With Love, Always (Sweet Love Letters)
Chapter 1
Chapter One
Rebecca
I don't believe in signs, but finding Cole Bennett's letters on the eve of his return to Juniper Falls feels like the universe has a twisted sense of humor.
The stack of envelopes emerges from behind a display shelf while I'm arranging Valentine’s Day cards. Dusty and faded, the letters are still bound together with the same blue ribbon I tied there years ago. My fingers tremble as I brush away the dust. The shelf has been here since I opened Paper Trails three years ago, salvaged from an antique store going out of business. I remember thinking it was perfect. The solid oak with delicate carved details, the kind of piece that tells its own story. Now I wonder if some part of me knew these letters were hidden here all along, waiting like a time bomb set to detonate at exactly the wrong moment.
How did they end up here, tucked away in my own shop, when I swore I'd packed away every trace of him?
Paper Trails is silent except for the gentle whir of the heating system and the ticking of the vintage clock above my register. Late afternoon sunlight spills through the front windows, painting golden stripes across the weathered hardwood floors and illuminating swirls of dust motes that dance like snow. Usually, this is my favorite time of day. The shop feels most like the sanctuary I built it to be, with its walls of artisan cards, shelves of hand-bound journals, and careful displays of fountain pens that catch the light like jewelry.
I've spent years crafting this space into something that feels like home. Every corner has been thoughtfully arranged, from the reading nook with its overstuffed armchairs to the custom card-making station where I teach calligraphy workshops. The air always smells of fresh ink, leather, and the lavender sachets I tuck between displays. It's everything I dreamed of when I first opened the shop, everything I convinced myself would be enough.
But now, holding these letters, the carefully curated peace feels paper-thin.
I run my fingers over the faded postmarks from Afghanistan, Iraq, places that once felt as distant as the moon. Back then, I used to trace these same marks, imagining Cole in those far-off deserts, writing by lamplight in his tent. I'd wear his old flannel shirt while reading his letters, wrapped in the fading scent of his soap and coffee, pretending the distance between us wasn't growing with each passing month.
"Stop it," I whisper to myself, but I'm already sinking into one of the armchairs in the reading nook, the one where I usually help brides select their wedding invitations. The irony isn't lost on me. I untie the ribbon slowly, muscle memory taking over despite the years. The first envelope bears my name in Cole's distinctive handwriting—strong, steady strokes that had always reminded me of him. Dependable. Sure. Until he wasn't.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter, but I'm already easing the letter from its envelope, unfolding pages that still hold traces of desert sand in their creases. My throat tightens at the familiar opening:
Dear Becca,
The stars are different here, but I still look for our constellation every night...
Heat pricks behind my eyes. I'd forgotten he used to call me Becca. No one else ever had. These days, I'm Rebecca to everyone, the name sitting on me like a shield, proper and contained. The way I need to be. The way I learned to be after that final letter arrived, the one that ended everything in five terse lines.
I should put these away. I have displays to finish setting up for tomorrow. The one that includes plenty of heart-shaped cards in shades of pink and red, artisan chocolates wrapped in gold foil and vintage postcards with romantic quotes in elaborate script. Valentine's Day is one of our busiest seasons, second only to Christmas. Instead, I find myself pulling out letter after letter, each one a snapshot of who we used to be.
The guys tease me about writing so much, but they don't understand. These letters are my lifeline, Becca. Sometimes I think the only real thing in this whole desert is the ink on this page...
A bell chimes as the front door opens, startling me. I hastily tuck the letters into my cardigan pocket and stand, smoothing my skirt with hands that don't quite want to steady. Lila Bloom, one of my regular customers and the owner of the local flower shop, browses the new Valentine's displays, giving me a moment to compose myself. The letters seem to burn against my side, like they're trying to brand themselves into my skin.
"Rebecca,” Lila calls out, holding up an embossed card. "Do you have this in blue? For my nephews?"
I slip back into shopkeeper mode, letting the familiar rhythm of customer service carry me through the next hour. But the letters are there, pressing against my ribs with every breath, impossible to ignore. Just like the whispers I've been hearing all week about Cole's return, about how he's inherited his grandparents' farm, about how he's really back for good this time.
Later, after I've locked up and the sun has long since abandoned its post at my windows, I find myself at my desk in the back room. Fresh paper sits before me, cream-colored and thick. My favorite fountain pen feels heavy in my hand as I begin to write:
Dear Cole,
Today I found your old letters, and for a moment, I was eighteen again, watching you drive away with all our promises packed in your duffel bag. I remember how the morning fog clung to the mountains that day, how your dad's old truck needed three tries to start, how you kissed me one last time and said it wasn't goodbye, just see you later...
I won't send it. Won't even finish it. But something about seeing his handwriting again has unlocked words I've kept buried for a decade, and they spill onto the page like ink from an overturned bottle, impossible to contain. I write about the shop, about the life I've built here, about all the things I never got to tell him. About how sometimes, on quiet evenings like this, I still catch myself looking for our constellation.
Outside, snow begins to fall, dusting Juniper Falls in white. I write until my hand cramps, until the streetlights cast long shadows through my shop windows, until I can almost convince myself that putting the words on paper means letting them go.
The Copper Kettle feels too warm tonight. I'm still rattled from finding the letters, and now Jenny Miller is perched on the stool next to mine at the counter, telling me Cole Bennett is back in town like she's sharing tomorrow's weather forecast.
"Drove past the old Bennett farm this morning," she says, stirring her coffee with practiced nonchalance. "His truck was in the driveway. You know, after his grandparents passed..."
I focus on cutting my chicken pot pie into perfectly even pieces, grateful that years of retail work have taught me how to keep my expression neutral. "I heard about the inheritance," I manage, though my voice sounds strange to my own ears. The letters shift in my cardigan pocket, reminding me of their presence.
"Such a shame about Frank and Marie," Jenny continues. "But I suppose it's good the farm's staying in the family. Nobody expected Cole to actually come back and?—"
The bell above the door chimes. The familiar brass note usually makes me think of comfort and home-cooked meals. But now it feels like a warning, like thunder before a storm.
"Evening, folks," Cole's voice carries across the diner, deeper than I remember but still undeniably his. My fork scrapes against the ceramic plate with an unfortunate screech.
"Cole Bennett!" Sarah, who's owned the Copper Kettle longer than I've been alive, calls out from behind the counter. "Look who finally remembered where home is."
I keep my eyes fixed on my plate, but I can feel his presence like a shift in atmospheric pressure. The letters in my pocket seem to gain weight with every step he takes closer to the counter. Of course he'd come here. The Copper Kettle has the best food in town.
"The genuine article," he says, settling two stools down from me. "Nobody makes it like you do, Sarah."
"Flattery'll get you everywhere, soldier," Sarah replies. "What can I get you?"
I risk a glance through the curtain of my hair. He's broader than he was at eighteen, his shoulders filling out his worn leather jacket in a way that makes my throat tight. His hair is shorter, and there are new lines around his eyes, but his profile against the diner's warm lighting is achingly familiar.
Ten years shouldn't feel like both forever and nothing at all.
"Thanks," he says, and I realize I've missed whatever he ordered. Jenny shifts beside me, and I know what's coming before she opens her mouth.
"Cole! You remember Rebecca Monroe, don't you?"
My heart slams against my ribs as Cole turns. Our eyes meet for the first time in a decade, and suddenly I'm eighteen again, standing in the morning fog while his father's truck sputters to life.
"Rebecca," he says carefully, like he's testing the shape of my name. Not Becca. Never Becca again.
"Welcome back," I manage, proud of how steady my voice sounds. Professional. Distant. Like he's just another customer who might wander into Paper Trails looking for a birthday card.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we're not saying. The letters burn against my side. Does he remember writing them? Does he ever think about that last one, the one that ended everything with such brutal efficiency?
"I should go," I say, reaching for my purse. "Early morning tomorrow."
Jenny makes a sound of protest, but I'm already laying cash on the counter, my half-eaten pot pie a casualty of circumstances. "Thanks for the food, Sarah."
"But you haven't had dessert," Sarah calls after me. "I made that apple pie you love?—"
"Next time," I promise, already heading for the door. I don't look back, but I feel Cole's eyes on me until I'm outside in the January chill.
Snow is falling harder now, muffling the sounds of Main Street. I wrap my cardigan tighter, feeling the crinkle of paper against my heart. The irony isn't lost on me. I’m carrying his old letters while running from his present self. But I can't do this. Not tonight. Not when the memory of his handwriting is still fresh in my mind.
My phone buzzes as I unlock my car. It's Hazel, probably checking to see if I'm still coming to book club tomorrow. I'll have to tell her about this. She has a way of making sense of things that seem impossible to untangle. But right now, all I can think about is getting home, where I can take these letters out and try to understand how the boy who wrote them became the stranger sitting at the Copper Kettle's counter.
The drive home is a blur of snowflakes and streetlights. It's only when I'm safely inside my apartment that I realize I never actually replied to Cole's greeting. Somehow, that feels worse than anything else. After ten years, all I could offer was "welcome back" before fleeing like a coward.