“I adore it,” I said. “I’ve made a bunch of friends, and I’m trading letters with my parents, Cecily, and classmates all the time now. Class is often the highlight of my day, honestly.”
She tucked a grape into her mouth. “Too bad the man who sent you flowers didn’t include a letter.”
I glanced at the arrangement, wondering again who sent them, then concentrated on lunch instead.
By late afternoon, Olivia and I had nearly finished the charcuterie tray and planted more vegetables in the garden. Replacements for everything the bunny family had eaten. She left with a promise to returnsoon. And we agreed that next time we’d invite Grace and volunteer to share her wine.
I dressed for the lower temperatures the next day, then grabbed my basket of muffins and the leftover charcuterie before heading up the lane to Village Books. I’d nearly filled my journals with doodles, poem attempts, and musings, so I needed to buy more. I planned to visit a local park to read and people watch. If I got hungry, I’d finish the meats and cheeses.
Emily’s poems circled my mind as I lifted my chin to the sky. She loved nature and found exquisite joy in living.
The weather was perfect as I strode up the lane. I’d been in town less than two weeks, but I could easily imagine living there, and parts of me had already laid claim to my little portion of Amherst.
I smiled at that truth. How had I ever thought I’d spend six weeks here without making at least a few connections? Had I truly believed I might sit alone in the manor for six weeks? If so, Cecily was right—I really hadn’t been thinking clearly when I’d made those plans.
An older man in a sharp black suit and burnt-orange necktie stepped out of the bookstore onto the porch, exiting as I reached the stairs. “Hello there,” he said, eyes twinkling with delight.
I startled briefly, and he released a good-natured chuckle.
“Sorry. I’m Carter,” he said, extending a hand. There was something oddly familiar about him, though we’d never met. “You’re Emma, right? I wondered when I’d finally run into you. Grace tells me you’re living at Hearthstone.”
I accepted his handshake and relaxed at the mention of Grace’s name. “I am, and it’s beautiful,” I said. “Stunning and peaceful.”
Carter nodded. He was tall and broad shouldered with salt-and-pepper hair, shiny shoes, and a watch probably worth enough to pay for my entire stay at the manor. “I can certainly appreciate the beauty, butI think I’d have stayed in one of the new condos with views of town or campus if I were you. I like modern-day amenities and Wi-Fi too much to spend more than a weekend there.”
“It’s definitely not for everyone,” I agreed. “But it’s exactly what I need.”
He smiled, and his pale-blue eyes crinkled at the edges. “Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying your time here.” He pressed the door open and moved aside, clearing a path for me to pass.
“Thanks.” I strode past him, wondering what else Grace said about me when I wasn’t around and how many people she’d told I was renting the manor. “It was lovely meeting you.”
I stepped into the bookshop, focused on the corner display of journals, notebooks, and stationery. Davis’s voice drew my attention to the counter, and my body changed direction on autopilot. Caught in his tractor beam.
He wore jeans and a plaid button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up again, just like he’d worn them the night we met. His soft brown hair fell across his forehead, and he pushed it back as he noticed my approach. His smile grew immediately.
I set my basket on the counter. “Muffin?”
He reached a big hand into the basket and grasped a plump breakfast treat. “Thanks.”
A tingle rushed over me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, jerking my gaze away from his mouth and redirecting my thoughts.
“I’m ordering a few classics with holiday and winter scenes for a display next month. Any suggestions?”
“Uh, yeah. Of course.” I leaned against the counter, my bookish mind diving into action. “Are we talking classics in the literal or emotional sense?”
He cocked his brow and rested impressive forearms on the counter. “Both.”
“Then you’ve already gotA Christmas Carol,” I said, stating the obvious.
He nodded, and I rattled off numerous others that Grace and I always included for the holidays. “Of course.”
“C. S. Lewis?”
“Chronicles of Narnia get their own minidisplay around here,” he said. “What else?”
“Murder on the Orient Express?”
