Page 15 of Embers in Autumn
“Not at all.”
I unplugged my phone, set the cord across the counter, and she leaned forward to plug hers in. The store went quiet except for the patter of rain and the faint rustle of pages from the reading nook where a few books waited for curious hands.
The woman lifted her phone to her ear, her tone calm but threaded with apology. Her words came in pieces between the steady hiss of rain against the windows.Sorry… yes, I should have planned better… no, it won’t happen again.Her voice waslow, practiced, but there was something in it, a faint ache, that tugged at me. It reminded me of an older version of myself, the one who had learned how to keep her voice soft while her heart bruised inside her chest.
I busied myself straightening a stack of bookmarks near the till, not wanting to look like I was listening, though the cadence of her conversation carried clearly through the quiet shop.
After a pause, she murmured something I couldn’t catch, then let the call end with a sigh so quiet it barely stirred the air. She set the phone back on the counter to finish charging and drew the coffee closer.
Alexandra lifted the mug in both hands, taking a careful sip. Her lashes lowered, and for the first time since she’d stepped through my door, her posture eased, her face softening into something less polished and more human.
“Thank you again,” she said. “Truly. I hate being an inconvenience, and I’ve already taken up enough of your morning.”
“You’re not an inconvenience,” I assured her. “The storm is. I’m glad you came in.”
That earned a genuine smile, less practiced than the first. She glanced at the shelves, the little table with pumpkins and candles, the chalkboard sign. “It’s very warm here. Not just the temperature. The whole space.”
“Thank you,” I said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “That’s what I hoped it would feel like.”
She nodded, sipping again, then let her gaze drift back to me. “It’s rare, you know. Finding a place that feels like it’s meant to shelter you, not just serve you. You’ve made something special.”
Her words struck deeper than I expected, and I felt my throat tighten. I covered it with a small laugh. “That’s kind of you.”
We fell into easy conversation, little things at first. She mentioned her nail appointment, the stubborn umbrella, the way the wind had pushed her halfway across the street before she gave up and ran. I told her how the shop creaked when the rain pressed against the walls, how it reminded me of being a girl again in my grandmother’s house. For a few minutes, the storm outside faded and the silence between us felt less like distance and more like pause.
The low rumble of an engine pulled me back. Through the rain-blurred window, I saw the shape of a sleek black car glide to the curb. It gleamed even in the downpour, polished and deliberate.
Alexandra set the mug down gently, lifted her purse, and adjusted the towel around her shoulders.
“Is that your husband?” I asked before I could stop myself.
She smiled, lips curving with elegance, but behind it was something else. Something faint and sad, like a shadow passing quickly across glass.
“No,” she said softly. “My husband is at work. The family business and the town don’t run themselves.”
Right.That was why the name Fairchild had nagged at me. I hadn’t voted, but I remembered the campaign posters plastered across town just a few months ago. Fairchild. The mayor.
She gathered her things, her posture immaculate despite the damp. At the door she turned back, her green eyes meeting mine. “It was lovely to meet you, Amber. I hope the rain is kinder to you than it was to me.”
“You too,” I said.
Then she stepped into the storm, the waiting car swallowing her up like a secret.
The bell above the door chimed once, leaving me in the quiet with the echo of her perfume still twining through the air.
CHAPTER 5
Dean
It had rained for three days without pause. Not the gentle kind that kissed the streets and left the air sweet, but relentless, heavy sheets that hammered roofs and turned gutters into rivers. By the third night, half the town’s basements were filling like bathtubs, and the fire department was stretched thin.
We were out in the trucks from dawn, the wipers fighting a losing battle against the downpour. Calls came one after the other. Families in rubber boots pointing us to stairwells that reeked of damp, boxes of ruined clothes floating like forgotten ghosts. We hauled pumps in and out, dragged hoses through mud, heaved water until our backs burned.
Inside the firehouse, the air was a mix of wet gear and stale coffee. Boots left puddles on the concrete floor, radios crackled with new addresses, and the steady whine of pumps echoed through the bays. It was miserable, thankless work, but no one complained out loud. Not much, anyway.
Mike leaned against the side of the truck beside me, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He had twenty years in the service and the sarcasm to prove it. He chewed on something, like always, and gave me a sidelong glance as I wrung out my gloves.
“You look like hell,” he said. “Worse than usual.”
