Chapter 4
Edward stood very high in her opinion. —Sense and Sensibility
Elinor
A polite knock raps on my door.
“Come in,” I say absently as I shut my banking tab. The door swings open. I glance up, and my heart stops.
“It’s you!” We say in unison.
Edward. The man I met on the trail. The man I was just thinking about is here.
I close my eyes and reopen them. He’s still there politely standing in my doorway dressed in a tan linen suit, looking for all the world as if he just walked off a fashion shoot for cologne or expensive watches.
Except he’s not scowling like your typical male model. His whole face radiates surprised joy.
“Elinor?” He asks with a slight waver in his voice, “You are Elinor Greenwood?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
He nods and shuts the door behind him. His expression of delight shifts to something more complicated and harder to read.
To be fair, my heart is also in tumult. I can’t begin to name how I feel—happy to see him, yes.
But also, a little afraid and confused. I’m more than a bit flattered that he has gone to the effort to find me—seven months after we first met.
It’s an unbelievable compliment that he even remembers me.
“How did you find me?” I ask as he reaches out to give me a firm handshake. When our hands meet, my whole body lights up, just like last time.
“As fate would have it,” he pauses and gives me a sheepish grin. “Reginald Norland is—I mean, was . . .” his tone sobers with the small correction, “my grandpa.”
“You’re the new owner?” I sound disappointed. I suppose I am. And more than a little embarrassed for implying that he might have sought me out.
“Not exactly. My mom owns Norland Park. I . . . um . . . I’m here as her representative. J.J. at the front desk said that you could help me with my room.”
“Barbara Norland isn’t coming?”
“She sent me instead. I hope that’s okay?”
No, nothing about this is okay. This man is going to be staying in our house tonight.
In the guestroom next to mine. We’ll be sharing the same crowded bathroom.
I’ve been dreading Barbarba Norland’s visit, but at least I had some idea of what to expect.
I could be professional and pleasant with her.
But with Edward—the guy with the infectious smile that I often dream about as I drift off to sleep?
He’s here in my office, and he’s so much more attractive than I remember. This is a total nightmare.
I take a deep breath and smile, though I’m certain it doesn’t reach my eyes.
“Fine, so you’re here to . . . ?” Upend my life? I wonder bleakly.
“I’m here to . . . um . . . see the property.” He pulls out the chair in front of my desk. “May I?”
“Yes, of course, please sit.”
“I can’t believe it’s really you,” he says as he settles in his seat. “This is weird, isn’t it?”
“So weird,” I exhale.
For a beat we just stare at each other. He’s definitely overdressed.
No one wears a suit at Norland Park. Yet, on him somehow the suit belongs.
His eyes are the color of the ocean at twilight.
I wonder what color he puts on his driver’s license.
Gray or blue? It hardly matters . . . but they are nice eyes.
The perfect mix of serious and laughing.
Unfortunately, there isn’t anything about Edward I don’t like—except that he’s the new owner’s son.
I straighten a stack of already tidy papers, just for something to do with my shaking hands.
“Um . . . well . . .” Edward begins and then stops, looking adorably baffled.
Perhaps he is doing the same thing I am—rapidly reviewing and discarding all the possible things to say.
You’re better looking than I remembered .
. . Are you here to ruin my life? So much better looking!
I wish it were anyone but you kicking me out .
. . But also—is it strange that I’m happy to see you?
You have nice eyes—are they gray or blue?
. . . I really should have said yes to that date.
I finally settle on, “Can I get you something? Tea or lukewarm tap water?” I point to my electric kettle on the bookshelf behind me. I also keep a stash of mismatched teacups along with a tin of my favorite teas. I reach for a second tin and place it on my desk. “Or some cookies?”
“Cookies?” He smiles, and those irresistible creases appear by his eyes. “You have cookies?”
“I do.”
“That’s . . . just . . .” He shakes his head, still smiling. “That’s . . . adorable.”
“Would you like one?” I ask primly, trying my best to hide my fluttery pleasure at being called adorable.
“Absolutely,” his smiling face turns serious. “I’m starving.” He stands up and takes his suitcoat off.
“You can hang your jacket over . . .” but before I finish, he drapes his coat right where I intended on the cherry wood hat rack in the corner.
“I like this,” he says. “Vintage?”
“Yes! It’s been in this office since the 1940s.”
“I dig it.” He makes a swift survey of the room. “Was that the last time this place was decorated?”
“It might look like that was the last time it was painted. But no.” I smile, but inwardly I’m smarting. This wing of the hotel desperately needs a paint job, but I never have enough money for general maintenance. “I’ve had to prioritize the more public locations for new paint.”
“Yes, of course,” Edward casually cuffs his shirt sleeves while keeping his eyes steady on me.
“That was meant as an observation, not a criticism.” He says kindly as he resumes his seat.
“I don’t understand why my grandpa didn’t give you more money to work with.
From what I’ve seen, you’ve done an extraordinary job with a paltry budget.
The flowers in the lobby are a nice touch. ”
“Thank you. I’ll tell my sister. She grows them.” I slide forward the tin of cookies. “Here, help yourself—I have both gingersnaps and snickerdoodles.”
My eyes drift to his toned forearms, and I have the strangest urge to touch his bare skin.
Me, Elinor Greenwood—who, by the way, has always ranked touch as the last of my love languages and has never called a man “hot” my entire life—is imagining myself running my fingers across this stranger’s forearms. What is happening here?
The stress of the situation must be getting to me.
He takes one of each. “You made these?”
“No, my mom bakes them for the cafe. I just like an afternoon treat. Plus cookies help smooth over tricky conversations.”
“Like this one.” He says before taking a bite from the snickerdoodle.
“Like this one.” I parrot back numbly. Inwardly, I brace myself for bad news. “Please, Mr.—is your last name Norland?”
“No, Frechette, I’m Edward Frechette. Sorry, I should have started with that. I’m just a little discombobulated here. I didn’t expect you to be you.”
“I see . . . well then, Edward, could we please get on with this? The suspense is killing me. Are you kicking us out?”
“Kicking you out—no!” He splutters on his cookie, then begins to cough. I quickly pour him a glass of filtered water. He takes a long swig. “Sorry about that—I . . . it’s just, your comment—it . . . uh . . . surprised me.”
“It’s a day of surprises,” I say dryly.
“You can say that again.” Something about his tone makes me suspect he’s referring to more than the coincidence of having met before.
“I’m not here to evict you, Elinor. I just came to . . . um . . . take a tour of the park.”
“You’re not going to force us to relocate? Or fire me?”
“No, nothing like that,” he says as he focuses on brushing a few crumbs off the desk.
“Oh! I . . . well, that’s good. I . . . I . . .”
My chest tightens the same way it did when Dad got his diagnosis. Apparently, my body can’t distinguish between good news and bad. I place a hand on my racing heart.
The backs of my eyes sting. A lump rises in my throat. I never, ever cry in front of other people. Except apparently today.
A strangled sob escapes me before I can stop it. I swivel my office chair around and burst into tears.
I have no idea why I am crying. This is such happy news—absolutely, unbelievably happy news.
My tears make no sense. But the more I try to calm down, the more my shoulders shake.
I have been trying to be so brave for so long.
It’s as if I am finally allowing myself to feel all my pent-up fears and worries.
For a minute, I simply sob softly. At some point, I catch Edward’s hand in my peripheral vision offering me a handkerchief. I snatch the cloth and dry my eyes. The fabric smells expensive with an understated masculine scent. I mutter an incoherent thank-you before blowing my nose.
Why, oh why did my first good cry in years have to be in front of him?
I take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. I’m calming down. I lift my head high, trying to regain my dignity, and swivel back around.
“So sorry, I have no idea what came over me. I’m normally not much of a crier.” I give him a watery smile. “But I never, ever expected this. I love my home, and I was certain . . .” My voice cracks. “I thought I was going to lose it.”
Edward nods solemnly. His kind eyes hold mine with true sympathy.
“You won’t. I promise.”
“And here I thought you were the enemy.” He flinches slightly.
I suppose that was rude of me. I ramble on, “I need to warn you that we’re overbooked.
We had to do something unorthodox to provide you accommodation.
I hope you don’t mind staying in our cottage.
Apparently, my mom knows your mom from years ago.
She didn’t think she’d mind. But if that doesn’t work, I could always find you a room at another hotel. ”
“No, no, I’d love to stay at your place!”
My cheeks heat, which makes no sense. I know what he means by that comment. But the more I try not to blush, the more my cheeks flame.
“Are you certain it’s not too much trouble?” Edward asks, probably misreading my crimson face. “I could always drive back to the city. I came on such short notice.”
“No, no problem at all. Your room is all ready. Though I should warn you, you won’t have your own bathroom.”
“I can probably manage sharing a bathroom,” he says with a wry smile.
“That puts you ahead of half our guests. At least once a week someone yells at me about having to use a community bathroom. I don’t know how to make that detail any more clear when booking. We mention it three times.”
“That sounds unpleasant. How do you deal with angry customers?”
“I nod and listen. When they seem about finished, I offer them a cookie and thank them for the feedback. Sometimes I ask them to do me a favor and take another look at our reservations page to let me know how we could make it clearer for future guests that the cottages don’t have attached bathrooms. They usually apologize to me the next day, and I give them another cookie. ”
“Whatever my mom is paying you, it isn’t enough.” He beams at me with so much earnest admiration that I have to look away.
“Thanks.” I restore the tin of cookies to the shelf before turning back to Edward. “So do you want to review the books?”
“Nah . . . maybe later. If I recall, the cottage is on the upper end of the property?”
“It is—do you remember seeing it on your visit last fall?”
Edward fidgets in his seat. “It’s only fair to tell you that I’ve actually been here before.”
“Yes, of course, when we met on the hillside.”
“No, I mean years ago. I spent a summer here when I was a little kid.”
“Really? Then we might have met.”
“We did—we were friends . . . or at least I thought so.” He reaches his hand to rub the back of his neck. “Not sure if you’d remember me. I went by Eddie back then. You must have played with hundreds of kids growing up here. But I never forgot you, Ellie.”
Hearing my childhood nickname pulls me back through time.
Ellie was my little kid name. When I started middle school, I told everyone to call me Elinor.
Back then I was in such a rush to grow up.
By high school the only person who still called me by my pet name was my dad.
After his death, no one ever called me Ellie—not even my sister.
I consider telling Edward that I don’t go by Ellie anymore, but it is nice to hear that name again.
It gives me the safe, cosseted feeling of my very happy childhood.
“I was only here one summer,” he continues, “but we played every day. It was the best.”
I study Edward’s face, trying to picture him as a boy. His hair would have been blonder. I’m reminded of a boy with golden curls. . . . Could he be the same one?
We had promptly forgotten his real name after Annie gave him the nickname “The Boy.” That’s what the March sisters called Laurie in Little Women, a book our family read that summer.
And just like Laurie, our Boy lived with his grandpa.
Annie and I were always making friends with children staying at the campground.
But The Boy was our favorite. He was so simpatico, and excellent at knots and lashing, which came in handy when building forts.
Inspired by the book, we used an old, abandoned mailbox to swap notes, trinkets, and treats.
Annie and I were disappointed when the boy with the thoughtful eyes didn’t show up the next summer.
To console me, Annie took to telling stories of The Boy’s adventures.
This summer he’s working on his cousin’s ranch in Texas.
This summer he’s hiking in the Alps. This summer he’s sailing the world.
He was always traveling the world since we were not.
He became a sort of mythical inside joke between us.
Whenever we tried on a new outfit, we would ask the other, “Do you think The Boy would like it?” He was a standard pick for husband whenever we played MASH.
We have both been predicted to marry The Boy ten times over.
And here he is, all grown up. A stranger that has lived in my head for years. He’s right—this is weird. So very weird.