Page 28 of Embers in Autumn

“I have to admit,” she said, “until the day I stumbled in here to get out of the rain, I didn’t even realize there was a bookstore tucked away on this street. What a charming little find.”

I laughed softly, smoothing my palms down my skirt. “That’s not surprising. I only opened it about a year ago. It still feels new sometimes, like the walls are only just beginning to remember what it’s like to hold stories.”

Her eyes warmed, a faint wistfulness passing through them.

“A year, hm? I admire that. I can’t say I’ve read much lately.

Too many responsibilities. But when I was a teenager…

” She trailed off, her smile turning a touch nostalgic.

“I devoured romance novels. Stacks of them. My mother would scold me, but I didn’t care. ”

Something in her voice softened, almost girlish, and for a moment I glimpsed someone different than the refined mayor’s wife everyone else seemed to see.

“Well,” I said, moving toward the romance shelf, “I think I might have something for you.”

I chose a clean, autumn-themed love story, one with the kind of tenderness and slow-burn sweetness that reminded me of crisp mornings and cinnamon in the air. I wrapped it carefully in brown paper, tied with twine, and slid it across the counter.

“This one might feel like a breath of fresh air,” I told her.

She smiled, genuine this time, her green eyes lighting just a fraction. “Thank you, Amber. That’s very thoughtful.”

Just as she was about to leave, the bell over the door jingled again, and Carol swept in, coat buttoned to her chin, her perfume following her like a dignified cloud. She stopped short when she saw Alexandra, her brows lifting ever so slightly.

“Well, Mrs. Fairchild,” Carol said, her voice perfectly polite yet laced with the kind of weight only a seasoned woman could manage.

“Since I have you here… I submitted a notice about a pothole on my street weeks ago to the city council. And it’s still there.

Darkwood Drive, between numbers 43 and 45. ”

I bit back a laugh, covering it quickly with a cough.

Alexandra didn’t flinch. She only smiled, elegant and composed, as though she fielded things like this daily. “I’ll look into it personally,” she promised.

Carol tipped her head. “Please do. After all, I did vote for your husband.”

The silence that followed was sharp and awkward enough to slice bread. I looked down quickly, pretending to reorganize the bookmarks on the counter, while Alexandra’s smile remained poised, though I caught the faintest flicker of strain in her eyes.

“Of course,” Alexandra said smoothly. “Thank you for your support.”

Alexandra bit her farewell with that same elegant composure, slipping her gloves back on as if the awkward moment had never happened. “Thank you again for the tea and the book, Amber. I’ll stop by another time, perhaps when I have more leisure.”

Her heels clicked against the floor, the door chimed, and just like that, she was gone.

I opened my mouth, ready to scold Carol—because really, ambushing the mayor’s wife about potholes was not the height of social grace—but I never got the chance. Carol adjusted her scarf, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You know,” she began in that conspiratorial tone of hers, “I heard their marriage is falling apart. Alexandra was all set to serve him divorce papers—Daniel, that’s his name, Daniel Fairchild—but she bailed out at the last moment.

Couldn’t risk it during his campaign. A scandal like that would have cost him more than votes.

How could a man run the town if he can’t even run his own family? ”

I raised a brow, fighting a smile. “Says the woman who loves to remind me she doesn’t gossip.”

Carol sniffed, entirely unbothered. “Well, sure, he’s done wonders managing his family’s business, but you know how people are. They talk.”

“Especially you,” I muttered, sliding the register drawer shut.

Her frown was theatrical. “Back in my day—”

“You played chess with Stalin? Went hunting with Napoleon? Witnessed the fall of the Roman Empire?”

She narrowed her eyes at me, lips twitching as though she wanted to scold me but couldn’t quite smother her amusement.

“No. Back in my day, gossiping was a social event. We didn’t have your… what do you call it, millennial thing? Group chats and little blue thumbs.”

I laughed outright, shaking my head. “You mean likes?”

“Yes, those. If you wanted to know someone’s business, you didn’t snoop on a screen. You walked down the street and asked Mrs. Evans at the bakery. Much more efficient and she knew everything about everybody. God rest her soul.”

“Sure,” I said dryly, “because nothing says efficiency like getting three different versions of the same story before you even finish your croissant.”

“And yet, wasn’t life more exciting?”

I sighed, but there was no heat behind it. That was Carol—half wisdom, half mischief, and always more entertaining than a quiet morning deserved.

“Fine,” I said, rolling my eyes, though the corner of my mouth betrayed me with a smile. “Let’s succumb to the great social protocol of gossiping. Do tell, what sort of business does Mr. Fairchild run?”

Carol’s eyes lit up, sharp as a cat catching sight of a bird. She leaned a little closer, lowering her voice like she was about to share state secrets.

“Well… since you asked.” She gave the words a dramatic pause, savoring them. “You know the furniture factory out on the way to the interstate? The one with the faded red sign that still says Roger and Sons?”

“Yeah, I’ve passed it a hundred times.”

“Well, Daniel is one of those sons. He took over after his father’s early passing, what—ten, maybe twelve years ago now? The place had been on the brink of closing, but Daniel turned it around. Modernized it, cut costs, made it profitable again.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I said carefully.

Carol tilted her head, her pearl earrings glinting as she gave me that look. The one that meant I’d walked straight into her trap.

“No, not bad at all. Except the way he did it. He laid off half the staff within a year. People who had been working there since before he was born. Outsourced most of the production overseas. Oh, the profits soared, yes. But the goodwill? Went straight down the drain.”

I winced. “Ouch.”

Carol nodded sharply, satisfied that I was keeping up.

“And don’t get me started on the way he uses the factory now.

More of a shell operation, if you ask me.

The name makes it sound local, wholesome, family-run, but half the pieces are imported, just assembled here for the label.

Very clever, but very hollow. You know the type. ”

I couldn’t help it; I leaned an elbow on the counter. “And here I thought I was going to get a cute little story about him sanding chair legs in a workshop somewhere.”

“Ha.” Carol sniffed. “The only thing Daniel Fairchild sands down are his public edges when election time rolls around. His whole campaign was about keeping Maplewood Harbor ‘authentic.’ Tell me, how authentic is a dining table that ships halfway across the world before it lands in your living room?”

I had to laugh at the indignation in her voice. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“I told you,” she said primly, reaching into her handbag for a wrapped peppermint, “gossiping is social work. Keeps the town running. Better than any council meeting.”

“Sure, Carol,” I teased, “you’re practically a civic institution yourself.”

Her lips curved, and for once she didn’t argue.