Page 61 of Embers in Autumn
She gave me a skeptical look, but there was hope flickering behind it, fragile as a candle flame.
“Trust me,” I went on, lowering my voice like I was sharing a secret. “The right people will notice the smart girls. The funny ones. The kind ones. That’s the kind of attention that lasts.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely,” I said, smiling at her. “Besides, you’ve got time. Butterflies are meant to be fun, not a test.”
For a moment she just looked at me, her green eyes so much like her father’s it made my throat tighten. Then she noddedslowly.
“Just… don’t tell my dad, okay?” she whispered. “He’d make a big deal out of it. Or worse, he’d try to give me advice.”
I laughed softly, pressing a hand to my mouth. “Your secret is safe with me. Cross my heart.”
Her lips curved in the smallest smile, relief smoothing her features. She turned toward the door, then hesitated.
“Hey, um… are you coming to movie night again soon?” she asked, almost shyly. “The last one was fun. Even if Dad cheats at popcorn fights.”
I grinned, warmth blooming in my chest. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
That seemed to satisfy her. She gave me a little wave, then hurried out into the drizzle to catch up with her friends, leaving the shop quiet again.
And I stood there for a long moment, heart full, wondering when exactly this girl had managed to carve out her own space in mine.
The bell chimed again and I looked up from the counter, my smile automatic—then faltered just a little.
A woman had stepped in, tall and graceful, dressed in a cream-white coat that looked like it belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. The fabric fell in clean, elegant lines, her heels clicking softly against the wood floor. Her dark hair spilled in glossy waves, a few strands artfully loose, her makeup subtle yet so refined it made me suddenly aware of the faint smudge of ink on my own wrist.
Alexandra Fairchild.
I recognized her instantly, though she carried herself like someone impossible to forget.
“Good morning,” she said warmly, her voice low and deliberate. “I hope I’m not interrupting. I was nearby and thought I should finally come by. I never had the chance to thankyou properly for your kindness the other week.” Her green eyes flicked toward me, sharp and kind at once. “And I wanted to make sure you received the little package I sent.”
I straightened, smoothing my scarf, still a little flustered by her presence. “The tickets? Yes, I did. That was… very generous of you. Thank you.”
Her lips curved into a small smile. “I’m glad. I hope you’ll enjoy the performance.”
There was a pause, her gaze sweeping over the shelves and the cozy clutter of the shop. For some reason, I felt the urge to defend it, to explain how the rain had delayed shipments and how I still hadn’t found the right curtains for the upstairs windows—but she didn’t look critical. She looked curious.
“Can I offer you something?” I asked quickly, stepping out from behind the counter. “Coffee? Or tea, if you’d prefer?”
Her smile softened, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Do you happen to have green tea? Or matcha?”
I hesitated, trying not to wince. “I don’t have matcha, but I do have a very nice green tea. Loose leaf.”
“Perfect,” she said with a graceful nod, slipping off her gloves.
I led her toward the small seating nook by the window, already reaching for the kettle. Something about her presence filled the space, quiet but undeniable, like she belonged here and I was the one visiting.
And as the water began to heat, I couldn’t help but wonder—what exactly was a woman like Alexandra Fairchild doing in my little bookstore, sipping green tea on a gray Maplewood morning?
Alexandra’s hands wrapped gracefully around the teacup I’d set in front of her, her posture impeccable even in my mismatched armchair. She glanced around the shelves again, her lips curving faintly.
“I have to admit,” she said, “until the day I stumbled in here to get out of the rain, I didn’t even realize there was a bookstore tucked away on this street. What a charming little find.”
I laughed softly, smoothing my palms down my skirt. “That’s not surprising. I only opened it about a year ago. It still feels new sometimes, like the walls are only just beginning to remember what it’s like to hold stories.”
Her eyes warmed, a faint wistfulness passing through them. “A year, hm? I admire that. I can’t say I’ve read much lately. Too many responsibilities. But when I was a teenager…” She trailed off, her smile turning a touch nostalgic. “I devoured romance novels. Stacks of them. My mother would scold me, but I didn’t care.”
