Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You’re getting quite the turnout.” Landry had patiently waited for the right moment to approach Peter, but the flutter in her stomach as she stepped toward him was unexpected.
She’d secured a seat near the front, leaving her jacket on the chair as a placeholder, before taking the opportunity to speak with him. Now, standing this close, with the low hum of voices and the warm glow of overhead lights casting soft shadows, she felt hyperaware of the moment.
Peter met her gaze, his expression unreadable yet intent.
“I’m surprised.” Peter lowered his voice as though sharing a secret. “When they asked me to speak, I agreed but wondered how many would actually attend.”
Landry tilted her head, studying him. He didn’t seem nervous, but there was a flicker of something beneath the surface—uncertainty, maybe? That vulnerability made her chest tighten just a little.
“A popular female architect of the 1940s who lost her pilot fiancé in World War II?” Landry smiled, hoping to ease his tension. “You’re getting two kinds of people—those who admire her professionally and want to learn more and the romantics who want to hear about her lost love.”
A shadow of amusement crossed Peter’s face. “Which do you want to hear about?”
“Both.” She didn’t even have to think. “I love history, especially GraceTown history. And who doesn’t fall for a sweeping love story?”
Something shifted in his expression, something almost unreadable. “Can it be sweeping if he dies in the end?”
Her breath caught.
Landry thought of Chad. Of the conversation that had unraveled beneath the trees, of the aching look in his eyes when she’d told him they weren’t right for each other.
“Not all love stories end happily.” Her voice was quieter now, almost wistful.
Peter exhaled a long, slow breath. “You’ve got that right.” His eyes, flecked with warmth and shadows, seemed to study her too closely, as if searching for something just out of reach.
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
“You look nice this evening.”
The compliment caught her off guard, and heat crept up her neck. She smoothed a hand down the front of her dress, a breezy summer piece with golden and green florals. Mila always said she was an autumn and should stick to her colors. Apparently, she’d been right.
“Thank you.” She kept her tone light, teasing, though something about the way Peter was looking at her made it hard to breathe. “I clean up pretty good when I try.”
Peter laughed, a low, rich sound that sent a ripple of something warm through her. But then his gaze flickered around the room, his expression shifting to something more careful. “Who did you come with this evening?”
It was an innocent enough question, but she felt the weight of it.
Landry hesitated only a fraction of a second before answering. “Me, myself and I.” She met his gaze and lifted a shoulder in an easy shrug. “Mila had other plans. And…Chad and I aren’t together anymore.”
Peter stilled, only for a moment. Just long enough that she noticed.
Then, in a voice that was even but softer than before, he said, “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. He seemed like a nice guy.”
She nodded. “He is.”
And then, because the truth felt easier now than pretending, she added, “Just not the one for me.”
Something flickered in Peter’s eyes—understanding, maybe. Or something deeper, something unspoken.
And for the first time that evening, Landry had the distinct feeling that this wasn’t a conversation just about history.
As Peter stepped to the podium, the room eventually quieted, though not at first. The murmur of voices, the shuffling of feet lingered, but the almost tangible undercurrent of interest and admiration was impossible to miss.
He wore khaki chinos, a crisp madras shirt and a sports coat, a look that was effortlessly professional, yet undeniably charming. The women in the room sat up straighter, eyes bright with curiosity.
And Landry? She wasn’t immune either.
“Welcome to the former GraceTown Post Office,” Peter began, his voice steady, commanding yet warm.
“I’m Dr. Peter Elliott, a visiting historian at Collister College.
I specialize in art and design history, and today, I have the privilege of sharing with you the story of one of GraceTown’s most renowned architects, Caroline Charles. ”
He paused, letting the name settle over the room.
“She designed this building and the old city hall during her four brief years in GraceTown.” His gaze swept across the audience, eyes catching on Landry’s for the briefest second before he continued.
Then, as if painting a picture with words, Peter lifted his hands. “Imagine that you’re a female architect in a field dominated by men. You’ve fought for every opportunity, earned respect in a profession reluctant to welcome you. And then…” His voice softened, deepened. “You fall in love.”
The room exhaled collectively.
“You meet George Loomis in 1940, a dashing American pilot stationed in London. Wedding plans are made. Dreams are set in motion. But when the US enters World War II, George, ever the patriot, answers the call of duty.” Peter’s jaw tensed slightly. “He is shipped overseas as a B-17 pilot.”
Silence.
“If it were you, would you have remained in England? Or would you have followed your heart to his hometown in the States?”
A murmur rippled through the audience as women turned to one another, whispering their answers.
Peter let the moment breathe before continuing, stepping out from behind the microphone, pacing slightly as if sharing a story over coffee rather than delivering a lecture.
“Caroline chose to come here. She rented a modest cottage, found work and continued designing.” A pause. “We know she wasn’t close to her family. No direct evidence explains the estrangement, but her father was a deeply traditional man.”
He gave his audience a knowing glance. “Perhaps he didn’t approve of her career—or of her being involved with an American.”
Landry held her breath. Please, please don’t mention the letter box. The last thing she needed was a stampede to City Hall Coffee.
“She wrote letters to George.” Peter’s smile turned wistful. “Something of a lost art today, wouldn’t you say?”
The audience nodded in unison.
Landry thought of her own handwritten letters—the weight of them, the release they brought. Typing words on a screen would never have been the same.
“If you’d indulge me, I’d like to read one of the letters Caroline sent George.”
A hush fell over the room.
Peter picked up a paper from the podium and began to read.
“‘Today, memories of when we first met have flooded back, vivid as if they happened only yesterday. Do you remember? Alistair Goodwin was courting me then—a fine gentleman, one my family greatly approved of. And yet, something was missing. From the very moment our eyes met, it was as if my soul had known yours long before. No polite courtship could ever compare to the certainty I felt when I saw you. It was you, George. It was always you.’”
A sharp sting pressed behind Landry’s eyes.
The words unraveled something inside her, a thread she’d been trying to ignore. The parallels between Caroline’s past and her own were painfully clear.
A suitor who made sense, who checked every logical box, including parental approval. The difference, though, was the certainty, the unshakable knowing, that Caroline felt about George.
Had Landry ever felt that way about Chad?
She thought of Kindred Spirit.
Peter’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“Caroline continued to write to George long after his plane was shot down over France. When she passed away, the returned letters—each marked ‘Missing in Action’—were found, tied together with a lavender ribbon.”
A collective exhale moved through the room. Some women dabbed at their eyes.
Peter gave them a moment before shifting gears, his smile returning. “Now that you know about Caroline’s personal life, let’s talk about her architectural contributions.”
And just like that, he had them.
He spoke of commercial art deco design, of grand entrances and polished stone, of geometric patterns and civic pride.
Landry barely heard him.
Her mind was still on Caroline’s letter.
Still on that kind of love.
Still on the man delivering this lecture.
On her way out, Landry lingered at the doorway of the old mail-sorting room.
The cubbyholes Peter had mentioned stood neatly against the wall—rich, dark walnut, polished with time.
And inside one of those cubbyholes was a flash of pale pink.
Her breath hitched.
She froze in midstep, pulse slamming into overdrive.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
Her fingers twitched at her sides. She needed to see. She had to know. Her letter…was here? In this place? How was that possible?
She stepped forward—
And a hand clamped around her arm.
“Ma’am.”
Landry jerked back, staring up at the tall, unsmiling guard she’d failed to notice.
“The public isn’t allowed past this point.”
She swallowed hard. Think. Say something.
“Th-the pink color drew my eye.” Her voice was too high, too forced. “I have some stationery just like it at home.”
The guard’s expression didn’t waver.
“I should…go?”
A beat of silence. Then a slow nod.
Landry stumbled back out of the room, blinking as the blood rushed in her ears.
Once outside, she barely made it down the steps.
The buzzing in her head was too loud.
Kindred Spirit has a cubbyhole in this building.
Peter’s words from earlier slammed into her.
Maybe you’ll find yourself wondering, as I do, if the letters Caroline sent to George were once sorted into one of these cubbies.
Her stomach dropped.
Could it be?
She’d placed the envelope into the very letter box that Caroline Charles had used. And somehow—somehow—it had ended up in one of these former post office cubbyholes.
It wasn’t possible.
And yet, it had happened.
She wasn’t just hearing about the unexplainable anymore.
She was living it.
Legs trembling, she forced herself to keep walking—one step, then another.