I pushed the idea away, afraid of reading too deeply into my conversation with Grace.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke or moved.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“Nope.” Davis opened the front door and motioned me through it.
I snatched the letters from the table on my way outside.
We climbed into the cab of his truck a moment later.
The interior smelled like Davis, with underlying tones of leather and the outdoors. I focused on the letters in my hand as a necessary distraction.
“Grace said you get a lot of love notes,” he said flatly, shifting into reverse.
He’d pushed up his sleeves, revealing thick ropes of muscle that flexed beneath his skin when he turned the wheel.
Instinct tickled my spine.
“Why would she say that?” I asked.
He slung one arm over the back of the seat and twisted at the waist to look behind us. He used the opportunity to give me extensive side-eye. “That’s not a denial.”
I returned my attention to the envelopes, wondering what Davis would think if they were love notes. “Just letters from classmates, family, and friends,” I said, flipping through the stack. “Cecily, Mom, Daisy, Paul, and—” I stared at the unfamiliar script on the final envelope. “Huh.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure.” Curious, I opened the last envelope and tugged the paper from the sheath. Perfect calligraphy filled the page, with a signature at the bottom that read, “Forever yours.”
“Who’s it from?”
I turned the paper over, then looked at the envelope more thoroughly. “I don’t know,” I said. My eyes returned to the short message.
Emma,
I was reading a classic today and thought of you. Having never been a fan of Mr. Darcy, I can see his dilemma now firsthand. He was a man previouslyin command of his own being who quickly became powerless in love. The shift is immeasurably frustrating. The results, unsettling. Yet I remain a glutton for more.
Why is it that authors a century gone can so easily know our modern hearts? Were some of us born in the wrong era? Or do some things simply transcend time?
Forever Yours
“That’s how it’s signed,” I said, feeling a little breathless.
Davis turned curious eyes my way.
I cleared my throat, unexpectedly touched by the anonymous letter. I read the page again, pausing at the final line. Had the author forgotten their signature? Or was Forever Yours meant to be a pseudonym?
“So you do get love letters.”
I folded the letter and tucked it away, unsure what else to do. “This is a first.”
I turned my attention to the world outside my window, watching the small town and its happy pedestrians pass by.
“Did you get any further with your store plans?” Davis asked, changing the subject when silence dragged between us.
“A little,” I said. “I didn’t come up with a lot of new ideas, but I broke everything down that I already had in the notebook. I made sensible lists, charts, a budget, and timeline. Then I looked more carefully at my predicted costs to decide if I’ll need a small business loan.”
Davis grunted as he made our final turn. He piloted his big truck onto the edge of a slim lot outside Clayton’s pub and turned off the engine. “You’ll need a business plan to get the loan. Have you written one before?”
