Page 6 of A Winter By the Sea
Or so sweet a bliss
As a kiss
Might not for ever last!
—Ben Jonson, “The Kiss”
Afew weeks later, Emily sat alone in the bedroom she shared with Sarah, trying to compose a new scene in her novel.
After a time, she paused to reread the last line she had written, groaned in disgust, and scratched it out. She was attempting to write a romantic scene between hero and heroine, and to describe their first kiss. She felt ill-qualified. How was she to describe experiences and sensations foreign to her?
For the truth was, Emily had never been kissed. Not romantically. And a kiss from one’s mamma did not count.
Charles Parker had almost kissed her once—at least she had thought he’d been about to before they were interrupted. Yet Emily wasn’t sure she ought to try to recall that occasion in much detail, when doing so would be painful, considering how he had distanced himself soon afterward.
Instead, hoping for inspiration, she pulled out a special notebook where she’d jotted down romantic lines from novels and poetry.
She flipped a few pages and read part of a Ben Jonson poem she’d copied.
So sugared, so melting, so soft, so delicious....
O, rather than it would I smother,
Were I to taste such another;
It should be my wishing
That I might die kissing.
Sugared, melting, soft, and delicioussounded good. But to die kissing? That seemed a bit extreme.
Emily sighed and shut the notebook.
Perhaps she ought to visit the circulating library and find a new romance or book of poetry to read as “research.” She loved to read, and sadly for her, reading was far easier and pleasanter than the arduous work of writing.
So that afternoon, Emily again walked down the esplanade toward Mr. Wallis’s establishment. Ahead of her, two women stepped from the circulating library onto its awning-covered veranda, pausing to talk.
“He was in a strange mood today.”
“I agree—not nearly as amiable as he usually is.”
“And here I wore my new hat.” The woman sniffed. “Ah well. Oh! You are coming to my party tonight, I trust? I’ve hired a fortune-teller to entertain us—a frightful old crone. It should be excessively diverting.”
To Emily, the prospect sounded more horrid than entertaining, but as the women walked away, concern for Mr. Wallis overrode other thoughts. Had something bad happened to cause his strange mood? Was he unwell?
She pushed through the library door and saw him slouched in a chair at his desk.
“Good day, Mr. Wallis.”
Despite his usually impeccable manners, the proprietor failed to rise in a woman’s presence, and the fair eyes behind his spectacles seemed oddly dazed.
He blinked up at her. “Ah. Miss Summers. You will never guess what has happened.”
“Nothing bad, I hope?”
“Quite the opposite. It’s too good for words.”
“Do tell me!”
