“I’m late for class. I’ll catch you later?” I asked.
“Sounds good.”
The morning sun shone warm and bright as I hustled up the lane. Determined dregs of summer still warring with fall. The previous cold snap had passed, and according to the local meteorologist, we were in for a few days of relatively warm temperatures. I certainly wouldn’t complain.
I was making progress on my mission to find happiness.
“Hey, Emma,” Daisy, said, joining me as I entered the bookstore. Her golden waves spilled over the shoulders of a maroon UMass sweatshirt.
I appreciated her contagious enthusiasm.
“Did you finish your letter?” she asked, eyes sparkling with mischief.
During our last class, Grace had read us a short but direct letter written by Benjamin Franklin, to his friend William Strahan, Britishprinter to the king. Strahan voted for use of force against America, inciting Franklin to write:
Mr. Strahan,
You are a Member of Parliament, and one of that Majority which has doomed my Country to Destruction. You have begun to burn our Towns and murder our People.—Look upon your hands! They are stained with the Blood of your Relations!—You and I were long Friends:—You are now my Enemy,—and
I am,
Yours,
B. Franklin.
Our assignment was to think of someone who needed a piece of our minds and to write to them. Whether we sent the letters or not was up to us. Completing the exercise was all that mattered.
I’d written Annie.
I didn’t deserve the strange cold shoulder she’d given me lately, or her overreaction to my taking time for myself. Something had been broken between us for too long, and the feelings had crested the surface like an iceberg when she hit her third trimester. I wanted to know why. I deserved an explanation at the very least. An apology at most.
“Yes,” I said, answering Daisy’s question. “You?”
“Boy, did I. At least seven to ex-boyfriends as far back as middle school and several professors who shall not be named.” She grinned. “Definitely never sending any of those, but it was cathartic.”
Her mention of professors reminded me of the one I’d had in common with Davis, and his face popped into my mind’s eye. Thankfully, I had better things to think about.
We waved at Grace, arranging snacks on the refreshments table, then headed her way. She smiled warmly as we approached.
“What happened to your fingers?” Daisy asked, as I set my basket of exceptionally good muffins beside Grace’s bowl of apples.
“These are my embroidery wounds.” I frowned at the numerous tiny bandages.
She laughed. “Haven’t given that up yet, huh?”
“Never.”
Grace studied me. “You ladies look lovely, as always.”
“Thank you. So do you,” I said, admiring her soft green pashmina and simple drop earrings.
She’d secured her white hair in a nice chignon and looked utterly at ease in her skin. “I hope my nephew isn’t ruining your peace, working at the manor every day now.”
Daisy’s eyes widened at the information. “Davis Sommers is at your place, and you’re here?”
I shrugged. “He’s busy making a name for himself in the world of historic properties, and I love this class.”
“Davis has a way of getting what he wants,” Grace said. “Just ask his father.” The cat-that-ate-the-canary look on her face told me she was referring to something specific.
