“When?” Davis asked.
“The letter was in my cubby when I got to class.”
A bout of laughter drew my attention to Michael behind the counter.
He raised a hand and winked.
I hoped it wasn’t him. Michael was great, but he wasn’t the one I wanted. Not by a long shot.
“When does he want to meet?” Davis asked.
“Tomorrow night. For coffee.” I took a moment to breathe, but it didn’t calm me. “What should I do?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.” Until I met the man behind the letters, I was free to hope for what I wanted. Once I knew the truth, I’d have to deal with it, even if I didn’t get the answer I wanted.
“Can I come by tonight?” Davis asked. “We can hash this out over pizza and wings? Maybe I can even get that relic of a television at the manor to play the UMass away game for us.”
“Deal!”
We said goodbye, and I hurried outside.
A cool autumn breeze ruffled my hair as perfectly calligraphed words raced through my mind.
Emma,
Of course I will tell you my name. I doubt I could deny you much of anything. Meet me at the café onFirst Street tomorrow night at seven, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.
Forever Yours
I spent the afternoon under a gorgeous autumn-leafed tree outside the manor, making preliminary notes on a proper business plan. When the wind grew chilly, I took the opportunity to journal inside Village Books. I left a short note for Forever Yours in my cubby, agreeing to meet the next night.
I passed Grace and Michael stocking a fresh display on my way back out.
“Hey,” I said. “Looking good!”
Grace beamed. “Thank you.”
We made small talk for a moment before she switched gears. “Have you spoken with Davis?” she asked. “I’m dying to know how it went at the manor this morning. I’m sure it was great, but I wish he’d have stopped by on his way out.”
“I hear it went well,” I said. “He’s coming by to watch the game tonight.” I glanced at Michael to catch his reaction. “Pizza, beer, and the game. What else could I ask for?”
He smiled but made no comment.
I tried another approach, nodding toward theOutlanderdisplay. “The IBOOMers were worked up about that one this month.”
“Why?” Grace asked, confirming once again she wasn’t Historically_Bookish. Not that I needed confirmation. “Oh, can you ring them up?” she asked Michael, motioning to a family headed for the checkout.
He hurried to the register.
A customer pulled Grace aside, inquiring about Nathaniel Hawthorne.
I sagged, no closer to knowing who was behind the Historically_Bookish handle than I was when I’d arrived. Honestly, Emily Dickinson could probably conduct a better investigation from her grave.
I buttoned my wool coat to the top before stepping outside. Then, in the spirit of new routines, I dialed my mom.
She answered on the first ring. “Hey, hon! How’s it going? Did you find your secret admirer? Made any more bookstore plans? What’s going on with the bunnies?”
