“The barns and farmhouses?” Daisy asked.
Grace nodded and winked.
Daisy pumped a fist. “Yes! Take that, Big Commerce.”
Grace’s smart blue eyes slid to me. “I saw him talking to you not long ago.” She pointed a finger to the door at the front of the store. “Carter stopped by to rattle Davis, but he wasn’t biting, so he left. I’ve been meaning to ask you what he said.”
It took a long moment to recall meeting anyone named Carter. Then the handsome man in the black suit and orange tie came to mind. “That was Davis’s father?” He’d seemed so young. Far younger than my parents. Also strikingly handsome and confident. On second thought, I should’ve realized the connection immediately. “He said you told him I was staying at the manor.” I wrinkled my nose. “And that he would’ve stayed at a condo with a view.”
Daisy stuck out her tongue in disgust.
Grace sighed. “That’s Carter.”
Paul appeared, and Daisy and Grace greeted him before breaking away from the refreshments table. Daisy chose a seat and took out some paper. Grace greeted other classmates.
“Apple cinnamon?” Paul asked, tilting his head toward my muffins.
“Pumpkin spice,” I corrected.
His smile widened. “My favorite.”
“Try one,” I encouraged, pride filling my sails.
As it turned out, once I’d unfucked my oven, I was a pretty good baker. I’d moved on to using more modern recipes, which also helped. And everything I’d made in the last few days had been delicious. The noodles were a work in progress, but I had a list of other Victorian-era meals I also intended to try.
He peeled the paper back and raised the little pastry. “Sorry I missed you at the last class,” he said. “My TA was out with the flu, which left me with about two hundred papers I hadn’t planned to grade.”
“Yikes. How’d it go?”
“I have new appreciation for my TA and residual nightmares.” He took a bite of muffin and hummed pleasantly.
Grace frowned from afar, and I wondered if she was eavesdropping. I blamed Davis, yet again, for putting the unflattering thought in my mind.
I left Paul to finish his treat and headed for the chair beside Daisy.
“Ems,” Michael said before I reached my destination.
I turned toward the checkout, where he raised a hand in greeting. I wondered again about Michael. I didn’t know much about him. I knew he worked part time and went to school full time, pursuing his master’s degree in business administration. He was handsome and fit. Kind and funny. But was he the one behind the Historically_Bookish handle?Was hemy longtime online friend?
I pointed to my basket on the table. “Get a muffin when you have a minute. They turned out great.”
He bobbed his head, then started ringing up the next customer in line.
I had to find a way to ask him about IBOOM without sounding like a nut if I was wrong.
“Look at you,” Daisy said, as I lowered onto the chair beside hers. “Your muffins bring all the boys to the class.” She pumped her shoulders as she sang.
“Stop.”
Her grin widened. “Okay,boysis a stretch of the word here, but you get it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Paul is here because he wants a creative escape. Just like us.”
She leaned closer. “If you say so.”
“Welcome, class,” Grace said sweetly, moving to the head of the table and saving me from an uncomfortable conversation. She gave her usual explanation of purpose for any newcomers and encouragement to those of us still trying to get the hang of things. “Letter-writing is truly a lost artform,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t bring it back.”
She donned her glasses and smiled slyly as she lifted a page before her. “Today I want to read a passage fromMoby-Dickauthor Herman Melville to Amherst’s own Nathaniel Hawthorne. The men were friends for a time, sharing a mutual respect and admiration of talent and calling. Until Melville, more than fifteen years Hawthorne’s junior and at least as many times more audacious of personality, scared him away with sheer, unbridled infatuation.
