I pull the blinds down. I’m not sure I want any Cozy Valley-ites who happen to be walking by to see us in our closed shop, reading a love letter.
They’re personal. And they’re special, so once I put the jar down, I say, “Hey, want to have a cup of tea? Or a glass of champagne as we read?”
“We have champagne here? Young lady, do you have a liquor license?”
I laugh. “Nope. I got it for you as a little opening day gift.”
“Really?” He sounds like he’s not used to someone giving him things.
“Does no one give you gifts?”
“Does my daughter sneaking stickers onto my water bottle count?”
“Of course that counts,” I say, then open the fridge up front that we use for drinks and grab a demi bottle of champagne.
“How did I miss that?”
“I hid it,” I say.
“Sneak.”
I grab some of the mismatched porcelain cups with delicately painted roses on them, pour two cups, and usher him over to a table by the window.
I lift one. “To Afternoon Delight.”
“To evening delights.” He clinks back, his words sending sparks down my spine.
I’m the evening delight, even though I can’t be one again. Shame. But I shove that wish aside and focus on our partnership and the bakery.
I drink some champagne, and it tastes like winning must feel. It does feel as if we won today. Our receipts seem to agree.
I look around, resetting to friendship once again, then I take out the stack of letters, touching the delicate corners, feeling the soft edges of the old pages. He put the last one—the one we read in the flower and plant shop—back so they’re in their proper order. That’s so very him. Neat and organized.
I flash back to what Russ wrote to Harriet:Save that part just for me.
With that in mind, I unfold the letter the rest of the way and read.
Dear Russ,
You’re right. (You like hearing those words, don’t you?) Things at work are getting a little easier.
Not all the way. Not yet. But better. Thank you for encouraging me when I needed it, and I sure needed it.
Can you believe we saved a kitten from a tree today? It’s the proverbial firefighter cliché. But it really happens, and I’m pretty sure that little silver tabby was grateful.
But what’s not a cliché is this—when it was just us in the kitchen this evening making roast chicken and veggies for dinner, cooking together and talking about the kitten, and where we’d most want to travel, and what’s the one thing that can make the day better, I nearly forgot we were co-workers.
I feel like we’ve connected on another level. A deeper level. And that makes me happy each day as I come into work.
Your friend,
Harriet
My heart thumps, but it aches too. “I want to know what his response was. I want to know what makes his day better, and if it’s her,” I say, both sad and happy as I meet Corbin’s eyes and process this next chapter in a love story from the last century.
But what I see surprises me. There’s a knowing smirk on his face. A smile that says he has a secret. He rolls his lips, lifts the cup of champagne, and swallows a sip.
Then he blows out a very satisfied breath.
