Page 5 of Embers in Autumn
Mark’s voice cut through the fantasy like broken glass.We’re past our prime, Amber. What do we have to celebrate? Amber. Amber…
His tone, sharp and dismissive, twisted in my chest until my stomach knotted.
“Amber!”
I blinked, startled, the sound shifting. No longer Mark’s scorn but the warm, lilting voice of one of my favorite regulars.
“Carol?” I straightened in the chair as the door closed behind her.
Carol Winthrop-Deveraux-Bennett—her full name amouthful of old family branches and social history—was seventy-one, a widow, and easily one of the most elegant women I’d ever met. Her silver hair was swept into a neat bun, a silk scarf tied around her throat, and her coat matched the sky outside, a moody autumn gray.
But it was her eyes, a piercing shade of blue, that always stole the show. They sparkled with mischief no matter the weather.
“I brought you something,” she said, her smile soft but sure as she lifted a small basket wrapped in a checkered cloth.
Inside, still warm, were delicate hand pies filled with blueberries. The buttery crusts were dusted with sugar, little oozes of violet filling peeking out like they couldn’t contain their sweetness.
“Oh, Carol,” I breathed, standing to take them. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “But I wanted to.” She plucked one out and offered it to me.
I bit into it, the tart burst of berry mixing with flaky pastry, and for the first time all day, a genuine smile spread across my lips.
Now, don’t let the grandma vibe fool you. Carol might look like the picture of a refined, cardigan-wearing lady who curls up withAustenorBrontëon a Sunday afternoon… but the second my back is turned, she’s in the smut section.
I’m convinced Carol has read absolutely everything. Medieval romances with brooding knights, shapeshifters who refuse to wear shirts—sometimes even pants—space captains seducing their way through galaxies, and yes… that one alien breeding series I stocked on a dare and immediately regretted. Carol devoured it like popcorn.
And the kicker? I have never once brought in a reverse harem she didn’t like.
Not once.
I nearly choked on a blueberry pie last month when she leaned across the counter, eyes sparkling, and whispered,“This heroine is juggling four men, Amber. Four. I don’t know how she’s doing it, but if she writes a manual, I’ll preorder.”
That’s Carol in a nutshell. On the outside she’s pearls, scarves, and blueberry pastries. On the inside she’s a walking encyclopedia of smutty plot twists and questionable tropes.
And honestly? She’s kind of my spirit animal. Because if I still love books with half her passion when I’m seventy—whether they’re timeless classics or the kind with covers that look like a body oil commercial gone wrong—I’ll consider myself blessed.
Watching her grin while brushing sugar from her fingertips reminded me of something important: life didn’t end just because one man had made me feel invisible. It could be bright again. Sweet again. Ridiculous again.
Carol settled into her usual rhythm, which was part shopping, part storytelling, part gossip hour. I had learned early on that her visits weren’t quick, and I didn’t mind.
“My granddaughter sent me the sweetest photos,” she said, already swiping through her phone with the speed of someone half her age. She angled it toward me. “Look at him, isn’t he darling? Three months old and already a heartbreaker. And would you believe my daughter-in-law is expecting again? A baby boy. Due in February. I told her she’ll need a bigger car.”
I leaned over, admiring the photos of a chubby-cheeked infant with a tuft of blond hair. “He’s beautiful, Carol. And congratulations, another little one on the way.”
She beamed, tucking her phone back into her bag before plucking a random paperback from the shelf. “Now tell me, have you got anything new with shifters? I’m in the mood for something a little darker this time. Not the soft, cuddly kind. Something with bite.”
Her phrasing nearly made me choke on my tea, but I hid it behind a polite nod as I began arranging a stack of seasonal stickers on the counter. “I’ll see what I can find for you.”
Carol drifted down the aisle, her voice floating back to me as she talked. “Oh, and did you hear about the butcher’s daughter? Finally engaged, though I don’t know how she puts up with him. And the new postman is quite dashing. Always delivers with a smile, though he looks tired. I suppose everyone does these days. You mustn’t let me forget to pick up flour on my way home.”
I smiled to myself, letting her words wash over me. That was the rhythm of small towns. News folded neatly into errands, woven through requests for books that would surprise anyone else.
The bell above the door jingled again, and a woman I vaguely recognized from the bakery stepped inside. She glanced around with polite interest, hands folded neatly around her purse strap.
Without missing a beat, Carol’s voice rose from the back of the shop. “Amber, do you have any new cookbooks? I could use some inspiration.”
I caught the mischievous glint in her eyes when she peeked around the shelf. I smiled, because I understood. Carol might be addicted to dark romances with shifters and all the spice that came with them, but that was between us. The rest of the town didn’t need to know.
