“There she is,” Daisy said, breaking away to meet me and grab my arm. She rushed me back to Grace, then released me with a wide grin. “I can’t believe it,” she said, faux irritation on her brow.
“What?” I asked, glancing from her to Grace, then back.
“He’s in Chicago for an interview on national news, and you didn’t tell me!”
“Who? Davis?” I asked, wholly stunned.
Grace nodded, her pink lips pursed into the proudest of smiles. “Now maybe Carter can stop feeling superior to his son and gloating about it.”
“No kidding,” Daisy said. “This is next level.”
I blinked, blindsided by the news and rush of emotions. “Davis is in Chicago?”
“Yes!” Daisy said. “He left this morning. Wait. You mean you didn’t know?”
Grace looked equally confused. “The contest thrown byArchitectural Digestscheduled a local-interest segment that will air on stations across the US. They invited Davis to speak with the anchor because his interview in the article did so well. It was all very last minute, but not exactly something he could pass up, especially given the pressure Carter and his investors are putting on him.”
“They say he’s become the face for the contest,” Daisy said. “And for saving historical homes.”
My gut ached selfishly with remorse. I was thrilled for Davis but brokenhearted for me. Not long ago, I was Davis’s first call when sharing news.
“Emma?” Daisy asked. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, numb to my toes. What was real anymore? If not the bond I’d formed with Davis this month, then what about the years we’d spent becoming friends online?
The content of Grace’s letter-writing lesson was lost on me as I doodled more than I listened or wrote. It had only taken a moment for me to realize something worse than knowing Davis hadn’t mentioned his enormous victory to me.
With Davis in Chicago, I couldn’t even say goodbye.
I packed my car the next day, ready to go home and start living.
I took pictures of the manor, my garden, and my murder board, for memories’ sake. Then I filled a basket with fresh-baked muffins for Grace. I left the nineteenth-century soup recipes for another visitor to try.
As it turned out, I wasn’t a recluse, a poet, a gardener, or a baker. I was a bookstore owner with a complicated but incredible family and so much life still ahead.
I ran a hand along the stained glass at the top of the stairs, mentally thanking a woman I’d never meet for the wonderful human she’d brought into this world.
I left my key on the foyer table and saw myself out.
My phone rang as I waved goodbye to Michael and Grace at the bookstore a few minutes later.
“What’s up, sis?” I asked, smiling as I climbed into my car.
“I need your thoughts on a name,” she said. “I’m two days from having this baby, and we haven’t decided.”
“Edward,” I said.
“We’re having a girl.”
“Bella.”
“Stop.” She laughed. “Be serious.”
My chest tightened with an unexpected burst of emotion. “You didn’t tell me you were having a girl.”
Images of Annie as an infant popped into mind. She’d had tufts of thick dark hair on her head, along the rims of her ears, arms and shoulders. The visual was hilarious in hindsight, but seven-year-old-me had been greatly concerned.
“We haven’t told anyone else the gender, so keep it to yourself,” she warned. “I need help. I’m desperate.”
