I opened my door and climbed out, stretching my back and shoulders. “You remembered my herbarium.”
“Of course.” Davis set a hand on one hip. “And Violet loved your muffins, by the way. I enjoyed the surprise of finding them and your note.”
My cheeks heated at his approval, and I looked away.
“What else are you working on now?” he asked. “Besides plans for a revamp of your store.”
“Embroidery,” I said with a severe eye roll. “Noodles. Soup.”
He laughed quietly, and the sound warmed my chest. “Hope the noodles turned out better than the soup.”
“I think half will disintegrate in broth, and the rest will be the consistency of leather,” I admitted.
“Sounds delicious.”
Violet jumped down from the cab, and Davis locked the truck.
“I think my next hobby will be uncovering the identity of Forever Yours,” I said, only partially joking. “I saw a novel at the Emily Dickinson Museum featuring her as an amateur sleuth alongside her housemaid.”
“A real Sherlock and Watson story,” he said.
“Exactly.”
We followed Violet past a wooden marker etched with the words Robert Frost Trail, and I immediately thought of the opening line to one of his most well-known poems, “The Road Not Taken.”
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
I took a moment to appreciate the narrow trail before us. “This is beautiful.” A well-trodden path wound through the forest ahead, a dark ribbon among brightly colored leaves.
Many think the poem, about a fork in a road, means that we should take chances and do brave things—take the paths not taken. In reality, Frost suggested that it’s the smaller choices that make up our lives.
I supposed I could’ve chosen to cut Davis out of my life for the rotten things he’d done. If I had, though, I wouldn’t have had this hike, or any of the other memories we’d made together.
“You doing okay?” he asked.
“Just feeling inspired.”
I would be more conscientious about how I spent my time. And the memories I chose to make with it.
He passed me a fallen leaf, mostly green with yellowed edges. “White oak.”
“Thanks.” I collected an array of leaves as we meandered and let Violet smell every patch of moss, exposed root, and fallen acorn along the way.
“Thinking about the calligraphy guy?” Davis guessed when the silence between us stretched too long.
I bit my lip as a spark of excitement burst through me. Maybe I could talk to him about this after all. “I’m wondering if he was in one of the letter-writing classes. That would make sense, right? Since we’re encouraged to leave letters for one another.”
“Maybe. I’ve never taken the class,” he said.
“Do you think it could be Michael?” I asked. “He’s not in the class, but he’s at the shop a lot. And he said he uses the Historically_Bookish handle on IBOOM.”
“Michael?” Davis’s frown returned. “The clerk? He’s like twenty-three.”
“He’s twenty-five. He took a gap year after high school, then another after undergrad.”
“Right.” Davis adjusted Violet’s leash in his hand. “I forgot who I was talking to for a minute.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
