All excellent points. “You’re overqualified,” I said.
The soft tapping of her fingers on a nearby keyboard echoed over the line. “Noted. I wonder if I should ask one of my old professors for a reference, or maybe someone from one of the museums?”
“Both,” I said. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Go all in. Sounds like you might get to live like Jane Austen after all,” I teased. She’d said she’d never want that, when I’d mentioned my plan to become Emily, but perhaps the right opportunity just hadn’t revealed itself.
“That’s not why I want to do this,” she said. “I just want to work behind the scenes on a show I’ve watched for years. I want to know how the pudding’s made. And speaking of snacks, tell me more about this hunky handyman.”
I grinned. “It’s completely cliché. I came here to start fresh, but my brain wants to keep up old patterns that don’t work for me. Then, boom. A six-foot temptation. I can practically hear the voice-over asking how I will possibly resist.”
“First, wanting to fall in love and find a life partner isn’t just an old pattern. It’s been your dream for as long as I’ve known you. And second, how will you resist?”
I snorted a short laugh. She was right about my previous long-standing dream, but that was the problem. Most of my relationships that lasted more than a month should’ve ended inside aweek. I’d made excuses and accommodations for bad behaviors, all in the name of remaining open minded. I was patient when they were moody and short tempered, accepting when they were habitually late, and I’d dutifully provided the princess treatment to every single frog. Thankfully I’d since learned there was a difference between staying open minded and being a willing doormat. “Regardless. When an unfulfilled desire starts to hurt, it’s time to reevaluate,” I said. “Otherwise, the whole thing is unhealthy. Which is why I came here, to recharge and redirect my path. In fact, I plan to spend the rest of my day knuckle-deep in mulch, dirt, and topsoil. And I just learned dirt and topsoil aren’t the same. Look at me growing.”
Cecily was quiet again, and this time I could almost see her frown. “What?” she asked.
“Plants won’t thrive in dirt, but topsoil has natural organic matter that’s good for vegetation.” When she didn’t reply, I added, “I’m gardening.”
“Why?”
“I told you. Emily Dickinson was a fantastic gardener, and pursuing this hobby is a great way for me to stay busy at the manor. By myself. After all the plants are in the ground and I’m cleaned up, I plan to journal about my experiences.”
“Right,” she said slowly, drawing the word out for several syllables. “For the record, I still think this is a bad idea. I mean, I get what you think you’re doing, but you’re not a recluse. You’re not even shy. You’ll lose your mind gardening and writing in journals for entertainment. At least have a little fun while you’re there. Enjoy the time off. Refuel. Whatever you need, but please kiss the hot handyman and send me details.”
I barked an unexpected laugh. “Definitely not going to do that last thing, but I plan to have lots of fun refueling and learning to be happy as an eternally single spinster. I might even find a few cats to adopt.”
“No,” she said flatly. Then, “Next topics. When can I come visit? And why didn’t you respond to my messages sooner? I’ve been waiting on pins and needles to tell you about the show.”
“You’ll never believe it.” I filled her in on the lack of cell signal and internet at the manor; then we agreed she’d visit as soon as she got two consecutive days off work. Until then, we’d exchange letters, like Emily and Sue. I’d keep her posted about life as an 1850s poet, and she’d fill me in on her application progress withRelatable Romance: Regency Era.
The moment we said our goodbyes and disconnected, my phone rang.
“Hey, Mom,” I answered brightly. “I was just going to call you.”
I activated the phone’s speaker option, then eased away from my parking spot and veered onto the road, eager to drop off the plants and make a trip to the grocery store. My stomach was beginning to growl, and the breakfast bar in my glove box wasn’t going to sustain me.
“Hon,” she said, a note of relief and reprimand in the single syllable. “Why is it so hard to reach you? I worried last night when you didn’t let us know you’d arrived safely.”
“I’m fine. The manor doesn’t have internet or cell signal,” I said. I hadn’t even noticed a landline anywhere for emergencies. “How are you and Dad? Did everything go okay when you opened the shop this morning?”
“We’re on our way there now,” she said. “We stopped to see Annie for breakfast, then visited that little coffee shop I love near the park. Your dad is buying some flowers for the counter.”
I checked my watch as Village Books appeared up ahead; then I slowed to make the turn. “It’s nearly ten. You haven’t been to the store yet? Did one of the aunts open for you?”
“We didn’t think it was necessary,” Mom said. “We’ll be there any minute.”
I blinked. Stunned. People stopped at the store on their way to work. Moms, who’d probably been up since dawn, brought kids instrollers, and people who met for breakfast came inside afterward to browse. Surely my parents knew this. Surely they cared.
“We’ve got it covered,” she said. “Don’t worry. What’s important is that you’re enjoying yourself. Are you enjoying yourself?”
I cringed, pulling onto the gravel lane. I’d felt better before we started the conversation.
The SUV rocked gently toward the manor while I fumed at my mom’s apparent disinterest in the success of her own business.
When had I swapped roles with her without noticing? When had I become the store owner and she the employee?
Why did my parents asking me to take over so they could retire suddenly feel like a betrayal instead of an honor?
“You know,” Mom said, her voice beginning to break up, “you didn’t have to move out of town to get some time off. We would’ve stepped in more often, if we’d known you needed us. But you never said a word.”
