Davis had sought me out, and he wanted to make plans to see me again later, but he couldn’t stop apologizing for our kiss. Couldn’t stop reminding me he wasn’t interested. Irritation surged as the thoughts registered.
I’d been enjoying a perfectly nice afternoon of reflection, exactly what I’d come to Amherst to find, before he’d arrived with his fluffy dog and charming smile. Hadn’t he apologized days ago for disrupting my quest for solitude? I really liked Davis, but his confusion only increased mine, and my time for finding peace was limited.
I rose, spell broken. “Actually, I forgot I have some errands to run, so I should go.” I packed my things, wishing I could pull the blanket out from under him like a table magician.
“Now?” he asked. “At least let Vi and me walk you back to your car.” He rose, but Violet remained curled contentedly at the edge of the blanket, Frank squashed beneath one of her front legs.
“You should stay,” I said. “Enjoy the sunset. I’ll get the blanket another time. Maybe leave it at the bookstore,” I suggested, already hurrying down the hill.
Daisy climbed out of her car as I finished the walk to Village Books that evening. I raised a hand in greeting, and she hurried to my side. “Emma! How was your day?”
“Long,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “How about yours?”
“Same. I feel as if I’m about to drop. I had classes this morning, then worked a few hours afterward. I met friends for a chat and finished some homework. Now my brain is squishy, and I could really use a nap, but it’s too late for that and too early for bed.” She rolled her head over her shoulders while also rolling her eyes. “I figured this class is a great way to stay awake. Plus it’s fun. Who cares about a little fatigue anyway, really?”
“It’s a grad student’s badge of honor,” I said.
She frowned. “So much truth.”
I held the door for her to enter the shop, then I slipped inside behind her. “How’s your dissertation coming along?”
“Not bad. Our Miss Dickinson was a real mystery. Research keeps me busy. How’s your quest? On a scale of one to ten, how Dickinson are you now?”
A laugh burbled from my chest. “I’m getting better at journaling and letter-writing, though I spend far too much time choosing my words, and I can’t use a fountain pen for more than chicken scratch and ink blobs.”
Daisy wrinkled her nose, then smiled sweetly. “I love Emily, but she isn’t someone I’d want to emulate.”
“It isn’t turning out the way I expected. I definitely like people too much to be a recluse,” I admitted. “And I like concepts like faith, fate, and destiny. I’m not sure Emily had any real spiritual faith or where she stood on the other things.”
“A mystery,” Daisy repeated.
“I hate how little success she had with her work before her death. I wonder if that made her sad. What would she think of the way the whole world knows her now?”
“Excellent questions,” Daisy agreed.
“I’m getting better at baking,” I said. “I can see why she enjoyed it. There’s a bit of art and magic in the process.” Much like gardening, I realized.
Daisy perked up. “Emily Dickinson was an incredible baker. She shared her finished products generously with family, friends, and neighbors.”
“Something I’ve been doing as well.” Though not yet with my family.
“She even kept a basket and rope in her bedroom,” Daisy continued. “She used it to lower gingerbreads and baked goods down to the children who drifted over while her brother and his wife entertained next door.”
I thought of standing in Emily’s bedroom when I’d visited her home. I’d looked through her window and wondered what she saw as she wrote. Now I imagined the green grass dotted with children in search of fresh sweets.
“Folks found drafts of her poems on the backs of old recipe cards and flour labels after her death.” Daisy’s expression turned wistful. “As if inspiration had struck in the kitchen and she’d stopped in her tracks to write. I’d kill to be that inspired by anything other than a nap and promise of graduation next spring.”
Paul hooked his satchel over a chair at the table and raised a hand to us in greeting.
Daisy grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the refreshments table. “What does he write in all those letters he gives you?” she whispered.
“He tells me about his days. Sometimes he’ll recommend a book he’s reading or tell me about something he saw that reminded him of me.”
Daisy pressed a palm to her collarbone. “That’s so romantic.”
“It’s not like that.” I moved aside so she could grab a snack. “I think he’s just a nice guy, and I’m new here. He’s been trying to make my stay more comfortable since we met.”
“Or he’s been crushing on you and trying desperately to woo you into feeling the same way.”
