Historically_Bookish: Most things probably do surprise you
I snorted an indelicate laugh, then quickly pressed the Like option on that comment, because it was hilarious. And because I couldn’t resist, I began to type.
ED_Fan: I think @Historically_Bookish is holding their own
Witch_Please_1692: Me too. Likely every night
My jaw dropped, and a rumble of laughter burst from my lips. I pressed a palm to my mouth. A few heads turned my way in the café, including Daisy’s and Kate’s. I pretended not to notice, too rapt in the online battle.
Other members of IBOOM began to jump on board, with images of things going up in flames or otherwise being burned.
“Everything okay?” Daisy asked. “I can’t tell if you’re amused or ready to throttle someone.”
“Amused,” I admitted, tucking my phone away.
How had I ever thought Historically_Bookish was Grace?
Was Michael really the one behind the handle? I recalled him smiling and winking from his spot at the register. He’d been exceptionally warm and welcoming from the day we met in person. I remembered him asking me about the manor and sticking up for Davis when I’d called him a grouch. In fact, it was Michael who told me Davis was an architect like his dad. Not Grace. Almost as if Michael and I weren’t meeting for the first time that day, but old friends.
I sat with the possibility for a moment, comparing my interactions with Michael in person against my relationship with Historically_Bookish online. There were definite similarities. Both were playful and funny. Both loved the Minutemen. My gut said the energy wasn’t a perfect match—but I’d once thought Historically_Bookish was a seventyish woman, so what did I know?
The threat of thundershowers in the forecast kept me inside most of the next day. This time I was prepared for hours alone indoors. I’d purchased everything needed for the art of embroidery. And I tried. But I was bored and restless before sunset. Not to mention injured. Loose threads piled on the floor at my feet. My thumbs, and multiple cotton canvases, were dotted with my blood.
“Masochists,” I whispered to the ghosts of women past.
I’d accidentally stabbed myself with a needle at least one hundred times in two hours, and I couldn’t take it anymore. The nearly finished scrap in my hands wasn’t worth the pain. A series of small black Xs formed a rough circle where a garland of delicate flowers should’ve gone. Jagged, chicken-scratch letters leaned against one another inside.If I squinted, I could make out the wordsSalty Bitch. Which I absolutely was.
I dropped my masterpiece onto the arm of the couch, then tipped over sideways, dragging my feet up beside me. I was exhausted and starving. I wanted comfort food. Something warm and savory, like mashed potatoes or baked macaroni and cheese. I’d attempted a recipe for something called scalloped eggs several hours prior, but it had involved slicing hard-boiled eggs, then dipping the slices into a mixture of butter and beaten eggs before baking them over fat-moistened breadcrumbs and covering them with minced meat. I’d barely avoided getting sick before shoving the casserole into the oven. By the time it’d finished baking, I’d lost my appetite, but I better understood why women were so much thinner in those days.
Regardless, I refused to miss dinner too. Which meant I had to order out.
I grabbed my keys, phone, and purse, then headed into the night. Too much time alone with my thoughts was making me batty. While embroidering, I’d silently rehashed every awkward or unpleasant conversation I’d had in a decade, and I needed fresh air.
My thoughts moved immediately to Davis, still wondering about the historic barns and farmhouses he’d been trying to save. Had it worked? Did he have a new plan? Or would his father win in the end? Didn’t he see the value in protecting history? Wasn’t that half the draw of this town?
A crooked smile worked its way across my face as I thought about Davis reaching out to the law professors for help. Probably a good idea, considering he hadn’t been able to properly fix my water heater, and that kind of work was supposed to be his forte. Maybe he wasn’t always the quickest student in class.
It felt good knowing I’d handled things myself. I supposed I usually did manage to reach my goals, whatever they were. I’d just never taken any time to appreciate that. There was always something else in need of my immediate attention.
Honing my embroidery skills, however, might break my success streak. Hours spent alone stabbing a cheesecloth and my fingers had made me edgy. The hunger didn’t help.
It was probably a good thing I hadn’t had cell service or internet access all day. I might’ve picked a long-overdue fight with Annie, or demanded Davis explain his erratic behavior toward me. I had plenty of male friends, and I’d experienced my share of chemistry, but never both at once. And I’d never met a stranger whose presence consistently made me feel as if I’d finally come home. Until he ran away.
Apparently life in the 1850s made me extra dramatic. Perhaps I’d soon swoon.
The air felt cool and refreshing as I strode along the sidewalk toward town. Thankfully, my oversize hoodie and yoga pants kept me cozy and warm. I placed an online order with the local pub as I walked.
The wind picked up quickly, pushing gray clouds over a black velvet sky, moving my feet a little faster as well.
Several minutes later, I arrived, entering through heavy wooden doors and leaving the blustery wind behind. The pub’s interior was dimly lit and decorated in a vaguely nautical theme. Warm, buttery scents hung in the air, drawing me in further.
I approached the bar with a smile, curly hair piled haphazardly on my head and dark-rimmed glasses perched on my nose.
The bartender raised her brows to me, then delivered a tray of drinks to a group of women on red vinyl barstools. “What can I get you?”
“Pickup for Emma.”
She nodded. “Just a sec.”
