Page 9 of Embers in Autumn
The market spread out across the square like a quilt of colors and smells. Wooden stalls lined with pumpkins and squash, pyramids of glossy apples, jars of honey catching the pale morning light. The air was thick with the scent of baked bread and mulled cider, voices calling, laughter drifting between the rows. A fiddler played off to the side, his case open for coins, the notes bright against the mist.
I paused at a stall overflowing with root vegetables, picking up a bundle of carrots still dusted with earth. Into my basket they went, along with a loaf of sourdough, a wedge of sharp cheddar, and a jar of wildflower honey.
“Best apples you’ll find this season!” a woman called, holding up a crimson orb like it was treasure. “Hey, book girl!Come on, take a bite!”
I laughed under my breath, shaking my head as I waved her off. Book girl. I supposed it fit.
Besides, with my hair tucked into my hat, my glasses fogged slightly from the morning chill, and my bare face, I probably looked younger than I was. Almost like the summers I used to spend here as a kid, running these same cobblestones with grass-stained knees.
Those summers at Grandma’s house—making cookies in her old kitchen, watching her move through recipes without needing to check a single card. At fifteen, I’d thought it wasn’t “cool” anymore, that the world outside this sleepy village had so much more to offer.
God, how I missed those days.
The thought pressed against me, sudden and sharp, and my chest tightened. My pulse skipped. I missed her.
I stopped at a flower stall, the buckets bursting with marigolds, chrysanthemums, asters. My fingers trailed over a bundle of deep golden mums, and I added them to my basket. I’d pass by her grave on the way home. Leave the flowers, just to say I was still here. Still remembering.
As I reached for my wallet, a voice cut through the fog of my thoughts.
“Women shouldn’t have to buy themselves flowers.”
I rolled my eyes before I even turned. The kind of line that begged for a sarcastic reply.
But when I faced him, sarcasm caught in my throat.
It was him. The man from the bookshop.
He stood a few feet away, taller than I remembered in the morning mist, his jacket zipped against the cold. His eyes found mine instantly, steady and unflinching, and for the briefest moment, the market noise seemed to fall away.
My fingers tightened around the chrysanthemums, theirstems cool and damp against my palm. The words caught in my throat, the old wariness pressing in like fog.
“You came in with your daughter the other day,” I said finally, my voice careful. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
I extended my hand. “Amber.”
He took it, his grip steady, grounding. “Dean.”
We held on a moment longer than necessary, and for the briefest second, warmth chased off the morning chill. Then his eyes dropped to the flowers in my basket.
“Let me pay for those.”
I shook my head quickly, a rush of something sharp rising in my chest. “No. They’re for my grandmother… well, for her grave. It wouldn’t feel right to let a stranger pay for them.”
Understanding flickered across his face, quiet and respectful. He slid his wallet back into his jacket.
“All right. Then how about coffee instead?” His voice softened, almost teasing. “Don’t get me wrong, the one you gave me the other day was good. But I know a place that does it better.”
My pulse stuttered. I pressed the flowers tighter against me, as if they could shield me. “Do they serve pumpkin spice latte?”
That smile. It was unguarded and impossibly warm, cutting straight through my defenses. “Yes. One of the best around.”
I swallowed hard. “And… is Lana’s mother going to mind if I join you?”
The question slipped out before I could cage it. Maybe it was safer to ask that than to admit I wanted to say yes.
His lips curved into an ironic smile, and his eyes held mine with a spark I hadn’t expected. “Is that your way of asking if I’m single?” He let the silence stretch just enough for my cheeks to heat. Then, steady and direct, he added, “If so, yes. And if you’re really concerned about Lana’s mom, you don’t have to be. She’s been out of the picture for a long time now.”
The words settled between us, firm and certain. And just like that, something in me eased. Not gone. Not healed. But eased, as though a door I had locked tight was daring me to reach for the key.
