I moved into the aisles and selected several novels I’d been meaning to read for some time. With a little luck, I could lose myself in the stories to pass the long, silent hours of my days.
I carefully curated the stories that would evermore be tied to this adventure and the weeks in Amherst that changed my life.
Some people’s lives were marked by songs. An opening chord or favorite lyric took them to another time or place. For me it had always been books.
Eventually, I hefted my load onto the counter, and a young man in a logoed shirt dragged the pile closer and began to ring up my sale. The name on his badge was Michael. “You’re staying at Hearthstone?” he asked, catching my eye and smiling.
“I am.”
“It’s nice, right? We had a holiday party there once for the bookstore staff, and it was like a trip to another century.”
“It’s beautiful,” I agreed. “I’m Emma.”
“Michael.” His smile widened.
I leaned against the counter, curiosity getting the best of me. “What do you know about Grace’s nephew? We met last night, and you could say we did not hit it off.”
Michael chuckled. “Really? What happened?”
I frowned, recalling our exchange. “I’m not sure. I kind of hoped he’s a natural grump—that it wasn’t something I did.”
Michael said, “As far as I can tell, he likes everyone. Almost everyone,” he amended.
“Who are we talking about?” Grace asked, appearing from thin air. She set a small box of inventory on the counter.
Michael went silent, suddenly absorbed by my purchase.
“Davis,” I said, attempting to sound innocent and light. Instead of like the prying gossip that I was. “Your note said he’s good with a toolbox. Is he a contractor?”
“He’s an architect,” Michael said, setting the full bag before me. “Like his dad.”
My lips parted, but words didn’t come.
“And that’s not where the similarities end,” Grace added. “They’re both incredibly smart, driven, and good at what they do. Davis prefers to work with old homes and restorations. His father deals with newbuilds and commercial properties, along with anything and everything business related in this town.”
“They’re kind of a thing around here,” Michael said.
Grace tipped her head over one shoulder then the other, as if in reluctant agreement.
I tried to fit the semigrouchy man I’d met last night into my idea of a professional and well-known architect.
He did say he knew everyone.
“Oh!” Grace perked. “One more thing.” She hurried to a small community board and pulled a flyer from a clip. “This is for our letter-writing class. In case you need a little human interaction.” She winked. “Going from running a bookstore to six weeks of solitude must be quite a change.”
“You have no idea.”
“I think you’ll really enjoy it,” she said. “We break for the summer, but every September you’ll find me with a few regulars and a handful of newcomers right back there.” She pointed to the tables in the back. “We’re a cross section of folks from all around town. Students, shop owners, café workers, retirees. It’s a good mix, and they’re great company. We meet several days a week, if you’re interested, and class starts this week.”
I took the flyer with a smile. “Bless you.”
She grinned. “The class has become quite popular. More of a club, really.” Pride tinted her tone. “We’re very informal. We talk about written communication as a lost art and share famous letters from history. Then we write a few ourselves. You can pop your messages in the mail after class or leave them for one of your classmates. Everyone gets a cubby with their name on it for collecting letters.” She pointed to the small wooden cubes I’d noticed earlier. “And there are always cookies.”
Guaranteed weekly human interaction sounded like heaven. I’d already planned to write to Cecily and my mom. Plus, inner Emily would surely appreciate the effort. Historians used Emily’s letters to learn about her life, especially her reclusive years.
“Count me in,” I said.
“Excellent.” Grace produced a stack of crisp unlined paper, envelopes, and a pen from beneath the counter and added them to my booty. “These supplies are for class, but you can get started whenever the mood strikes.”
