“I’m glad you didn’t have plans for the evening.” Hope smiled up at him as they strolled through the candlelit grounds of Grace Gardens, the scent of lavender and late-summer roses thick in the air.
Strings of fairy lights draped through the trees, casting flickering gold across the pathways, and the low hum of conversation wrapped around them like a warm current.
“Only papers to grade,” he said. “I’m glad you called.”
It wasn’t a lie. He could have made plans for the weekend, could have filled his time with something, anything, to distract himself from the quiet nagging feeling that something had been left unfinished. But he hadn’t.
He turned toward Hope, hesitating only for a beat. “Do you want to hear something strange?”
Her eyes sparked with curiosity. “Absolutely. Strange stories are my favorite.”
So he told her. About the letter he’d received. About the way his response had disappeared, inexplicably, without a trace. About the eerie, unshakable feeling that the letter had been meant for him.
“Crazy, right?”
A thoughtful look blanketed Hope’s face. She didn’t laugh or dismiss it. She simply tilted her head, considering. “I’d say that’s more interesting than crazy.”
“You can’t honestly believe someone is communicating with me in some magical way.” He tried to inject skepticism into his voice, but the words tasted hollow. Because a part of him did believe it. Or at least he wanted to.
Hope took a slow sip of her white sangria, then held it out to him. “Try this.”
He did and returned the glass to her. The sangria was crisp, cool, bursting with citrus and something sweet he couldn’t place.
“You’ll get another letter,” she told him.
He studied her over the rim of his glass of beer. “You sound pretty sure of that.”
“I am.” She took another sip of her sangria, her gaze thoughtful. “The question is, what are you going to do if you do?”
He had no answer for that.
They ordered food from the trucks—crab balls for Hope, rockfish tacos for him—then found a quiet spot under a sprawling oak. The glow of string lights overhead turned the night golden, and the faint murmur of music drifted from somewhere beyond the garden.
“You said the letter was about dreams,” Hope said after a while, breaking apart a fry between her fingers. “What kind of dreams?”
Peter hesitated.
The words had come easily when he’d written them to a stranger. But here, face-to-face with Hope, under the soft glow of candlelight, they felt heavier. More real.
“It was about family,” he said finally. “About being pulled in one direction when you want to go another.”
Hope’s gaze didn’t waver. “Is that something you relate to?”
It was a simple question, one he should have been able to answer easily.
Instead, he reached for his beer, rolling the chilled glass between his palms.
“My parents had very specific goals for their children.” He kept his voice even, measured, giving away nothing of his feelings. “Let’s just say ‘historian’ wasn’t exactly on their list.”
Hope didn’t press, but something in her expression softened.
“I was lucky,” she said after a moment. “No one really cared what I did.”
She said it lightly, almost too lightly. Like it had never mattered. Like it hadn’t left its own quiet mark.
Peter didn’t call her on it.
Some silences weren’t meant to be filled.
“Will you write to her again?” she asked.
“Technically, I don’t know it’s a her. I’m basing that mostly on the stationery, but maybe everyone in the great beyond is into pink paper with silver stars.”
Hope rolled her eyes but didn’t stifle her smile. “Fine, fine. Her, him, whatever. Will you write to the mystery sender again?”
He huffed out a laugh. “You mean if I get another letter?”
Hope just smiled. “With or without.”
Peter exhaled slowly, watching the way the golden liquid in his glass sloshed gently with each movement. “If I get another one, I’ll respond. If I don’t…” He shrugged, feigning indifference. “I’ll assume it was a one-time thing.”
But even as he said the words, something inside him tightened at the thought of never hearing from her again. Because despite all his deflections, despite the skepticism he tried to cling to, some part of him knew…
The writer of that letter was a her.
And stranger still?
He wasn’t sure he was ready to let her go.
Hope must have sensed the shift in his mood because she leaned forward, seamlessly changing the subject.
“I know one of the musicians playing tonight.”
He could see why she was so successful in an industry known for handling temperamental people. Hope had a rare, effortless composure that made everything seem a little easier, a little lighter.
She probably wouldn’t even blink if a bride insisted on walking down the aisle dressed as a unicorn. The thought made him smile before he focused on what she’d said.
“Who is the musician?” he asked. “Anyone I know?”
Hope thought for a moment. “I’m not sure if she’s been at any of the events we’ve attended.”
He offered an encouraging smile and polished off the last of his taco.
“Her name is Emily Curtis. She’s an incredible violinist.” Hope’s voice warmed slightly, telling him Emily was more than just an acquaintance. “You may have run across her at one of the college events. She and Dalton Edwards are a thing.”
Peter nodded thoughtfully. He’d met Dalton—the head of the Economics Department—a few times, but their interactions had been minimal.
“I don’t believe I have run into her, but it amazes me how involved those who work at Collister are in the community.”
“I’m not sure if ‘involved’ is the word, but you certainly don’t have to go far to find someone who knows someone who knows someone else.” Hope laughed, then glanced at the empty plate in front of him. “What do you say we clear the table and head down by the gazebo to find our seats?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
As they cleared the table and made their way through the flickering lights and murmuring crowd, Peter couldn’t stop his mind from circling back to the letter.
Landry rested her hand lightly on Chad’s arm as they navigated through the crowd, her fingertips barely grazing the crisp fabric of his polo.
She still couldn’t believe he’d willingly splurged on the picnic basket they’d shared—every detail of it curated for indulgence, from the perfectly chilled chicken Caesar wraps to an exquisite selection of cheeses and cured meats.
But what had truly won her over were the lemon and raspberry macarons, their delicate shells cracking softly between her teeth before melting into a symphony of tart and sweet.
Not only hadn’t he grumbled about the cost, but he’d also insisted she enjoy a drink. She had chosen the sangria, its fruity depth a delightful contrast to the summer air, while Chad—the responsible one tonight—had stuck to soda.
“Are you sure you don’t want to get another sangria now?” Chad asked, his voice low, laced with something almost tender as he glanced at her.
The way the evening lights caught in his eyes made her stomach flutter. Dressed in well-fitted chinos and that sky-blue polo stretched across his broad chest, he looked… Well, he looked good. Too good. And the way he was acting tonight—attentive, thoughtful, entirely focused on her—confused her.
Tonight is all about you, he had told her earlier.
The words echoed in her mind, wrapping around her like a soft embrace. Just recalling the look in his eyes as he’d mouthed the sweet words had Landry going all warm and gooey inside. Despite any differences they might have, Chad really was a nice guy.
“Landry?”
His voice pulled her from her thoughts.
“Pardon?”
Smiling, he brushed a strand of hair back from her face, the backs of his knuckles grazing her cheek. The featherlight touch sent warmth spreading through her, and she swallowed.
“Sangria now or later?”
“Let’s find our seats first.”
“Your wish is my command.”
“This is turning out to be a lovely evening.”
Chad’s smile held something more than amusement, as though he was pleased not just with the event but with himself for making her happy. “I’m glad.”
Landry gestured around them. “I love what they’ve done with the twinkling string lights, and look—”
Instead of the stark white lacquered chairs she remembered from weddings here, Adirondack chairs had been arranged in neat rows, each adorned with plush cushions embroidered with birds, butterflies and dragonflies.
The warm glow of the lights reflected off the vibrant fabric, giving the entire scene an almost magical feel.
If she hadn’t been holding on to Chad’s arm, she might have clapped her hands in delight. “It’s all so lovely.”
He offered her a small, indulgent smile. “If you say so.”
At her sharp look, he added, “Okay, okay. It has a fun vibe.”
She squeezed his arm. “I agree.”
The seats Chad had chosen were perfect—center section, just a few rows back from the stage and on the aisle. Like a gentleman, he stepped back, allowing her to enter first.
“Thank you, kind sir.”
Before she could stop herself, she brushed her lips against his. A fleeting, barely there kiss, but one that had his breath catching and color rising up his neck.
“You’re welcome.”