“Hope” is the thing with feathers.
I pushed the words to the back of my mind as images of my future morphed grotesquely in my head. All hope of embracing my inner Emily by reading beneath shade trees, writing, and harvesting vegetables from my garden were replaced by images of me and my sixteen cats running the bookstore while village children tossed stones at the windows and dared one another to go inside.
I refocused on the errant book order. Before I finished typing a heated message about the second shipping error, a notification from my favorite online group, the Independent Bookstore Owners of Massachusetts, or IBOOM for short, appeared on-screen.
I smiled despite my mood.
I’d found incredible camaraderie with the other indie bookshop owners and managers over the years. We often watched the University of Massachusetts football games together online, bantering in IBOOM via comments and silly GIFs. I’d missed a great game last night, according to the posts and highlights.
There were fewer than fifty members in the group and fewer than twenty independent stores left in our state. I appreciated the friendshipof other booksellers who single-handedly kept shops like ours alive. Because paying the bills was one thing. Affording enough staff was another. And we all knew what it meant to hustle. I liked everyone in the group, but Historically_Bookish was definitely my favorite. Her real name was Grace Forsythe, and she was the solitary proprietor of Village Books in Amherst, home of UMass and the Minutemen, as well as my nineteenth-century BFF, Emily Dickinson. Grace didn’t post often, but when she did, it always made me smile. Despite a significant age difference, we had a ridiculous amount in common, from our shared love of dad jokes and our tendencies to overwork to our taste in hot wings. I’d been genuinely shocked when I ventured to her shop in search of books for the reception tables and realized Grace was nearly a decade older than my mom. Mom didn’t get half my jokes or any of my references. She rarely worked and hated hot wings. I loved that Grace and I clicked so well despite our difference in age.
My interest piqued when a missed post from Grace appeared beneath chatter about the game.
Historically_Bookish: As some of you know, I rent the historic manor on my bookstore’s property. I’ve reluctantly conceded to a complete remodel, so this will be the last season it’s available in its current, mostly original, state. If you know anyone who might be interested in stepping back in time for a night or two, please let me know.
My inner Emily Dickinson sat up straight and smoothed her skirts.
Grace had never mentioned a rentable historic property, but the timing was cosmic. This could be the perfect place to embrace my inner Emily.
I followed the shared link to a website featuring a beautiful stone structure, backlit by a setting sun. A wreath of wildflowers hung on the red wooden door. A bicycle stood on the gravel lane out front, its basket filled with books.
My focus dropped quickly to the words below. “Welcome to Hearthstone Manor,” I read aloud. “Spend your days falling back in time. Located on a quiet lane, behind a carriage house turned bookstore, you’ll find plenty of time and space to immerse yourself in eras gone by. Enjoy a fire in one of the original fireplaces, lose yourself in a classic read, or attend The Lost Art of Letter-Writing classes at the bookstore. Peace and tranquility await.”
Inner Emily began to vibrate.
I scrolled to check the price.
The cost per night wasn’t unreasonable, and a side note added,Interested in staying longer? Contact the owner for a quote.
I clicked to respond before I could change my mind. Annie was well into her last trimester, and my parents wanted to retire. If I was going to take control of my life, even for a little while, it was now or never.
I dashed my thumbs across the screen with haste, filling in my email address and message on the website’s contact form.
Hello! I’m ED_Fan from IBOOM. I’d love to come for an extended visit! How much to rent the manor for six weeks?
I sent the request for information, then returned the phone to my pocket with a panicked squeak.Six weeks?
I couldn’t leave town for that long. What had even possessed me to ask?
I walked outside for fresh air and released an embarrassed chuckle. My brain was clearly low on oxygen.
The warm breeze was an instant balm to my nerves, and my heart rate immediately began to settle. The neighborhood surrounding Rini Reads was quaint, with narrow redbrick buildings and logoed awnings over big shop windows and glass front doors. Absolutely postcard worthy. Black lampposts and wrought iron benches lined the streets of our small downtown, the blocks bookended with small grassy nooks,including a spectacular dog park, and outdoor cafés. I loved the outdoors and envied people who had time to sit in the sun and take walks.
I switched to the camera app on my phone and leaned against the streetlamp at the curb, angling for the best possible photo of my new window display. Might as well make myself useful while I had an internal breakdown. “Two birds, one stone” and all that.
Besides, requesting a quote didn’t obligate me to move to Amherst.
“It’s fine,” I whispered, reassuring myself gently. I snapped a few photos, then checked them on the little screen. “Not bad, Rini.”
A woman I recognized from her daily trips to the dog park waved from across the street.
I smiled and returned the gesture.
She was petite by any standard, and her dog was contrastingly massive. The woman wore jogging gear. Her dog, wearing a pink collar with silver studs, kept its eyes on the prize: a beautiful leash-free experience just a half block away.
This was my favorite time of day to people watch—when a parade of pups in every shape and size, guided by happy humans, made their way to the park.
I’d always been an animal lover, but my family had never had pets. If I had a bigger place and more time, I’d adopt a former racing greyhound. I was obsessed with the breed and a financial supporter of our local rescue.
