My smile returned. Apparently her plans had changed, and that sounded absolutely perfect.
I pulled out of the gas station and merged into traffic, feeling immeasurably thankful for Grace and her rentable manor.
Soon, large historic homes appeared along the roadside, sparsely at first, then more abundantly as downtown drew nearer. I took in the quaint details and sidewalks dotted with students wearing cross-body bags, backpacks, or shirts with their school logo. Nostalgia hit like a punch.
Annie and I had been close until I started college and she’d started middle school. After that, the doting little sister I’d always known began growing and changing, becoming a strong, independent woman. I hadn’t chased her when she pulled away. I’d never imagined I wouldn’t get her back.
I cast the weight in my chest aside and refocused. This trip was about me. I’d already made a list of sights to see and places to visit, including the Homestead, Emily Dickinson’s childhood home, now a museum in her honor. Her brother’s home, the Evergreens, still stood next door. After five years of driving past during my college years, perpetually late for class or in a hurry to return to work, I would finally go inside.
A thrill rocked through me as I slowed outside my destination. The historic carriage house turned bookstore stood at the corner of Pleasant Street and a long tree-hugged lane. I stared into the slowly bruising sky for long moments, then eased down the gravel drive toward Hearthstone Manor, my new, if temporary, home.
Waning shafts of sunlight stretched through the canopy of reaching oaks above, dappling the road in a haze of fiery hues. I adored this time of year, when change was afoot and the world aglow. By the time I left, the lane would be an explosion of fall colors, a fall-foliage lover’s dream.
Slowly, the two-story stone manor came into view through the shadows, looking exactly as it had on-screen. The same regal face and cheery welcome mat. The same floral wreath and window boxes filled with blooms. Even the inviting old rocking chair on the wide cement porch looked familiar, and I couldn’t wait to test it out.
This was the place where my life would irrevocably change. Where I would finally find peace and new joy.
I parked and took a picture, attaching it to a message for Cecily, but my cell signal had disappeared. No available Wi-Fi either. Thankfully, I was here to become Emily Dickinson, so I had no need for those things. Besides, I could walk back up the lane, or to the bookstore, anytime I wanted to use the internet, or text and call Cecily and my family.
Meanwhile, from my position before the manor, on a rocky lane surrounded by trees, it truly seemed as if I’d stepped back in time. Sounds of frogs and crickets, a light breeze, and chasing squirrels played the evening score around me. I felt like the only person in the world.
I found the manor’s key hidden in the potted flowers as promised, and I slipped it into the front-door lock with anticipation. Grace had left a light on in the foyer, and a welcome basket on a round mahogany table beside a vase of wildflowers.
A passage across the grand foyer led to the kitchen, and an open archway on the right led to a sitting room. Stairs curved up before me. Everything looked clean, peaceful, and inviting.
I took a spin around the room, admiring the attention to historic detail in the decor and taking my time as I perused the collection of black-and-white photographs hung on one wall. Frowning couples and stoic babies, thoroughly overdressed, stared back. I returned to the table and smiled at the collection of handmade soaps, fresh fruits, baked goods, and stationery. The packaging on each item declared it grown, produced, and sold locally. Then I lifted the sheet of thick ivory card stock with my name scripted beneath the fold at its center.
Emma,
Welcome to Hearthstone Manor. I hope your stay is everything you want it to be. If you need anything, just call.
Best regards,
Grace
She’d written her personal phone number and the number of her nephew, Davis, across the bottom. Beneath the latter were six words.Davis is good with a toolbox.
I returned the note to the table and took a deep breath.
This was where my new story began.
Chapter Four
It took three trips to carry my bags from the SUV.
Once I had all my possessions safely inside and the door locked securely behind me, I went to explore the entirety of my new home. The air smelled of potpourri and flowers. I flipped on the lights as I moved room to room, adoring the dedication to the overall preservation of detail. Emily Dickinson would’ve loved the small study at the back of the home. Built-in bookcases stretched to the ceiling, and there was an honest-to-goodness rolling ladder attached to a metal rod along the tops. I wanted to curl on the padded window seat and read until dawn.
The staircase had a switchback three-quarters of the way up, with a hand-carved railing and spindles. I paused on the small landing, trapped in a patch of rising moonlight streaming through a decorative stained-glass window, like a cat caught in a sunbeam. The glass featured a single iris in full bloom, bathed in golden light. “Stunning,” I whispered, continuing my climb.
Every room had high ceilings, at least nine feet, maybe more. The home must have been remarkable in its day, and I was honored to be a part of its history.
There were three bedrooms on the second floor. I chose the one nearest the only bath, then drifted down a narrow enclosed staircase to the kitchen.
A rear door overlooked a brick patio, and I knew exactly where I’d spend my mornings, sipping tea and overseeing my future garden.
Forget falling back in time—I’d landed in my best dream.
I fetched my list of personal goals from my purse and attached it to the refrigerator with the single available magnet, an ad for Village Books.
