“I feel that.” Daisy checked her watch. “Oops. I have to go—I have class in twenty minutes. But I’ll see you back here this week?”
“Absolutely.” I waved, then opted to pack up. I needed to give my letters more thought. Anything I said to Annie she would surely use against me, and I didn’t know what to say to my parents. Maybe I’d start with a letter to Cecily.
Paul made his way in our direction, stopping at the seat Daisy had vacated. “What’d you think?” he asked. “Is this going to be your new favorite hour of the week?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I didn’t make any progress today, so I’ll be back again soon.” According to the schedule, the class met three days a week. I would likely attend them all.
Paul crossed his arms, and his fair brows tented. “Are you a writer?”
“What if I say I love the idea of writing?”
He smiled. “Bookstore manager loves reading and writing. Makes perfect sense to me.”
“How about you?” I asked. “What do you do when you aren’t here?”
He adjusted round Harry Potter glasses on his narrow nose. “I teach creative nonfiction to bored upperclassmen at the college. The rest of the week I try to recuperate and keep my creative juices flowing.”
“Ah,” I said. “That makes perfect sense.” No one had ever looked more like a professor than Paul.
“It’s easy to get stagnant delivering the same material for years.” He rocked on his heels, looking slightly embarrassed. “And I’m an oversharer.”
I grinned.
Paul dug in his satchel and removed an envelope. “I hope it’s not weird, but I wrote a letter for you. It’s supposed to be welcoming and maybe a little encouraging.” He cringed. “Now that I’m giving it to you, this feels a little weird and creepy.”
I laughed. “Grace said we could leave letters for one another. I think it’s nice you thought of me. Thank you.” I accepted the offering with a sincere smile.
Then I let Paul walk me out.
Chapter Eight
The Emily Dickinson Museum was a masterpiece. With every step I took on the grounds and through the homes, I wondered repeatedly why I’d never come before. The Homestead, a brilliant yellow structure with green shutters and a small conservatory lined with windows, made me feel as if I’d gone back in time. The interior decor had been painstakingly returned to that of Emily’s time, and standing in the foyer, I could easily imagine Emily appearing on the staircase, headed to the kitchen for a little baking, or on her way outside for a walk.
I felt her presence everywhere.
I moved slowly, room to room, poring over every displayed photo, note, and commentary. And smiled at a plaque outside the library with words from one of Emily’s letters, regarding her father.He buys me many Books—but begs me not to read them—because he fears they joggle the Mind.
My father bought me many books as well.
I listened as the guide mentioned Emily being odd. Her poems being occasionally dark. Her life marked by loss. And I appreciated all the more that Daisy’s dissertation was about the poet’s love of nature.
The type of gardening she preferred was slightly different than I’d expected, but interesting nonetheless. Unlike the vegetable plants I’d bought from Seeds of Love, Emily had focused on flowers. Her family somehow managed to raise grapes and corn in the rough New England weather, but her beds were filled with annuals, perennials, and bulbs.
Which reminded me of the work I had waiting for me at the manor.
An hour later, I poured a mug of herbal tea and took a seat at the kitchen table, then opened Paul’s letter.
Emma,
Your unexpected presence was a bright spot in my day. It was lovely to meet you, and I hope to repeat the pleasure soon.
Sincerely,
Paul
I read the words a dozen more times and planned to use the gift as inspiration to get my letter mojo flowing. I found a comfortable seat, a pen and paper; then I began to write.
First, I knocked out a simple update to Cecily and another to my parents—none would fault me for my terrible letter-writing skills—and I expected they’d humor me and write back. My hands were cramped into claws from using a pen for so long, and frankly, I’d had enough. It was beyond time to switch gears.
