I haven’t baked anything good lately, and your pumpkin muffins sound delicious.
Yours with dreams of pumpkin muffins,
Lettie
P.S. Tell Fitz that in just six weeks, I’ll see him.
When Liam takes two whole days to reply, I’m tempted to break my personal rule and text him. More than once, he has tried to move us to texting. And I keep responding through email. I prefer email because there’s a slight buffer in our correspondence. It’s a little slower than texting and allows us to write long-ish letters. I live for Liam’s emails. When he texts, he’s all business, sending a series of short, rapid-fire sentences. There’s no way he would have composed a “Ten Things Not to Do” list through text.
I’m trying to be patient, but if I don’t hear from him tomorrow, I’ll have to break my own rule and text him. If I don’t hear from him soon, I’ll worry that he’s been in a terrible accident or that he, horror of horrors, has met someone.
“Lettie, something came for you in the mail.” Tilly runs into the kitchen holding a Priority Mail box. “Whose L. Darcy, and why are they sending you a package?”
“He sent them!” I jump up from the table where I am supposed to be writing, but I have been rereading Liam’s emails. (For research, obviously.)
“What’s going on?” asks Gretta, who just popped into the kitchen to get a chocolate doughnut off the doughnut cat. “Lettie, you’re all lit up?” Gretta turns to Tilly. “This has to be about a guy. That is absolutely a guy smile.”
“You’re right,” I say, getting scissors to open my package.
“Who’s the guy?” asks Tilly.
I cut open the box. Inside I find an envelope with my name on it. I recognize the high-quality stationery from the first time I received a letter from Liam Darcy nearly a year ago, back when I thought he was a distinguished old man. Seeing my name written in a familiar flowing penmanship, I clutch the envelope to my heart before I tuck it in my back pocket. There’s no way I’m going to read this with my sisters looking on. I lift open the tissue paper with a pretty fall leaf pattern and find a nest of mini pumpkin muffins. They smell like pumpkin spice and chocolate chips. I pop one in my mouth. It tastes like fall and laughter and love. Liam sent me a package, and he wrote me a letter. I might explode with happiness.
“I have so many questions!” Gretta says, looking at me like I’ve grown two heads.
I hand her a muffin. “Try one. They’re really good.”
“These are good,” Tilly says with a mouth full of pumpkin greatness.
“I have to agree.” Gretta eats her muffin in small bird bites. “Now about this guy?”
“Is he your boyfriend?” asks Tilly
“Not exactly, we email.”
“Is he 50?” scoffs Gretta. “Why is he emailing you?”
“We also text. But we email more.” How to explain our correspondence?
“So?” Tilly asks in a sing-songy voice. “What’s his name?”
“Liam Darcy and... ” Gretta taps on her phone, then gasps! “Violet Helena Benson!” she exclaims. “He’s gorgeous! I just Googled him. He’s thirty-one, CEO of Pemberley Almonds... Oh, Lettie! He’s really rich.”
“Hush! I didn’t want to tell you guys because Mom will absolutely freak out.”
“Um, yeah,” says Tilly. “I’m freaking out. You sent this handsome specimen a selfie with me in it?”
I forgot about that. “I may have sent him a few pics with you in it.”
“I am in this hot guy’s phone?” Tilly squawks.
“Keep it down. I don’t want Mom to know.”
“You’re being weird about this,” Gretta says as she takes another muffin. “Hot, rich, and he bakes—why are you not dating?” she asks. “Ooh, he has a great smile; I like his crooked teeth.”
“We live 1700 miles apart,” I answer, trying not to get side-tracked by my sister’s praise of Liam.
“Move back to California,” says Tilly, who’s on her fourth muffin. They’re that good.
