Abe straightened up, suddenly appearing much steadier. “Would you look at that,” he said, chuckling. “I feel better already. Amazing what a change of scenery can do.”
Eveline turned to him, comprehension dawning in her dark eyes. “You were faking.”
“I was acting,” Abe corrected with dignity, straightening his cardigan. “There's a difference.”
Before Eveline could respond, Emery, still dripping wet, rushed past her to the small podium. The microphone squealed slightly as she adjusted it with shaking hands.
“Hi,” she said to the room at large, then focused solely on Eveline, who stood framed in the doorway, looking like she might turn and run at any moment. “I'm sure you're wondering what all this is about.”
“I have some idea,” Eveline said faintly, still standing by the door, one hand gripping the frame as if for support.
“I wanted to do something spectacular,” Emery continued, water from her hair dripping into her eyes. She wiped it away impatiently. “Something worthy of a romance novel ending.Because that's who I am, I write romance. I believe in grand gestures and public declarations and love that conquers all.”
She gripped the edges of the podium, water from her sleeves dripping onto the wood, probably ruining the finish. Another oversight.
“But I also know that's not who you are. You're practical and private and skeptical of happily-ever-afters. And I love that about you. I love that we're different.”
Emery took a deep breath. “So I want you to know that I'm willing to change. If you give me another chance, I'll give up writing romance novels.”
A collective gasp rose from the Romance Book Club members. Mrs. Hampton looked like she might faint for real.
“I'll work on something more literary,” Emery went on, the words tumbling out before she could reconsider. “Something worthy of the front display in your shop. Something with substance and depth and not a single heaving bosom. Because you're more important to me than any book I could write.”
She stepped out from behind the podium, moved forward until she was standing directly in front of Eveline, and then, in front of everyone, dropped to her knees on the carpet.
Water dripped from her hair, her clothes, forming a small puddle around her as she kneeled. She looked up at Eveline, blue eyes filled with hope and fear and so much love it made her chest ache with the force of it.
“Eveline Auclair,” she said, voice breaking. “Forgive me.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Emery remained on her knees, water pooling around her on the carpet, heart hammering so loudly she was certain everyone in the shop could hear it. Eveline stood before her, face unreadable, the silence stretching between them like an eternity.
Then, just as Eveline opened her mouth to speak, a strange sound drifted through the open door. The distinct clip-clop of hooves on pavement, followed by a gentle whinnying.
Mrs. Hampton was the first to react. “What on earth?”
“Is that a horse?” someone else asked.
The entire Romance Book Club surged toward the windows, followed by Maya, Jax, and even Domi, who'd been watching proceedings with uncharacteristic emotion. Emery remained frozen in place, still kneeling, still soaked, still waiting for an answer that now seemed indefinitely delayed.
“Oh my,” Maya gasped, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “It's magnificent!”
“You've got to be kidding me,” Jax said, shaking her head in disbelief.
Eveline turned away from Emery to see what had captured everyone's attention, and Emery finally found the strength to rise to her feet, legs still wobbling.
Outside, parked directly in front of The Turned Page, was a white horse-drawn carriage. Not a simple cart, but an elegant Victorian affair, complete with lanterns and plush velvet seats. The white horse at its head tossed his mane importantly, as if aware he was the center of attention. A driver in period costume sat at the reins, looking remarkably like Ollie's cousin from the drama school across town.
Abe chuckled beside them, looking immensely pleased with himself. “Ah, right on time,” he said.
Emery turned to him, mouth agape. “Abe, what did you do?”
“I told you I wanted to contribute something special,” he said. “My Agnes always loved a carriage ride. Said there was something undeniably romantic about traveling the way lovers did before automobiles spoiled everything.”
He gestured toward the door with his cane. “Well, don't just stand there, you two. He's only booked for an hour, and those horses don't work cheap.”
“But—” Emery said, then stopped, unsure what to say. Her carefully orchestrated grand gesture had just been hijacked by a surprisingly theatrical octogenarian.
