Page 27 of Embers in Autumn

Amber

The bell over the shop door jingled as I arranged a stack of new arrivals on the front display, but I barely looked up at first. My mind had been restless all morning, stuck in the same loop I’d been circling since that night at Dean’s.

And the morning I nearly walked out.

I still wasn’t sure what stopped me. Fear? Guilt? Or maybe, deep down, the tiniest, most fragile hope that this time wouldn’t be like the last. But that thought scared me more than anything, because what if I was wrong?

Dean wasn’t Mark. He was nothing like him.

Dean was steady, gentle when I needed it, rough when I craved it, the kind of man who showed up without being asked.

Still, every time he looked at me with those warm eyes, every time he kissed me like I was the only woman in the world, the questions came back.

Where was this going? What if I wasn’t strong enough to give him what he deserved? What if, this time, I was the one who broke someone?

I shook the thoughts off as the door chimed again and the sound of voices filled the shop.

“Amber?”

I glanced up—and blinked. Lana was there, her long hair damp from the drizzle outside, a tote bag slung over her shoulder. She wasn’t alone. Two girls hovered behind her, whispering and giggling, and three boys followed, taller and louder, all of them about her age.

“Hi!” Lana said brightly, already heading toward the shelves. “I told them this is the best place in town to find something for our project.”

A warmth spread through me before I could stop it. I smiled, setting the books aside. “Well, in that case, you’ve come to the right place. What’s the project?”

One of the boys answered, his voice cracking slightly. “History. We’re supposed to do something about traditions around autumn. Like harvest festivals and stuff.”

“Oh, I can help with that,” I said, heading toward the nonfiction section. “Folklore, customs, even some mythology if you want it to stand out.”

The group fanned out through the aisles, their voices filling the usually quiet shop. Lana lingered by my side, her fingers brushing over the spines of books as we walked.

“You’ve got pumpkin candles again,” she said, nodding toward the little display I’d set up near the register.

“Just came in yesterday,” I replied. “Scented too. Cinnamon pumpkin and apple pumpkin.”

She grinned. “I might have to get one. My dad’s gonna say it’s a fire hazard, but… well, that’s his problem.”

I laughed, the sound surprising even me. “You know your father well.”

She shot me a look, her green eyes mischievous, and for a second I saw so much of Dean in her it made my chest tighten.

The girls returned first, their arms full of books about old rituals and seasonal foods. The boys took longer, distracted by the fantasy section, arguing over which cover looked cooler. Lana finally picked out a slim volume on harvest myths and, true to her word, one of the pumpkin candles.

As they gathered at the counter, chattering and teasing each other, I wrapped the books in paper bags and rang everything up. Lana lingered until the end, sliding her tote strap higher on her shoulder.

“Thanks, Amber,” she said softly, almost shyly. “I like coming here. It feels… I don’t know. Different.”

“Different good, I hope?” I asked.

She smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. Different good.”

The other kids scattered through the shop, flipping through books and teasing each other about who had to carry the heaviest stack.

I busied myself straightening a shelf, but I noticed it—the way Lana lingered near one of the boys.

He was tall for his age, messy dark hair that fell into his eyes, the kind of awkward hands-in-pockets stance that only thirteen-year-old boys seemed to have.

And Lana was looking at him. Not just looking—watching. Careful, quiet, almost like she hoped nobody else would see.

I knew that look.

Butterflies. The sweet, dizzy kind that tangle up in your stomach when you’re young and wide-eyed and everything feels like a possibility.

I remembered being thirteen, sitting in class and feeling my heart race for the first time when Michael looked my way.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, a smile that seemed carved just for me.

Of course, nothing ever happened—I never had the courage to do more than daydream little meet-cute scenarios in my head.

Later, in high school, I learned he was gay, and I laughed at myself for the hours I’d spent doodling his name in the margins of my notebooks.

But still, those butterflies had been real.

I knew what Lana was going through.

Eventually, the kids decided on their books, a mix of history and mythology, and crowded toward the counter. I rang them up, packed everything into bags, and listened to their chatter about who would write which part of the project.

They filed out into the drizzle, laughter trailing behind them, but Lana lingered at the door, her tote slung over her shoulder and the little pumpkin candle tucked inside.

“So…” I said softly, catching her eye. “What’s his name?”

Her cheeks flushed instantly, pink blooming across her pale skin. “What? I—no, it’s not—”

“I was thirteen once too. I know that look, Lana.”

She ducked her head, biting her lip. “Ethan.”

“Ethan,” I repeated, letting the name hang between us. “He seems nice.”

Her eyes darted up to mine, uncertain, but I kept my smile easy, warm. “Butterflies can be scary. But they’re also kind of wonderful, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. They are.”

Lana’s blush deepened, but her lips curved, small and secret. She lingered there, shifting her tote strap higher on her shoulder, chewing at her lip like there was more she wanted to say. Finally, it spilled out in a rush.

“Not that it matters. He only looks at the pretty girls, not the smart ones.”

Her voice was so soft I almost missed it over the rain tapping against the glass. My chest ached.

“Lana,” I said gently, coming around the counter so I could be closer to her. “Pretty fades. Smart doesn’t. And for the record, you’re both.”

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 nodded slowly.

“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 thank you 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.