Chapter 21
The whole of his letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure. —Sense and Sensibility
Elinor
I’m finished with Edward—absolutely finished.
I tell myself this every time I pass the mailbox with the flag up—he must have left a letter for me during his weekend visit. Even though he hemmed and hawed his way out of going on a date with me, he left me a letter.
It’s been three days. Three long days, and he still hasn’t texted. The only interpretation I have is that he looked at his calendar and realized it’s a terrible idea to go out with me. He’s probably just getting up the courage to give us our one-month notice. Still, I’m dying to read his letter.
On my way to work Wednesday morning I finally cave and open the box.
There’s a letter with my name and two chocolate bars.
Now I’m annoyed with myself for my childish fit that kept me from checking sooner.
As long as Edward was staying at the resort, I didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of seeing the flag go down.
But the poor fancy European chocolate bars probably have melted, hardened and re-melted several times over—just like my heart. What a waste.
But I have a letter.
Dear Elinor,
What sort of person do I want to be? That is a very good question.
If you asked me when I was ten, I probably would have said I want to be just like my grandpa.
There are so many things I admire about him.
It’s important to me to dress with intention like he did.
He always said his service to the world was looking sharp.
He said it like a joke, but I think he really meant it.
It’s important to me to stay well-informed like he was. He subscribed to several newspapers and was always reading. When he took me to bookstores, he would buy me whatever I wanted. We both would come home with big stacks of books. Good times.
However, helping with his estate sale gave me a lot to think about.
By the world’s standards, Reginald Norland was an incredible success.
He died a wealthy, wealthy man. But in the end, all he had left was a house full of stuff—actually, multiple homes full of stuff.
It all felt so meaningless and sad. He and my mom had a strained relationship that only got worse over the years.
I think that broke his heart. But he was too proud—or maybe he just didn’t know how to fix it. And that’s not what I want.
I loved what you said about your dad—that he excelled at making his family feel loved.
I think that’s the type of person I want to be.
Though I fear it’s not nearly as easy as it sounds.
There’s a wide gulf between loving someone and making them feel loved.
I’d love to hear more stories about your dad and how he managed to do it.
I think it’s so cool that he built you that treehouse. I should have asked more questions. Did you help? My grandpa made sure I learned some basic carpentry. I’ve always wanted to build a treehouse. I would love to do that with my kids someday.
I can just imagine your dad reading to you guys in your family room surrounded by books and flowers, or maybe on the front porch.
I want to do that too. Oh! And yes, I’m a big P.G.
Wodehouse fan. Though full disclosure, I didn’t read the books until college.
I named my cat Jeeves because I watched the T.V. show with my grandpa.
You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve picked your first three travel destinations: Tokyo, Paris, and Florence.
For a more extensive list, I’ll need to ask you some follow-up questions.
I want to know what’s most important to you when you travel: food, scenery, art, history, or night life?
I’m going to make a wild guess and cross off nightlife.
I chose Tokyo, Paris, and Florence, because they are safe bets all around.
I’m guessing that seeing great art is important to you, and since your mom is an amazing cook, you’ll also want good food.
These three cities are great destinations for both.
They are also good cities for something my mom calls Urban Treasure Hunts.
This is one of the few activities that is more fun with my mom.
She’s the best at this because she is not afraid to wander into private courtyards or random buildings.
One of my favorite memories was exploring a palace in Florence that was undergoing renovation.
It was definitely not open to the public.
But when I told my mom that we shouldn’t go in, she replied, “Who’s going to stop us?
” We had a blast. Every room was filled with beautiful frescos and mosaics.
Eventually we found a spiral staircase leading to the roof.
We stepped out right at sunset when all the domes and spires in the city were shimmering pink in the golden light.
I must admit something truly embarrassing.
I’m chagrined to tell you of all people.
Here it is: I’ve never been camping. Spending time at Norland Park is the closest I’ve ever been to sleeping in a tent.
My mom and dad both hate camping—I think that might be the only thing they agree on.
I have a hunch I won’t like it either, but I haven’t tried.
Brandon is doing his best to convince me to go on a weeklong backpacking trip with him.
I fail to see the appeal. So if you’re interested in outdoorsy travel, I don’t have any recommendations.
But if you asked, I’d go camping with you.
Literally anything would be fun with you.
You asked about chocolate. My mom is a dark chocolate devotee.
The darker the better. I like both milk and dark chocolate.
Why limit yourself? I’m leaving you a bar of my favorite milk chocolate and a bar of my favorite dark so we can compare notes.
As for mashed potatoes vs. fries, I like potatoes in every form.
But if pressed, I have to say fried. I always order fries.
Now my questions for you. What are your favorite books and why? Would you like to visit me in San Francisco? Tell me about your likes and dislikes—I want to know everything about you.
Yours,
Edward
By the time I report to the cafe at 8:30 am, I’ve read the letter four times and my heart has softened to the writer considerably.
If Edward were to walk into the cafe right now, I’d be so pleased to see him, I’d probably risk asking him out again.
Literally anything would be fun with you.
I can’t stop smiling as I put on my apron.
“You’ve got table seven,” Lois tells me. “This guest asked specifically for you.”
“Is it Brandon and Pepper?”
“No, they’ve already left. This is some lady from the city. She was a bit put out that we don’t serve cappuccinos.”
I have a bad feeling about this. I turn the corner, and Lucinda Steele waves at me with a smile as sincere as that of a pageant queen.
“Ellie!” she calls. I cringe at her use of my nickname. “So nice to see you again! How have things been?” she asks in a sickly sweet voice.
“Busy,” I say tersely.
“So I see. Can you imagine what it will be like when we fix this place up and revamp the menu?”
I consider telling her that people drive hundreds of miles to have our famous cinnamon rolls—not to mention my mom’s garlic burgers. But Lucinda doesn’t merit the effort of contradiction.
“I see you already have a coffee. Can I get you anything else?”
“Is anything here worth eating?”
I have no idea how to answer this. My good mood is quickly evaporating, and I just stare at her.
“Fine,” Lucinda huffs, “just bring me a biscuit and that homemade jam.”
“Coming right up.” I put my notepad back in my apron right next to Edward’s letter and turn to walk away.
“Wait, Ellie!” I turn back. “Has Edward told you what he’s going to do?
“I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“That’s odd. I thought you were an item.”
“Nope.”
When I return with her biscuit, she jumps back in.
“You know he’s ruining his whole career for you. You can’t let him do that.”
“So you’ve told me. In your many emails. This really isn’t the place for this conversation,” I say through gritted teeth.
“What else can I do? You don’t take my calls or answer those emails.”
“There is no need for this conversation at all. I’m not dating Edward. I have no sway with him. And I agree with you—he should kick us out. Though I don’t think he should sell Bumble Cottage.”
“And you really didn’t see him last weekend? I heard that you two renewed your friendship.” I swear this woman could read the back of the cereal box and somehow imbue it with innuendo.
“Nope, not at all.”
“That certainly makes things easier. Because if this deal doesn’t go through, he’ll lose his job.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say with much more nonchalance than I feel, “but as things stand, I’m probably going to lose my job either way.
” I strut off, proud of myself for speaking my mind.
How can Edward work for this woman? She must know that pestering me like this doesn’t help her cause.
The only reason to visit me like this is to annoy me.
She has more to say to me when I bring her the bill.
“You obviously haven’t thought this through. I’m offering your man millions of dollars. It’s a no-brainer.”
“Once again, Edward is not my man,” I say.
“Really? Huh.” And then a wicked gleam lights her eyes. “That’s right . . . I forgot—he has a girlfriend.”
For the first time in twelve years of working in the cafe, I accidentally drop something. The metal pitcher slips out of my hand and lands on Lucinda’s table, dousing her in ice cold water.