Page 8 of Embers in Autumn

Maybe I wasn’t ready.

Maybe I would never be ready.

And yet, even as I told myself that, the image of Dean’s warm smile surfaced anyway.

The rain thundered so hard against the windows that for a moment I thought the world outside had disappeared completely. I was still leaning on the shelf, shaking free of the memory that had gutted me, when the bell above the door chimed.

A woman swept in, pulling the storm with her.

She looked to be in her thirties, tall, her long dark hair plastered in damp waves against her coat.

Her heels clicked against the wooden floor as she closed the door quickly behind her, breath catching like she’d run through the downpour.

Her perfume reached me even before her voice—something expensive, layered with jasmine and musk, rich enough to linger in the air and cut through the smell of rain.

The makeup she wore was soft but commanding, a kind of art that said she had learned from the best. The rain had smudged the liner around her luminous green eyes, but it only made her look more striking, like a painting blurred by tears.

A delicate necklace glimmered at her throat, and when she pushed back her hair I noticed the flash of a wedding ring catching the light.

Her purse was sleek, leather, structured.

The kind of piece that whispered old money without needing to raise its voice.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, her tone polite but controlled, as if she wasn’t used to apologizing at all. “I hope it’s not a problem. I just needed somewhere dry for a moment.”

“Of course, please.” I stepped out from behind the counter, automatically slipping into hostess mode. “You can set your things there. Let me grab you a towel.”

I hurried upstairs and found one of the softer ones in the linen closet. When I came back down, she was standing near the counter, her purse perched carefully on a stool.

“Here,” I said, holding it out.

She took it with a grateful smile. “Thank you. I was foolish enough to think I could make it home before the sky collapsed. I’d just had my nails done, and halfway down the street the wind snapped my umbrella. To make matters worse, my phone battery died. Truly, it’s been one of those days.”

Her voice was smooth, refined, carrying that faint lilt of someone who had grown up with lessons in posture and poise. She dabbed carefully at her face and hair, preserving what makeup had survived the storm.

“I’m sorry you were caught in it,” I said. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need. Let me make you a coffee—it’ll help warm you up.”

“That would be wonderful.” She exhaled, the faintest tremor in it, then offered me her hand. “I’m Alexandra. Alexandra Fairchild.”

Fairchild. The name rang faintly in my head, like a bell struck in another room. I couldn’t place it, but it carried weight.

“I’m Amber,” I said, shaking her hand before slipping behind the counter to start the coffee. The grinder hummed, filling the silence with its steady buzz.

As the scent of fresh grounds rose, Alexandra tucked the towel neatly over her shoulders and glanced around the shop. “This is a lovely place. I can’t believe I’ve never stepped in before.”

“Most people wait for rainy days to come looking for a book,” I said lightly. “I suppose I should thank the weather.”

She smiled at that, but it was a practiced smile. One of those expressions that looked flawless yet somehow kept the real woman beneath it hidden.

When the coffee was ready, I poured it into a clean mug and slid it across the counter. She wrapped her manicured fingers around it and let out a quiet sound of relief.

“Would you like to call someone?” I asked gently. “I can unplug my phone charger for you.”

Her green eyes softened. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all.”

I unplugged my phone, set the cord across the counter, and she leaned forward to plug hers in. The store went quiet except for the patter of rain and the faint rustle of pages from the reading nook where a few books waited for curious hands.

The woman lifted her phone to her ear, her tone calm but threaded with apology.

Her words came in pieces between the steady hiss of rain against the windows.

Sorry… yes, I should have planned better…

no, it won’t happen again. Her voice was low, practiced, but there was something in it, a faint ache, that tugged at me.

It reminded me of an older version of myself, the one who had learned how to keep her voice soft while her heart bruised inside her chest.

I busied myself straightening a stack of bookmarks near the till, not wanting to look like I was listening, though the cadence of her conversation carried clearly through the quiet shop.

After a pause, she murmured something I couldn’t catch, then let the call end with a sigh so quiet it barely stirred the air. She set the phone back on the counter to finish charging and drew the coffee closer.

Alexandra lifted the mug in both hands, taking a careful sip. Her lashes lowered, and for the first time since she’d stepped through my door, her posture eased, her face softening into something less polished and more human.

“Thank you again,” she said. “Truly. I hate being an inconvenience, and I’ve already taken up enough of your morning.”

“You’re not an inconvenience,” I assured her. “The storm is. I’m glad you came in.”

That earned a genuine smile, less practiced than the first. She glanced at the shelves, the little table with pumpkins and candles, the chalkboard sign. “It’s very warm here. Not just the temperature. The whole space.”

“Thank you,” I said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “That’s what I hoped it would feel like.”

She nodded, sipping again, then let her gaze drift back to me. “It’s rare, you know. Finding a place that feels like it’s meant to shelter you, not just serve you. You’ve made something special.”

Her words struck deeper than I expected, and I felt my throat tighten. I covered it with a small laugh. “That’s kind of you.”

We fell into easy conversation, little things at first. She mentioned her nail appointment, the stubborn umbrella, the way the wind had pushed her halfway across the street before she gave up and ran.

I told her how the shop creaked when the rain pressed against the walls, how it reminded me of being a girl again in my grandmother’s house.

For a few minutes, the storm outside faded and the silence between us felt less like distance and more like pause.

The low rumble of an engine pulled me back. Through the rain-blurred window, I saw the shape of a sleek black car glide to the curb. It gleamed even in the downpour, polished and deliberate.

Alexandra set the mug down gently, lifted her purse, and adjusted the towel around her shoulders.

“Is that your husband?” I asked before I could stop myself.

She smiled, lips curving with elegance, but behind it was something else. Something faint and sad, like a shadow passing quickly across glass.

“No,” she said softly. “My husband is at work. The family business and the town don’t run themselves.”

Right. That was why the name Fairchild had nagged at me. I hadn’t voted, but I remembered the campaign posters plastered across town just a few months ago. Fairchild. The mayor.

She gathered her things, her posture immaculate despite the damp. At the door she turned back, her green eyes meeting mine. “It was lovely to meet you, Amber. I hope the rain is kinder to you than it was to me.”

“You too,” I said.

Then she stepped into the storm, the waiting car swallowing her up like a secret.

The bell above the door chimed once, leaving me in the quiet with the echo of her perfume still twining through the air.