“It’s for baking.”
He gave the bottle, significantly depleted from my sampling, a long look, then fixed me with a wry smile.
“I did some taste testing.”
He snorted, then took a sip.
“How’s your list coming along?” he asked.
“Not bad. I’ve been journaling and reading about Emily Dickinson. I visited the Homestead and planted a garden. My poetry sucks, but I’m working on it.”
“You also baked,” he said, lips quirking on one side.
“I baked,” I agreed, fighting a smile of my own.
“And the other things?”
The other things on my list.I bit my lip.Embrace the solitude. Become my best Emily. Be happy. Give up on love.“It’s a work in progress.” And that would have to be good enough for now. At least I was finally trying to change, instead of doing the same things every day and complaining that nothing ever changed.
“Why Emily Dickinson?” he asked. “There are plenty of great poets out there. Why choose to emulate her when you seem nothing alike?”
I frowned. Emily spent her time observing and contemplating things I regularly buzzed past without noticing. Always on my way to the next set of goalposts. “I feel like I know her,” I confessed. “Like I’ve always known her. And sometimes it feels as if she knows me. I love the way she saw the world. She wrote heartfelt poems about the smallest things, like birds, bees, and dandelions. If not for her words, I’d rarely think of those things at all.”
To my surprise and delight, Davis didn’t laugh or mock me, so I made another unexpected confession. “When my mom was sick, we’d lie together in her bed and read from a book of Emily’s poetry. Mom gave me the collection before finding out she had cancer. When she was at her weakest, I’d rest my head on her shoulder and read to her. The words seemed to soothe her. In a lot of ways, Emily’s been with me through all the most crucial moments of my life. Good and bad.” I shifted to look more closely at him, searching for the right description of what Emily’s poems meant to me. “If my life was depicted on a massive tapestry, showing all the most important parts in order, beginning to end, her words would be a golden thread running through it all.”
My thoughts jumped to something similar Grace had said during class.Love is the little silver thread connecting all of humanity, around the globe, century to century, forevermore.How sweet to know there were things in life that touched us all.
I looked to Davis. Had he ever been in love? If so, what had she been like?
Approval flashed in his eyes. “You appreciate her.”
It took a moment for me to understand what he meant. My thoughts had fixed on the imaginary, gorgeous, intelligent supermodel who once held his heart. I nodded. “I do.” I doubted anyone other than Emily could’ve motivated me to leave my life in search of something more, and I was deeply thankful for that.
I was also immensely thankful for Davis’s company. “What will you do to this place?” I asked. “It’s so beautiful already.”
“I’m going to gut it.”
“What?” I asked, a little too loudly. “Why would you do that?”
Davis grinned at my response. “The plan is for a complete overhaul and update. I’ll stay true to the era and preserve the integrity of the original craftsmanship as much as possible. But it’s time for major changes.”
I gaped at him. “I’m no architect, but the wordsgut itsound like destruction to me.”
“Sometimes it’s necessary,” he said. “My goal here is to honor the past while serving the present. Old and outdated plumbing, wiring, heating, and AC, for example.” He hooked a thumb over one shoulder. “That’s all on the way out. No one sees those systems, but everyone will appreciate it when they’re updated. I’ll also put in premium Wi-Fi and all new appliances. Because it’s not the nineteenth century anymore. I think we can love and appreciate history without suffering for it.”
“What about all this gorgeous woodwork?” I asked, mesmerized by the idea of giving the beautiful home a complete overhaul as he described. And already regretting that I wouldn’t be around to see the finished product.
“I’ll take the wood out before the demolition. I plan to repair and refinish it myself, then return it when everything else is in order.”
The look on my face must’ve said I still had questions, because he kept going.
“First the paint has to go.” He pointed to a tall piece of baseboard with a chip in the top layer of paint, revealing pale green and yellowbelow. “I’ll use a solvent to do most of the work for me. Then I’ll sand the pieces by hand and stain them in a natural tone. I’ll use the same process on the floors. Once the hardwoods are resurfaced, I’ll bring in era-authentic area rugs. The biggest and most incongruous changes will be on this floor, to make everything ADA compliant. I’m widening doorways for wheelchair accessibility and adding a bathroom with a roll-in shower. Not everyone can or should manage the stairs. Soon, they won’t have to, and this place can be enjoyed by far more guests. The space I’m currently using for storage will become a primary bedroom with access to the new bath. The bedroom with the fireplace upstairs will get an en suite bath as well. I’ve already consulted a number of designers who specialize in this era to talk about fresh decor. I’ll probably add a busy wallpaper in the study. Something with ridiculous birds, or giant flowers. What?” he asked, stopping abruptly.
I schooled my smile. “You’re very passionate about this. I like it, and I’m a little jealous.”
He frowned. “You don’t have a passion?” he asked, sounding a little saddened by the notion. “What about the things you’re doing here?”
I lifted and dropped a shoulder. “I’ve always thought of books as my passion. Or Emily Dickinson, if a poet can be a passion.”
