Page 23 of Embers in Autumn
And still, I couldn’t wait to knock on her door.
I parked in front of the bookshop. The last of the rain clungto the windshield in glassy beads. Upstairs a warm rectangle of light glowed through the curtains. My heart kicked once. Before I got out, I hit call.
Lana picked up on the second ring with a burst of noise behind her. Someone shouted about a boss fight. A controller clicked like a woodpecker in a steel tree.
“Dad, we beat level five,” she announced without hello. “Uncle Andrew keeps forgetting to dodge and Aunt Sarah says we are not allowed to use words that are not church approved. Also we made popcorn and it is everywhere.”
I smiled, the tightness in my chest loosening. “Sounds like a perfect night. You good?”
“Yeah. I miss you though.” Her voice softened a little. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “Sleep tight, bug.”
We hung up and I sat for another breath. I got a grip, grabbed the bag with the wine and ice cream, and stepped out into the damp evening. The bell downstairs stayed still behind the dark glass. I took the side stair to the apartment above, wiped my palm on my jeans, and knocked.
The door opened and there she was. Barefoot. Soft sweater, dark jeans. Hair loose around her shoulders. The scent of sugar and cherries and something warm swept around me. Her eyes lifted to mine and everything in my body went very sure and very calm.
“Hi,” she said, voice a little breathless.
“Hi,” I answered, suddenly grateful for every choice that had put me in front of this door.
She stepped back to let me in. The apartment opened in one long sweep, a single space that felt both careful and lived in. To the left, a small kitchen with open shelves and a farmhouse sink. Straight ahead, a sitting area with a velvet loveseat the color of moss and a low table stacked with books. On the right, an oldoak wardrobe stood like a sentinel beside a sliding door that must have led to the bedroom. Vintage lamps pooled honeyed light on the wood floor. A ladder-back chair wore a folded quilt in autumn colors. The bones were old, the angles a little crooked, but the lines she had chosen were clean. Modern where it needed to be, reverent where it mattered.
She followed my gaze and smiled. “It was two small rooms when I moved in. I tore down the wall between the parlor and the old sewing room, kept the ceiling beams, sanded the floors myself, and called in my cousin for the electricity. I kept some of my grandmother’s furniture. I like the mix.”
“It suits you,” I said. It did. Practical. Warm. No fuss for show. The kind of place that invited you to stay.
There were candles lit in the corners, short squat ones in jars. My instincts pricked and then the smell of the pie swamped everything else. The oven breathed heat into the room. Something bubbled inside.
She held out her hand for the bag. “Can I take these?”
“I brought vanilla, chocolate and caramel,” I said. “And a bottle of red. If that is alright.”
“That is very alright.” She set the ice cream in the freezer and the wine on the counter. “The pie needs about ten more minutes.”
I glanced up out of habit and saw the smoke detector on the ceiling near the kitchen doorway. The light blinked a tired red, then paused, then blinked again. My hand went to my pocket without thinking. No ladder in sight. The ceiling was high enough to be a problem.
“That detector needs a new battery,” I said. “It is going to start chirping any minute.”
She tilted her head, following my gaze. “I know. I do not have a ladder and the chair is a no go. I promised myself not to die doing something stupid.”
“I have spares in the truck.” I was moving before I finished the sentence. “Two minutes.”
“You do not have to. I'll be fine.”
“Be right back.”
I jogged down to the truck, grabbed a pack of nine volts from the glove box, and was back up before the oven fan had even kicked on. I dragged the ladder-back chair under the detector, planted my feet, and lifted the battery compartment. The casing was old but clean. I swapped the battery, shut the cover, and pressed the test. The alarm chirped in a single burst that made both of us wince.
“Alive,” I said, stepping down. “No more blinking.”
Her relief came in a breathy laugh. “I should hire you for odd jobs. Coffee, safety checks, and taste testing.”
“Add book recommendations and it is a full package.”
We moved to the kitchen without touching, close enough that the heat from the oven warmed the space between us. She poured the wine, careful and steady. I watched her hands. She slid a glass toward me and lifted her own.
“To not setting your place on fire,” I said.
