“I knowyouthink of him that way.”
“He thinks of me that way, too.”
Jude looks doubtful.
I can’t help but laugh. “Trust me when I tellyou, Twig thinks of me as a sister. If he has non-platonic feelings for anyone, my bet’s on Naomi. But she despises horror movies, which makes me question Twig’s taste.” I set my elbow on the desk and twist the gold stud in my ear. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
He seems to consider for a moment, and I hold my breath. The prospect of sitting next to him at night, surrounded by fog while a scary movie plays on the big screen makes my skin prickle.
“Isabel scheduled a dinner with the Bogaards. I should probably attend.”
Disappointment hits hard. The tantalizing prospect of Jude beside me in the dark, our arms touching, is replaced by Jude and Sterling at the Bogaards’ dining table, sitting stiffly across from one another.
“You sure you’re not just sick of me?”
“If that were the case, I wouldn’t have spent the afternoon building floats for a parade I don’t care about.” He holds my gaze. “And we wouldn’t be here right now, either.”
A flush creeps into my ears.
With a shaky breath, I look away first, returning the rolodex to the bottom right drawer. I slide open the shallow one in the center.
It’s filled with the standard office supplies—pens, pencils, paperclips, pushpins—along with a pack of playing cards, a matchbook from The Cobbler, return address labels, and a tin of long-expired mints. I try to open the tin, but the lid isstuck. When it finally pops off, tiny mints scatter everywhere. I gather them into a pile, then reach toward some strays in the back of the drawer, when the ring on my finger snags on something.
I pull the drawer open a little farther and notice a faint separation in the back corner. I press on the spot and the bottom shifts downward, like there’s space underneath. Curious, I peel up the corner. It’s a false panel, and it lifts easily, revealing a hidden compartment where two letters rest side by side.
“Great Scott,” I whisper.
“What is it?” Jude asks.
“I found something.” I set the false panel aside and pick up one of the letters. It was written on September 7, 1822, four short days before fire would consume the town. Jude has come to his feet. He stands behind me, reading over my shoulder.
My Dearest Amos,
I ought not to write. A thousand times, I have told myself so. But here I sit, pen in trembling hand, compelled by a heart that refuses to yield.
You are not mine. I have known this from the first. And yet, the moments we have shared, stolen though theywere, have rendered this truth more cruel than ever.
I dream of a different life, one in which our love is not forbidden. But such dreams are cruel companions. I wake each morning to a reality I cannot bear.
You are bound in marriage, however loveless you claim it to be, and you have children who shall carry your name. What have I but fleeting moments, and a longing that grows with each passing day? Tell me, Amos, can any solace be found in so hopeless a circumstance?
Forgive me this letter. I shall not write again.
Yours in secret,
Florence
My heart pounds as I reach the signature.
Florence…
Why does it strike such a familiar note?
Florence?
The recollection snapsinto place.
Florence!
