I gently place the letter on the wooden counter that separates Henrietta from me. Pasting a sensitive smile on my face, I begin. “Henrietta, you are my closest friend, are you not?”
“Yes.” I don’t pay attention to the way her face falls a decimeter.
“And you trust me to match you with a good man who can give you a good life, do you not?”
A centimeter. “Yes.”
“Do you truly think Marcus Long could give you a good life?”
She brightens. “I do, Emma Jane. He’s kind, honest, and hardworking. We’ve known each other forever. To be honest, I’ve always had a little crush on him, but we were friends, and I didn't want to disrupt that status quo. But knowing he feels the same way, well, it’s thrilling, is it not?”
“An absolute twist of fate,” I bite through my false smile. A teensy part of me whispers that I should let her have this. Marcus is agoodman, no doubt, even if he often takes advice from Knightley.
Okay, Knightley is a good man, too. He’s just impossible toward me, and it low-key hurts that he’s a butt to me and not everyone else. But I guess that’s what older and supposedly wiser family friends are for.
“For the sake of bluntness, Henrietta, I think you can do better. Marcus is a good person, yes. But I think you deserve a more fulfilling life than he would be able to grant you.” I shrug and push the letter toward her, watching hesitation flicker across her face. “The choice is yours. I think you should give Reverend Philip an honest chance, but I will stand by you whatever you decide.”
“So,” Henrietta looks down at the letter now in her hands and then back up to me, “you think I should tell Marcus no?”
“I didn’t say that,” I emphasize.
“But I should give Reverend Philip a chance?”
“I think that’s the honest thing to do since I’ve already set a date for you two.” I tap my fingers on the counters, then someone walks through the doors, the wind chimes hanging above me dance and sing with the small wind route. “But the choice is yours.”
She nods with determination. “I’ll give the reverend a chance. That would be kind of me.” Then as if she’s made her conclusion, she squares her shoulders. “Yes. I will tell Marcus that I do not reciprocate. It was only a little crush. Nothing worthy of exploring.”
Hm. That was a quicker turnaround than I was expecting.
“Thanks, Emma Jane. I’ll see you later.” Henrietta turns on her heel, walking out in a quick strut. Did her voice quiveror was that all in my head? My heart clenches with guilt, but I remind myself this is for her own good. She will see the wisdom in my nudging when the two of them fall madly in love.
“Hi, Kelly,” I greet a returning customer. “The usual?”
The older woman smiles at me and nods. After paying, she goes and sits in one of the cushioned chairs near the bookshelves.
As I make her Christmas-themed latte, even though it’s only the beginning of August, my mind wanders toward the possibility of someone writing me a love confession. Sure, I’ve sworn off marriage because my father needs me, and well, there’s the little problem that there’s a large probability I can’t have children due to polycystic ovary syndrome. Fifteen-year-old Emma Jane was distraught when she learned about her PCOS diagnosis. I wouldn’t want to put a man through the ringer of falling in love with me only to have him find out that I probably couldn’t have his babies. That would shatter his heart.
And it’s rare to come across a man here in the south that doesn’t want a baseball team for himself.
That’s why I keep my guards strong and high, constantly evaluating them for cracks and crevices. It’s for the good of the world. I protect myself, and I protect any man who may want to get too close to me.
And Papa.
He would be helpless without me around.
I deliver Kelly her spiced latte then tend to another table who finished their lunch. My coworker, Kelsey, organizes books on the shelves. Stone Harper, the director of the Juniper Grove Community Center, was in here not too long ago and said we needed torestock Lucy May’s, our local author, books. I placed the order recently, and I make a mental note to construct her own display when they arrive.
I have so many business ideas for this place.
For starters, I wish we could add lotus energy drinks to the menu.
Outside of that, I want to restructure the bookshelves to where they are embedded into the walls instead of in stacks. I want to place two little nooks in the opposing corners for people to sit and read in. Expanding the building would be costly and require a lot of work, but it would also create space for soundproof rooms where people who struggle with sensory overload, like my friend Lorelei, could come to just relax or study or simply be.
I think I could do great things with this place if Mr. Sam, the elderly owner who has a kind heart but stubborn will, would ever sell.
My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my ripped, high-waisted jeans. It’s a text from Reverend Philip saying he has tomorrow evening free since he finished his sermon preparations today. I send him a quick reply, letting him know I’ve set reservations at Lakeview, a restaurant in Juniper Grove, since Hartfield has a grand total of zero. I don’t tell him Henrietta will be the one meeting him there; I don’t want to ruin the surprise. I haven’t missed the way he eyes her during sermons. I nudge her every time he does, and she blushes and rolls her eyes.
Reverend Philip is a good-looking man with his pale skin and black hair. He has nice muscles, and he’s tall. Like a vampire who has leaped straight from the pages of a morally grayromance.
