I passed my notebook to Davis. “Here. I wrote a lot of the little details as they came to mind.”
He scanned my words while I kept going.
“I can offer a light beverages service for people and whipped-cream cups for pups. I’ll need to replace the floors to handle doggy toenails and inevitable messes. I’ll buy more comfortable seating and maybe a half dozen pet beds in various sizes. Water bowls for the entrance and a cookie jar of pet treats at checkout. Transitioning our stock will take a while longer, to diminish losses. But I think I can do it in under a year. I’ll strategically replace romance books as they sell with new releases in other genres. I want a good mix. There should also be sections dedicated to other categories like poetry, pet books, and local authors. Maybe even a tribute to Emily Dickinson somehow.”
Davis nodded thoughtfully, still turning the pages of my notes. He shared opinions and ideas, and asked insightful questions, like how I’d advertise, and if I’d considered hosting monthly visits with therapy dogs.
I pulled the notebook from his grip and added those questions along with a dozen other ideas as we finished our meal.
A familiar car turned onto the drive as Davis gathered his gear and our trash.
I stood to greet the now familiar delivery car as the driver shifted into park and climbed out with another bouquet. I accepted the flowers, then poked my nose into the buds for a deep inhale.
Davis stood, squinting against the afternoon sun as the car drove away.
“Thanks for sharing your lunch,” I said.
“Thanks for hanging out.”
We parted ways, and I searched the flowers for a card. Once again, Annie had skipped that part. This time, however, the blooms weren’t an apology. This bouquet held honeysuckle and daisies.
Davis’s gaze traveled from my wide smile to the bouquet in my arms, and he raised a questioning brow.
I pulled my blanket from the ground, not bothering to stop or explain.
Then I rushed back toward the manor, excited to decipher the new message.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A little searching inFloriography: The Secret Language of Flowersrevealed honeysuckle and daisies to represent admiration and affection, two concepts that melted my heart when coming from my little sister. I felt the same way about her, and I made a mental note to order a similar bouquet for her the next time I went to town.
I tucked the flowers into a vase and set them on the kitchen counter, then checked on my homemade noodles. The dough was finally dry: some of the long strands were bendy, others easily broken. I bagged them all and hoped I wouldn’t regret it. Then I started dinner, knowing it would take hours to prepare. I’d chosen a recipe from Emily’s era and inspired by Davis: asparagus soup. Still not a fan of cooking, I poured a glass of wine from one of many bottles I’d procured during Cecily’s visit and got to work.
“Beef, bacon, ale, spinach, cabbage,” I read, setting the ingredients on my countertop and acknowledging their presence. “Asparagus, salt and pepper, flour, mint, sorrel, beet leaves, and marjoram.” I paused to wrinkle my nose. Hopefully the soup would survive without beet leaves because I had no idea where to procure those, and I didn’t have any marjoram. I tossed an extra mint leaf onto the pile of veggies for good measure. “Why did everything require so many ingredients twohundred years ago?” It wasn’t as if they could hustle to the local Whole Foods for all these things.
As I worked, I reflected on my time in Amherst. For the ten goals I’d set, my progress so far was mixed. I journaled, read, and wrote a lot of haiku. I’d found new perspectives on my troubles and made amends with my mom. But I hadn’t become more like Emily, as planned.
In truth, the woman I’d longed to emulate didn’t live a life I wanted. She’d been riddled with anxiety and probably as unhappy as I’d been in Willow Bend, if for different reasons. I’d put her on a pedestal all my life because her poems spoke to me and helped me through hard times. But I’d confused the things Emily did—like writing poetry, baking, and gardening—with who she was, and I’d done something similar to myself as well.
I, Emma Rini, ran my parents’ bookstore, but that didn’t define me, and I controlled my destiny.
I found happiness in Amherst, just not in the solitude as expected. I’d found happiness in getting to know myself and making strides to heal the unacknowledged wounds in my family. I found hope in a future of my making. Becoming Emily wasn’t the goal anymore. And giving up on love was something that would take more than a handful of weeks to do, no matter where I was.
Methodically, I cubed the beef and rolled the pieces in flour, then dropped them into a pan with bacon on the bottom. Step by step, I followed all the numerous and boring instructions until I finally added a lid to my stockpot and refilled my glass with chardonnay.
While I waited for the soup to boil, I relocated to the study to look through the plans for my revised shop and brainstorm more. Emily’s words came to me as I scribbled, my mind moving faster than my pen could capture the thoughts. She believed beauty wasn’t made. It simplywas.
I agreed. Amherst was beautiful, as was my life here. I felt alive for the first time in too long, and I closed my eyes to soak in the joy.
The bell rang a while later, startling me awake. I blinked, confused by the darkness and wholly unsure if the wall clock indicated it was six in the morning or six at night.
“My soup!” I’d accidentally fallen asleep. A wild trip down the hallway to the kitchen revealed a lot of smoke and a truly horrendous smell.
The bell rang again as I unlidded the stockpot, whose contents had boiled down to sludge, then extinguished the flame.
“Coming!” I called, sending up prayers that Davis hadn’t come to visit right when I’d set the house on fire again. I sagged in relief at the sight of Grace at my door.
“Hello, sorry to disturb,” she said pertly. “I found these in your cubby when I closed up tonight and thought you might like to have them.”
