“I couldn’t look away.”
“Did you know about Annie’s prank, Mom?” I demand.
“She told me about it after the fact. It was maybe a bit rash, but I can see where she was coming from.”
“What?! You cannot be serious.”
“It’s obvious that you two are crazy for each other,” my mom explains. “Annie felt you just needed a nudge.”
“And the note?” I ask. “Who found out about the mailbox?”
“Pepper discovered it and told me,” Annie pipes up. “Brandon was not very enthusiastic about that part. As usual, he was a bit of a stick in the mud. He told me the whole plan would backfire.”
“But he still helped you?”
“Not exactly... he just came along to make sure Pepper was safe. Once there, he could see it was in his friend’s best interest to leave you guys in the tree.” My sister snickers a little. “Edward did seem to be enjoying himself. And you’re really not dating?”
“We decided things are too complicated right now.”
“In other words, you trampled his heart. Elinor, how could you!” Annie picks up a vase of wilted flowers on the bookshelf. “Sometimes I can’t believe we’re sisters.” She walks about the room gathering more vases of dead flowers and setting them on the coffee table. “A good man loves you. How can you turn your back on that?”
I give a small smile, reminded of Edward’s profession earlier. “He did say I was ‘it’ for him. Can you believe that?”
“Um,yeah!” snaps Annie. “I’ve seen you guys together. And I saw that kiss.”
“That wasn’t love... we were just caught up in the moment.”
“So you’re telling me you don’t love Edward? Could you—wait, hold on...” She hops up to the bookshelf and pulls out an old Greenwood Family Bible. It’s older than the cottage and has all of the Greenwood family births, deaths, and marriages recorded on its front two pages. “Would you swear on Grandma’s Bible that you do not love Edward—what’s his middle name?”
“Norland,” I answer automatically.
“See! That proves my point. You’re on middle-name basis.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It’sdefinitelya thing,” says Annie.
“It’s like in Victorian novels when they finally call each other by their Christian name,” adds my mom, smiling. “It’s a big deal.”
“Exactly,” says Annie. “These days you don’t knowsomeone’s middle name unless you’re practically engaged.”
“Or you Google them,” I say, but my sister ignores me.
“Put your hand on it,” she says, holding up the Bible. “You have to do this properly or I won’t believe you.”
“This is so dumb,” I mutter as I put my left hand on the Bible and raise my right hand up like I’m being sworn in.
“Do you, Elinor Margaret Greenwood, solemnly swear that you arenoteven one little itty bit in love with Edward Norland Frechette?” Annie intones, trying to keep a straight face.
I sigh. “I, Elinor Greenwood, swear—”
“Don’t forget the Margaret!” says Annie.
“I, Elinor Margaret Greenwood, swear that I am not...” A lump forms in my throat... I can’t speak.
I love Edward. And I know it.
It’s not the full-grown mature love of a century-old tree. It’s the tender green of a sapling just breaking through the soil—delicate and new, but real, and growing faster than I realized.
