He was sorry?
I took another step away, accepting the gut punch I totally deserved. “No.” I shook my head and lifted my palms. “My fault.”
“Emma.” My name broke on his lips, carved through with audible regret.
“Good night, Davis.” I waved and hurried inside.
Chapter Twelve
I tossed and turned through the night, unable to get Davis’s kiss out of my head. I felt the weight of his strong hands on my waist until dawn and would savor the delicious scrape of his calloused fingers along my neck, cheek, and jawline until I died. Our embrace had been a moment of sweet perfection for me.
For him, it was a mistake.
How could I have misinterpreted something so severely?
The memory played on a loop in my mind. He should’ve flung me over one shoulder, fireman style, and carried me back inside. We should’ve ended the night giddy with the knowledge that something new and intimate existed between us.
Instead, he’d expressed his instant regret, thoroughly crushing my hope and joy while nearly embarrassing me to death in the process.
I spent the next several days hiding from Davis, and my feelings, while establishing new routines. Mornings at the manor afforded me the time I needed to work on my baking. I’d gotten marginally better as a result. And I read a variety of books on Emily Dickinson’s life while I waited for my sweets to cool. I found a rhythm of journaling in the evenings, then writing poetry at night. Which meant I consistently checked off numbers one through five on my list of goals. Happiness came and went as I worked on finding peace in the solitude.
I filled my notebook with thoughts about my personal growth and penned an excessive number of haiku. Most were about Davis.
A grouchy-faced man
Nearly upended my plan
Ignore him, I can
Best of all, I received letters from Cecily and my mom. I wrote them back immediately and anticipated more responses soon.
Cecily’s first letter was short, a brief response to my request for a pen pal.
Dearest Emma,
I’m writing to accept your proposal. Pen pals for six weeks. But I will also be texting, because I live in the modern world, and some news is far too important to wait on, unnecessarily, for days. Example: I need more information about this handyman. Does he have dreamy eyes and enough hair to run your fingers through? Does his voice give you goosebumps? Have you seen him without a shirt? Please describe. The moment you kiss him, I want details.
Your deeply invested friend,
Cecily
As it turned out, a lot could happen in the space between one letter and the next. I wrote Cecily immediately and a number of outraged texts arrived two days later. The digital messages populated when I took my daily walk into town. Each contained multiple swear words and exclamation points. I chose to respond with another letter, and she followed suit.
Dearest Emma,
You kissed him! That was so brave! It doesn’t matter if you went there looking for romance or not. Romance found you, and you went for it. It’s his fault for beingso particularly stupid that he left without carrying you away to ravish you. I think his apology was about your list. I’m sure it wasn’t you. I’ll bet he didn’t want to ruin your quest to become a crazy cat lady. Unlike me. I think you’re already perfect, and you should consider this a fabulous vacation instead of time to improve yourself, because like I said. Perfect.
Your cheering friend,
Cecily
I set her letter aside and dressed in jeans and a tunic after my tepid bath. I made a mental plan for the day while my minimuffins baked.
I peeked outside on my way past the back door but didn’t see the bunny. I’d borrowed a book on rabbits from the library during my last outing and learned the animals were crepuscular, meaning they were apparently busiest at dusk and dawn, then slept most of the day. The description tracked with my experiences, typically seeing it munching on my flowers or plants while I enjoyed my morning coffee or the evening sunset. I’d added a few pansies, violas, and asters to the ring of mulch around the patio yesterday. They were already missing most of their petals and leaves.
I returned my attention to the oven, donned a mitt, then moved the pans onto the stovetop, where they could cool.
“Please don’t be disgusting,” I whispered, pinching off a bite to taste. Then I smiled. “Not bad, Rini. Maybe you’re becoming a little like Emily after all.”
