the stable?”
Molly eyed her over the rim of her glass. “I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about, letters and cows and nonsense. Nothing in that stable but smelly horses and a musty ole hayloft.”
“The loft.” Emily darted to a drawer where Molly kept the matches. The lantern already waited by the door.
“You’re not going now are you, miss?”
“Why wait until the morning when Father might get it in his head to move them?” Emily lit the lamp, pausing at the door.
“Careful, miss, the hay is dry. It’ll catch afire.”
“Molly.” Emily raised the lamp. “How do you know the hay is dry?”
“You’re not the only lass with a love in her heart, Emily. I had me an evening with the delivery man, Mr. Dawson.” She whistled her way back to her room.
“Molly.”
The maid’s door closed and Emily ran smiling across the lawn, striding against the narrow hem of her e s hem ofgown, the flame of the lamp swaying through the darkness. So, Molly and Mr. Dawson . . . they made a fine pair. Yes, sir. At the stable Emily unlatched the lock and slid open the door.
Father’s stable was immaculate. Five stalls on the right, five stalls on the left, separated by a wide stone aisle. The horses raised their heads as Emily marched toward the loft ladder.
“Hide my letters from me. What right has he?” At the ladder’s top, Emily cleared a place away for the oil lamp and surveyed the mound of yellow straw. Where would Father hide letters? She inspected the walls for a cupboard or hidden door. If she were hiding letters, she’d put them in a box or sack, then stash them in a corner and cover them with hay.
Emily kicked her way to the back corner, then dropped to her knees, searching the hay. When her hands hit a wooden box, her breath caught. She’d not considered what she’d do if she actually found them.
Carrying the box to the lamp, she sat dangling her legs over the loft’s edge. The hay clinging to her skirt shook free and drifted down into the stall below.
The simple box was square, made of cedar, with a small brass lock. When she tried the lock, it wouldn’t spring. She’d have to take it inside. She tucked the box under her arm and, grabbing the lantern, hurried back to the house.
She knew where to find the key. Father kept dozens of them in the middle drawer of his desk. She’d stay up all night to find the right one if need be.
In the kitchen Emily set the lantern on the sideboard and prepared to blow out the flame when a small glint caught her eye. A key. A small lockbox key.
Bless you, Molly, bless you.
Emily unlocked the box, set the key on the table, snuffed out the lamp, and snuck along the back staircase to her room.
Chapter Five
Charlotte
K ristin, I can tell by the light in your eyes you’re excited for your wedding day. You want it to be special. To be about you and Oliver.”
Charlotte sat on the sofa next to her client, the pinkish white walls casting a soft mauve hue across the plush mocha-colored carpet and the Logan Stone couch. In her lap she cradled her secret weapon. A photo album.
“Well, we met in high school—”
Charlotte placed the book on the coffee table.
“—and dated all through college.” Kristin sighed and smiled. “We only broke up once.”
“You two are meant to be, it’s obvious. How did you know he was the one?” Charlotte opened to the first page of the photo album—a collection of Birmingham brides over the last six months. Every woman wore the exact same style of dress Kristin claimed was the one for her. The gown she’d been “dreaming of since she was a girl.”
“Oliver?” The blush on Kristin’s cheeks outshone her smile. “Like you said, we were meant to be. We belong together. We fit. We’re best friends. We love all the same things. Even in high school we completed each other’s sentences.”
“He makes you feel special, doesn’t he?”
“Even after dating for seven years, yes, he does.”
Charlotte
Molly eyed her over the rim of her glass. “I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about, letters and cows and nonsense. Nothing in that stable but smelly horses and a musty ole hayloft.”
“The loft.” Emily darted to a drawer where Molly kept the matches. The lantern already waited by the door.
“You’re not going now are you, miss?”
“Why wait until the morning when Father might get it in his head to move them?” Emily lit the lamp, pausing at the door.
“Careful, miss, the hay is dry. It’ll catch afire.”
“Molly.” Emily raised the lamp. “How do you know the hay is dry?”
“You’re not the only lass with a love in her heart, Emily. I had me an evening with the delivery man, Mr. Dawson.” She whistled her way back to her room.
“Molly.”
The maid’s door closed and Emily ran smiling across the lawn, striding against the narrow hem of her e s hem ofgown, the flame of the lamp swaying through the darkness. So, Molly and Mr. Dawson . . . they made a fine pair. Yes, sir. At the stable Emily unlatched the lock and slid open the door.
Father’s stable was immaculate. Five stalls on the right, five stalls on the left, separated by a wide stone aisle. The horses raised their heads as Emily marched toward the loft ladder.
“Hide my letters from me. What right has he?” At the ladder’s top, Emily cleared a place away for the oil lamp and surveyed the mound of yellow straw. Where would Father hide letters? She inspected the walls for a cupboard or hidden door. If she were hiding letters, she’d put them in a box or sack, then stash them in a corner and cover them with hay.
Emily kicked her way to the back corner, then dropped to her knees, searching the hay. When her hands hit a wooden box, her breath caught. She’d not considered what she’d do if she actually found them.
Carrying the box to the lamp, she sat dangling her legs over the loft’s edge. The hay clinging to her skirt shook free and drifted down into the stall below.
The simple box was square, made of cedar, with a small brass lock. When she tried the lock, it wouldn’t spring. She’d have to take it inside. She tucked the box under her arm and, grabbing the lantern, hurried back to the house.
She knew where to find the key. Father kept dozens of them in the middle drawer of his desk. She’d stay up all night to find the right one if need be.
In the kitchen Emily set the lantern on the sideboard and prepared to blow out the flame when a small glint caught her eye. A key. A small lockbox key.
Bless you, Molly, bless you.
Emily unlocked the box, set the key on the table, snuffed out the lamp, and snuck along the back staircase to her room.
Chapter Five
Charlotte
K ristin, I can tell by the light in your eyes you’re excited for your wedding day. You want it to be special. To be about you and Oliver.”
Charlotte sat on the sofa next to her client, the pinkish white walls casting a soft mauve hue across the plush mocha-colored carpet and the Logan Stone couch. In her lap she cradled her secret weapon. A photo album.
“Well, we met in high school—”
Charlotte placed the book on the coffee table.
“—and dated all through college.” Kristin sighed and smiled. “We only broke up once.”
“You two are meant to be, it’s obvious. How did you know he was the one?” Charlotte opened to the first page of the photo album—a collection of Birmingham brides over the last six months. Every woman wore the exact same style of dress Kristin claimed was the one for her. The gown she’d been “dreaming of since she was a girl.”
“Oliver?” The blush on Kristin’s cheeks outshone her smile. “Like you said, we were meant to be. We belong together. We fit. We’re best friends. We love all the same things. Even in high school we completed each other’s sentences.”
“He makes you feel special, doesn’t he?”
“Even after dating for seven years, yes, he does.”
Charlotte
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