Page 31 of Knowing Amelia

“Oh. Hey,” I say, rubbing the knot forming on the top of my head.

He wrinkles his nose and grimaces. “Sorry about that.” His eyes drift from me to the elm and sky. “Pretty night, isn’t it?”

“It is.” I follow his gaze. “Is it always like this?”

“Pretty much. In the winter, the ground is white and the birds don’t chirp.”

“Ooo, I bet that tree is lovely with a blanket of snow.”

He smiles back at me, his hair wet and glistening, appearing almost black and curlier than ever. A shower is a brilliant idea. It’s been a very long day.

“So, is that tree mine or yours?” I ask, ignoring the hint of flirtation in my tone. Because I’m not flirting. I truly want to know.

“I guess it’s half and half.”

“Don’t ever decide to cut down your half, okay? I’ll sue.”

“No problem.” His laugh fades into the stillness, the quiet of the night returning.

“I should go. It’s late.”

He nods. “I’ll bring breakfast by around eight.”

My head is almost back inside the house when I poke it back outside. “What? No. Logan, you don’t need to do that.” It’s so late. He doesn’t need to get up early for me.

“Sure, I do. I’ve got an old Chevy coming in at eight-thirty, so it’s eight or never. And I can’t let Amelia’s granddaughter go hungry.” He grins before ducking back into his house, a gray curtain falling behind him.

“Breakfast with Logan.” I smile to myself. But then— “At eight.” I yawn again. My shower will have to wait until morning. I’m already sleep-deprived, and eight isn’t all that far away.

I wake up bright and early. Because who needs sleep?

I have plans. Plans to shower and to look halfway presentable before Logan arrives. Plans to not smell like… I currently smell.

But then it’s so early… I woke, and my eyes wouldn’t close again. Which means, I have time. Time to read one journal entry—or three. Time to shower after⁠—

June 6, 1955

I figured out Daddy’s design in sending me here. He wanted me to meet Philip Harlem. I’m certain of it.

Two nights ago, Phil’s father invited me to dinner in their home. He’s an old friend of Dad’s. I had heard of the Harlems and their fortune from Dad. Then I get here and half the town has something named after a Harlem. Phil may be in charge of the family business, but he’s boring. He smiled and cooed at me half the night but said nothing of interest. How could one go through life with conversations like that? I should be happy to have the company, but he was so unbelievably dull.

Uncle Herb’s store is so tiresome. I had three patrons today. No wonder he has a second job. No one in this town wants to buy art. And the three who did come in used it like a museum. Why couldn’t he have invested all of his money into a bookstore? Then at least I’d have something to read while I sit here five hours a day, five days a week. I’m so forlorn, I could cry.

I got a letter from Penny today. She’s a carhop again. She loves it. That must be more exciting than my job. Myron Lewis asked her to the Summer Moon Dance. I love that dance, the first one of every summer. I’ve only been twice. How depressing is that?

Amelia

June 8, 1955

Philip Harlem asked me to a dance. It’s called Under the Stars. Which isn’t nearly as romantic as Summer Moon. But it’s not awful.

It’s outside, and the whole town is invited. I said I’d go. Phil’s horribly boring, but being out under the stars and getting dressed up—I couldn’t resist. It has to be better than sitting at the store or in Uncle Herb’s house all day. Uncle Herb doesn’t even own a television.

And once Dad finds out about the dance, he’ll buy me a new dress for sure.

Amelia

Sitting in my pajamas, I hold in my giddiness as I read two more journal entries. Amelia had spunk. She⁠—