Page 96 of Charlotte

She turned to go, then stopped.

“Cecil … I mean Peterson.”

He looked at her.

The name stood between them, new and tender and wholly given.

“Thank you for my library.”

“It belongs to the town.”

Lottie forced a smile. “Of course it does,” she said through her teeth. She turned on her heel and walked back toward Main Street with the drawing pressed to her heart, leaving him in the schoolhouse lot with Luke, the stakes, the twine, and the beginning of something he had not yet admitted was hope.

Behind her, she heard Luke say, “So. Two front windows?”

Cecil answered, “Three.”

Lottie smiled all the way to the meeting hall.

Chapter Fourteen

June 28, 1886 — The Meeting Hall and Churchyard Wall

Lottie returned to the meeting hall with Cecil’s drawing folded against her heart and his name still warm in her mouth.

Cecil.

He had given it to her.

Not to the town. Not to the ledger. Not to the loggers who used Peterson because it was easier and safer and less likely to invite a laugh.

To her.

Only when we are alone, he had said.

For now.

She had meant to come back quietly. She had meant to sit at the lending table, copy the latest borrowing entries, and behave like a young woman capable of ordinary tasks after a man had handed her both a library drawing and the tenderest part of his name.

She made it three steps inside before Delly looked up from the ledger.

Her sister saw too much.

She always had.

Delly set down her pen. “You’ve been crying.”

“I have not.”

“You have.”

“I was walking in the wind.”

“There is no wind.”

“Then I was anticipating wind.”

Delly’s mouth tightened. “Lottie.”