“Perfect. I’ll use it as a coaster.” Josephine curtsied, then ambled to the door. She turned and smiled at Elias one last time. “You make me forget why I was ever sad.”
Elias bowed, his grin widening. That settled it—he wouldn’t leave Cadwallader Park. He would suffer heartache. He would throw rice at the wedding. He would do whatever was needed to stay close to Josephine, for love was not based on whether the right girl ended up with the right boy. Love just was—was there, in one’s chest, stubborn and certain.
Love wasn’t something he could escape.
TEN
JOSIE
From: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Sent: Saturday, July 2, 4:07 PM
To: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Subject: Paddling Back Together
Hi Josie,
The coffee date happened. It seemed more like an interrogation or standoff than anything romantic. Noah and I met at a coffee shop on Bergen Street, ordered lattes, then went to a table in the café’s back corner. We sat across from each other. Stone-faced. Neither of us wanting to say the first word.
I apologized for my outburst and gave an explanation. He listened, but his mind seemed elsewhere. There was an emptiness in his eyes, the same glaze that appears whenever someone talks about history or the stock market. I knew then we didn’t have a chance.
He said we weren’t kids anymore—we needed to think about our futures. He asked if I’d meet with him again in a few weeks. I promised I would. After that he gave me a hug and left.
Noah and I drifted apart, Josie. We paddled for an hour to see if we could draw ourselves closer, but I’m not sure we have the stamina (or motivation) to continue. Not everyone who loves each other ends up together, and that’s okay. It must be okay.
Please don’t try to make me feel less crappy. I’ve already eaten a pint of ice cream and cried in the shower. Any kindness might liquidate me into a puddle of my own tears.
I don’t know if I’m to blame for the breakup or if it was inevitable. It hurts, though. I’m certain of the hurt. What if Noah is the one for me and I screwed up everything?
As humans, we reach the end of our metaphorical rope, and we discover more rope. We don’t believe things can get better, but they do, and they don’t.
I hope this is one of those get better moments.
Now to talk about Oliver McLaughlin. First off, your email about the sword and Donut Disturb pajamas made me cackle. Of course you couldn’t meet a guy someplace normal. Is your firewood dreamboat in a relationship? Asking for a friend. (*wink*)
Second, I’m glad to know someone in your age bracket lives nearby. Maybe he will help you renovate, haul ladders around, guard the toolbox. A romcom in the making!
Did you get the job at Sassenach Bakery?
Faith
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Monday, July 4, 10:31 PM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Paddling Back Together
No feel-good sentiments from me, Faith. You may receive an ice cream delivery . . . but I had nothing to do with it. I also wasn’t responsible for the peonies that appeared on your doormat or the Adam Levine poster that’ll arrive today. (Love you forever and ever, pal.)
Sassenach Bakery hasn’t contacted me yet. They said to expect a phone call sometime this week. I hope they give me the job. I need a break from Cadwallader, Elias’s writing, and the constant repair projects. Already I’ve painted the entrance hall, de-shagged the drawing room, and cleaned as much as humanly possible.
A member of the Atteberry Historical Society comes next week to survey the manor and explain ways to preserve the original features. I met him today when I visited the AHS.
I biked into town around noon, once I reread Elias’s letters and emptied a teapot. The landscape seemed fogged with chalk, as if Headmistress Poston had clapped her erasers. Mist blanketed the hills, warm like steam from a kettle. I didn’t bother to wear a raincoat—a stupid decision. The weather soaked my clothes. I had to wring my socks.
A wee man greeted me at the society’s front desk. He looked surprised when I enquired about Cadwallader Manor and Elias Roch. He led me into a back room that reeked of mothballs, then unearthed documents from a file cabinet. (I should’ve used the loo before asking questions, because the bloke chattered for hours.) Once he left, I studied the records until dusk, and then I met Norman, Martha, and Oliver at White Horse Pub for dinner.
Elias left a meagre paper trail. Records date his birth and death, where he was born, but not much else. I suppose no one cared enough to chronicle his life.
Documents confirm Arthur Banes (Elias’s best friend) died June 11, 1821. His brother perished in the Crimean War, and his sister married a relative of Prince Albert. Oh, a family tree charts the Roch lineage back to Alfred the Great. However, somebody blotted Elias from the list.
My mind seems a hot mess, Faith. I can’t stop thinking about Elias and Josephine. More so, I can’t rid myself of the notion—which I cannot explain—that somehow Elias wrote about me. He knew I like to read upside down. He knew about my night-time chocolate habit. Sure, the matching name and description were a coincidence—the cute serendipity we all crave. But this?
Elias understood what hurt me, and he experienced the same pains. He knew about Mum and Dad, and that I talk too much, especially when I’m nervous. All the things I dislike about myself were the things he loved about Josephine. That must be why I feel the way I do.
I love that Elias fell for a girl like me.
Cadwallader enhances this feeling—this sense I’m close to Elias. I can’t enter a room without expecting to see him,
