I cannot fix on the hour, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation… I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.
~Jane Austen
For the first Monday in months, Holly awakened but remained in bed, staring at the ceiling. She let her mind wander, go wherever it may. No throwing off covers, rushing about, no going over the day’s events in her head before her feet even hit the floor. And, for the first Monday in months, she didn’t sense that compulsive, anxious need for a jog. Not even a quick one.
Maybe it was yesterday’s memorial, the odd sense of closure it had brought. Or maybe it was the image of her family, standing in front of that tree, finally united. Whatever it was, it left Holly with an oddly foreign calm. So foreign that she wanted to fight it. But instead, she attempted to embrace it. And when she finally did roll out of bed, she put on her robe, made a cup of coffee, opened the French doors, and let Rascal out to play in the garden. All without checking the clock once.
The girls, still on holiday from school, had planned to sleep late, anyway. Holly could hear the snores drifting through their bedroom doors when she wandered downstairs.
The only thing nagging at her, still, was Fletcher. As the hours counted down to his leaving, she’d become resigned to the fact that their friendship had run its course. That Fletcher had served a unique purpose in her life these past months, and now it was time for him to move on. Like some sort of fairy godmother, whose job here was complete. She told herself that the unexpected gifts he’d given her—an outlet to vent her troubles, a supportive shoulder to lean on, another person her age to talk to—were more than enough for him to leave behind. She should be grateful for what they’d had and leave it at that.
Rinsing out her coffee cup, she tried to be mature. To look at the facts. Fletcher was leaving. He couldn’t stay here the rest of his life, meeting her needs, rescuing her sisters from danger, being her friend. He had a life of his own to live. But standing at the sink, trying her best to be brave, she could only feel sad. She looked at the clock and realized their goodbye at the final book club was only two hours away.
“You can’t do this to me!” Frank wailed, prompting Holly to shush him in the roomful of people.
She had tendered her resignation a minute before.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s something I have to do. I need to devote all my time to the bookshop now. You knew this was coming. And I’ll only be a few shops down from you.”
He gave her a pout then a half-smile. “I know. But I’m only upset because you’re… irreplaceable.”
Holly reached out for a hug. “Thank you, Frank.”
They stood in Gertrude’s reception room along with the other book club members, chatting and eating the delicious tarts Julia had brought along. Though Julia had never uttered a word during book discussions, her dog-eared copy of Emma and her faithful attendance since Week Three spoke louder than anything.
Gertrude waved Holly over to her chair. “Are they up yet?”
“Are what up?” Holly asked.
“The posters, of course!” Gertrude growled. Two days ago, she’d phoned and insisted that Holly place posters all around the village, to advertise their next book, Pride and Prejudice. Gertrude didn’t even want to skip a single week and told Holly to announce the date as a week from today.
“Yes, they’re up. Frank helped me yesterday.”
“Excellent.” Satisfied, Gertrude popped another biscuit into Leopold’s impatient mouth.
Holly surveyed the room, wondering where Fletcher was. A couple of minutes before the start of the meeting and still no sign of him. No text, no nothing. Feeling her aggravation rise, she turned to Frank again.
“Where’s Fletcher? He was supposed to be here.”
“I thought you knew,” he whispered. “He’s gone.”
“What?!” Holly said, louder than she intended. “When did he leave?”
“Yesterday, I think. At least, that’s what I thought I heard Joe say.”
“I can’t believe it. He didn’t even say goodbye,” she muttered.
“It’s time!” Gertrude insisted, from across the room. She tapped her cane twice. “Let this meeting come to order!”
Holly still hadn’t absorbed this latest Fletcher information when she was forced to sit down and lead the meeting. She did her best to clear her head, focus on Emma, on this group of people staring at her.
She cleared her throat and said, “Since this is the last meeting, I thought we could share our thoughts on favorite characters. Anyone want to start us off?”
Immediately, eagerly, Frank and the ladies thumbed through their well-worn pages to find their favorite parts in support. Holly tried to pay attention as Mrs. Pickering chose Emma’s father—she enjoyed his quirky traits. Or as Mrs. Farraday chose Miss Smith, who maintained character and dignity through all sorts of maltreatment. Or even when Frank chose Miss Bates, a character who withstood criticism and gossip with head held high. Gertrude chose Mrs. Elton, for her ability to be outspoken and candid.
Finally, it was Holly’s turn, and she felt unprepared, unnerved. Still, it was an easy question to answer, her favorite character.
“Well,” she started, the book perched on her lap, “I guess my answer is a bit of a cheat. I could say my favorite character is Emma, for her wit and her growth throughout the novel. Or that it’s Mr. Knightley, for his chivalry and integrity. But instead, I’m going to say that my favorite character in Emma isn’t a character at all. It’s a relationship.”
She explained. “I think the dynamic between Emma and Mr. Knightley is more powerful and complex than any other relationship or single character in the book. Maybe in all of Jane Austen’s books, in fact. Their love story is intriguing because they were friends first. Genuine friends, with no romantic nonsense getting in the way. They were able to be themselves with each other—as evidenced by Emma’s childish behavior in many situations. She wasn’t afraid to be who she was, didn’t try to give Knightley only her best parts. She showed him her flaws, as well. But all that time—even within the friendship—their love was buried just beneath the surface, neither one realizing it until the very end.”
She saw some heads bobbling in agreement and continued, more relaxed, more focused. “I adore Knightley’s chivalrous nature. He was such a gentleman—rescuing Miss Smith at the dance then walking away with Miss Bates at the lawn party, another rescue, of sorts…”
Holly trailed off, hearing her own words. Rescued. A similar image came to her mind, a real-life one—Fletcher, swooping up Abbey with an injured foot. Then another—bringing Bridget home from London after punching out Colin. That boy is a hero, her father had said…
She looked around and saw the ladies waiting. She cleared her throat again and took her thoughts back to the novel. “And, as for Emma, I like her cluelessness the best. Her complete denial over Knightley, the entire length of the book. She was fighting her feelings for him all along. I mean, it took him going away to London before she finally realized how much he meant to her.”
Holly thumbed through to the page she had marked in Chapter Forty-Eight and read aloud slowly, “‘Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known how much of her happiness depended on being first with Mr. Knightley… and only in the dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had been…’”
She shrugged off a nagging sensation, the image of chocolate-brown eyes, the Southern accent she’d grown accustomed to, the dimples, the warm hugs. Things that had too suddenly vanished from her life, possibly forever.
Holly ignored her quickening heartbeat as she picked another section to read, eager for a distraction. “‘Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there for his evening comfort!—No longer walking in at all hours… How was it to be endured?’”
Holly stared at the words, feeling the uneasy panic rise again, feeling Emma’s panic as if it was her own. She didn’t know it until now, but the longer Fletcher had been absent these past few weeks, the more he had become present in her thoughts. Mostly on the fringes of them, but always there. Always. He was the first one she wanted to go to when something happened, good or bad. She noticed the girls had started missing him too, asking when they could see him again.
All this time, she had assumed she was frustrated because she missed his friendship. But now, staring at these pages, she knew it was something else she missed. Something deeper. The realization shocked her like cold water in the face. Fletcher was gone, and she didn’t get to say goodbye. He’d boarded a plane that would carry him an ocean away. And the thought of never seeing him again left an ache she knew she couldn’t tolerate. An ache that touched deeper than friendship.
He had become irreplaceable.
“Holly?” Frank muttered beside her. “What’s wrong? You look flushed.”
She looked at him with wide eyes, hit fully with the connection. “It’s Fletcher.” She pointed to the book.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Fletcher… he’s Knightley,” she told Frank, as though he would completely understand her babbling.
She shifted back to the group, her breathing hurried, clutching the book. She said it slowly, punched each word with meaning. “Fletcher… is… Knightley,” she repeated and stood. “How could I have been so blind?” She turned again to Frank. “I need to find him. Are you sure he’s already gone?”
“Not a hundred percent sure. It was secondhand information. I could be mistaken.”
“Then maybe it isn’t too late.”
“What about Cindy?” Frank asked. “You told me they went together. To America?”
“It doesn’t matter. I have to talk to him. I have to try.”
Some of the ladies had stood too, chattering to each other, confused about what was happening.
Frank braced Holly, hands on her shoulders. “Go and see Joe. He’ll know where Fletcher is.” Then added with a firm nod, “Go get him.”
She rushed out the door, not caring that the ladies were probably planning how to snatch her later and take her to an institution.
Jogging down the hill, around the corner to Storey Road, she stopped short before she reached the pub. Must try the obvious, first. She dialed Fletcher’s number and got his voicemail. Clicking off, knowing she didn’t want to leave some incoherent, scattered message, she decided on another idea, to ring Fletcher’s flat in Bristol. It wouldn’t hurt to try. She scrolled through the numbers on her mobile—he’d used her phone once, to call his cousin—then hit “call,” and held her breath.
“Hello?” an American voice answered. Not Fletcher.
“Hi, is this Todd?”
“Yep. Who’s this?”
“You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Fletcher’s—my name is Holly Newbury.”
“Oh, sure. Holly. I know who you are.”
“Where is he? Fletcher? I think he flew back to America yesterday?” She didn’t care that her voice was laced with desperation. This was too important.
A pause produced hope. But then—“No idea, sorry. I just got back from the States, myself, this afternoon. Haven’t spoken to him in a couple of weeks.”
Deflated, she said, “Okay, thanks. Would you please have him call me if you do talk to him? It’s really important.”
“Will do.”
She clicked the phone off, undeterred.
A minute later, she found Joe. The pub was empty, and she remembered there had been a note on the door as she’d opened it that she hadn’t bothered to read.
“This is inventory day, isn’t it?” She winced, seeing the stack of boxes he was counting. “Sorry, I’ll go.”
“No. Stay. You look a little… rough around the edges.” He poured her a pint and set it on the bar. She wedged herself between the high stools and took a couple of sips, still out of breath from the trek down to the pub.
“What can I help you with?” he asked.
Suddenly at her wit’s end, she felt unexpected tears and dove right in, knowing her chances were miniscule. “Is Fletcher gone? Did he really leave?”
“He checked out yesterday morning. Thanked me for my hospitality and gave me a generous tip.” Joe handed her a cocktail napkin, and she used it to dab her eyes. “Why did you need him? Did he leave something behind?”
She didn’t want to say something as cheesy as, Yes, me. So instead, she said, “We had some unfinished business.”
Maybe it was seeing Joe standing behind the bar, poised patiently to listen, rag slung over his left shoulder, or maybe it was the gesture of the cocktail napkin. But the cliché rang true. She wanted to pour out all her troubles to the barman. And so, she did.
It came out in fast, rambling sentences. She told Joe all about Fletcher’s confusing distance, about Cindy, then this morning’s book club epiphany.
“That’s when I realized it—I didn’t only miss his friendship. It was more than that,” she added. “I have a terrible confession to make, Joe. I think I’m in love with him. I think I’ve loved him for a while, actually. I just didn’t know it.”
“Why terrible?” Joe prompted.
“Because he’s gone. Because I’ve lost him, an ocean away.” Tears threatened again, but the phone buzzing in her hand distracted her. She’d been clutching it tightly this whole time. Maybe it was Todd, remembering something.
Tilting the screen to see it, blinking to clear her vision, Holly froze as she saw the text message.
Turn around.
Holly did as the text commanded and swiveled her head to see. And there he was. Fletcher, standing at the pub door. Not thousands of miles away.
Without even thinking, she pushed away from the bar, untangled herself from the stools, and rushed into Fletcher’s arms. He reciprocated her hug, one hand tight around her waist, the other cradling her neck.
“Hey there,” he whispered then kissed the top of her head.
“I thought you were gone.” She pushed away to look up at him. “Back to Texas.”
She could still feel his hand on her waist as he explained, “I went to London last night, to confront Finn. I had to see him in person, hash things out. Get some closure before I left England.”
“Without saying goodbye?” It was so un-Fletcher-like, skulking away without as much as a note or a phone call. To her, or to her sisters. Had they meant anything to him?
He brushed a stray hair from Holly’s face. “I tried to say goodbye—after the wrap party. It was late, and I went to your house and noticed your lights were on at that little cottage. I walked all the way up to your door, raised my hand to knock, and then… realized I had no clue what to say. I couldn’t imagine forming the words to say goodbye to you.”
Holly smiled. This was the Fletcher she knew so well—self-effacing and sincere.
He continued. “I’d planned to fly to Texas this afternoon, maybe send you a text from the plane. But I couldn’t go through with it. The flight. I needed to come back here. See you again.”
Even as she felt comfortable in his arms right now, their familiar connection returning, something horrifying occurred to her. She remembered what she’d spilled to Joe—all the vivid details and heightened emotions that poured out—only seconds before Fletcher’s text. She quickly became uncomfortable.
“How much of that did you hear, my talk with Joe?” she whispered, pointing behind at the bar, suddenly self-aware, seeing it all again through Fletcher’s eyes. She realized that Joe had discreetly taken his leave. They were alone.
“Most of it,” Fletcher admitted.
She took a step back, exposed and embarrassed. He’d wriggled out of their friendship weeks ago. Made himself scarce, backed away. It was incredibly likely he never felt anything but friendship for her. Which was why he’d almost left the country without so much as a goodbye. She was a fool for letting her guard down.
But before she could make excuses or wrench herself out of his grasp, Fletcher stepped forward and closed the gap. “I have a confession of my own to make.”
“What?”
“Remember my epiphany? On our trip to Bath?”
“Yeah. You never told me what it was.”
“That’s because the epiphany was you.”
“What do you mean?”
“During the balloon ride, I dunno, something… shifted for me. I started realizing I had feelings for you. Deep feelings. And I guess I didn’t know what to do with them. Or how you felt about me.”
“But… you stopped returning my texts. You avoided me after that.”
He grimaced. “I couldn’t handle it—the pressure of rejection if you didn’t feel the same. I was going to tell you how I felt… at the fountain. But I chickened out.”
She remembered his awkwardness, and now it made sense. The silence, the fidgeting. She had interpreted them as indifference. “But what about Cindy? You two were looking pretty serious. I heard you were taking her to America.”
“What?” Fletcher shook his head. “No, never. Maybe she has a new acting gig over there or something, but it has nothing to do with me. Holly, she was a distraction. We went out one time. She made everybody think it was something it wasn’t. Well, if I’m honest… okay, this is horrible.”
“What?
“On some completely sophomoric level, I think I was using her. Trying to make you jealous. Testing your feelings.”
More of the pieces suddenly snapped together.
But there was one final piece to fit into place. One that would tell her everything she needed to know. “What would you tell me now, if we were back at the fountain? If you hadn’t chickened out?”
“I would’ve told you this…” Before she had time to process it, Fletcher leaned in close and pressed his lips to hers. It took a moment to find her equilibrium, but when she did, she returned his kiss and felt a shot of adrenaline. Inside the warmth of his lips, she experienced every paradox at once, all mingled together: strong and weak, hot and cold, delirious and rational. Scared and happy.
“Did that answer your question?” he said, backing away too soon.
“Mmm. Not quite,” she said, dizzy, smiling. “I think I need a bit more clarification.”
Fletcher took his time and leaned in again, kissing her with certainty, making sure she understood. Even though his kisses were brand-new to her, they felt entirely familiar. Because he was familiar. Her friend, her companion. And now, something much more.
His hand moved up to touch her cheek, his urgency changing into something gentle and slow. And when he ended the kiss, his face still close, he whispered, “I’m in love with you too, Holly.”
She let the words sink in, let herself believe them. Let herself realize that every moment they’d had together led up to this moment, this confession.
“Well, it’s about damn time!” she heard someone exclaim from behind. She stretched her neck to see Joe, standing with Lizzie at the back, both of them beaming.
Holly turned back to Fletcher, leaning in for another kiss, and said, “I couldn’t agree more.”