“Thanks. Are you really thinking about writing letters?”
I wrinkled my nose. Busted. “Do you ever get any letters that aren’t signed?”
“Like, intentionally?” She slumped in her seat and rested her chin on her hands. “No. Why? Have you?”
I pressed my lips into a tight line and scanned the room for prying eyes or ears. Then I matched her posture and lowered my voice. “Have you ever gotten any letters written in perfect calligraphy?”
Daisy’s brows rose.
“No,” Daisy answered. “Why?”
Paul came into view before I could respond. “Hey, Emma, Daisy,” he said, strolling over with a wide smile.
I bit the insides of my cheeks, wondering again if it could be Paul.
Daisy rose and meandered toward the refreshments table, where Paul unloaded a box of pastries from a logoed bag. “Aww. You brought breakfast.”
“Danishes,” he said.
“Ever take any calligraphy classes?” Daisy asked.
I imagined thunking my head onto the desk but stayed strong.
He cast her a goofy look. “I have. About twenty years ago, the middle school art instructor insisted on teaching calligraphy. Every Amherst native between thirty and forty-five can probably still manage some pretty decent basics.” He tipped his head curiously. “Are you looking to learn?”
“Just curious,” she said, resuming her seat. “I have a heavy enough course load already.”
“Let me know if you ever want a crash course,” he said. And for the first time, I noticed the fountain pen Grace gave classmates tucked into the spiral of his notebook. He hadn’t used it on the letters he’d left for me with his signature, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have written others.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I changed clothes seven times before deciding on a velour wrap dress in the perfect shade of apricot and taupe ankle boots that matched my purse. How was I supposed to choose an outfit that said I cared enough to skip the jeans and sneakers but also understood this meeting was extremely casual? The unkillable romantic in me insisted on something pretty because there was always a chance this would be the story we told our grandkids.
So, I had to be prepared.
I made a special trip up the driveway to text Cecily a selfie.
Me: Outfit check
She responded with three little flame-shaped emoji. Then a trio of dots began to bounce, letting me know she wasn’t finished.
Cecily: Hottie with a body
Cecily: Go meet your soul mate, then tell me everything
Cecily: Send pics! Take pepper spray
“Okay, weirdo,” I said while responding with a thumbs-up emoji.
I debated my next move for an extended moment, then sent the same image to Annie.
Me: Blind date. Thoughts on the look?
Annie consistently had opinions on everything, especially fashion.
I was disappointed when she didn’t respond. After a few minutes of waiting, I made my way back to the manor and awaited Davis’s arrival.
I hurried to the foyer when the doorbell rang. I checked my face in the mirror near the door and touched a hand to my upswept curls. I’d added a stroke of eye shimmer on my lids in a shade close to my skin tone and glossed my lips to a shine. Mascara darkened and lengthened my lashes, and a touch of powder finished the natural but elevated look. It was the best I could do without it looking like I’d tried too hard. And it was the most I could do with the tremor of nerves buzzing through my hands.
