“Someday, he will be your editor,” Cymbeline said, sounding drowsy. “And you’ll make lots and lots of beautiful books together.”
“Why do you say it that way?” Addie asked, holding her pencil aloft. “As a statement instead of a question?”
“I don’t know. Often, I feel things deep in my bones. Like premonitions maybe?” Cym swiped her thumb through the condensation on the outside of her glass. “And sometimes I have to dream big enough for all my sisters.”
I turned my head to look at Cym directly. “Have I disappointed you? Giving up on Paris and Mr. Basset?”
“What? Goodness no,” Cym said. “You’re doing exactly what you should be doing. That’s the thing about you, dearest. You do life exactly as you want to, without worrying about what others might think.”
“That’s how you live, Cym,” I said. “Especially you.”
“Takes one to know one,” Jo said.
“I should very much like to write a real book someday.” Addie chewed on the end of her pencil. “Maybe I’ll write the story of our family.”
“That would be a twisted tale,” Cym said, and wriggled her eyebrows. “Full of juicy parts.”
“Cymbeline,” Jo said. “May I remind you that Addie is still a child?”
“I’m not really,” Addie said. “A few more years and I’ll be as old as Fiona is now and maybe I’ll be married too.”
“You’re only fifteen,” I said. “Don’t be in too much of a hurry.”
“But how can I write about romantic things without having a love story of my own?” Addie asked, with another glance at James.
A knot of worry disturbed my peaceful state. Addie was a child. She had no business falling in love with a grown man. Although there were about the same number of years between them as there were Li and me. James would not be here in Emerson Pass, however, by the time Addie was old enough for him. He’d said just last night that he would stay long enough to come up with a plan and way to support himself and then be off to New York. I’d put it out of my mind, I decided. Nothing to worry about. Right?
I would make a mental note to discuss this further with Cym and Jo.
“If I guess correctly,” Jo said, “our new friend James will have half the girls in town chasing after him.”
“New blood,” Cym said. “The wish of every small-town girl.”
“I must hurry and grow up, then,” Addie said, sounding concerned, “if I am to get James to fall in love with me.”
“It worked for Fiona and Li,” Cymbeline said. “Not that I’m encouraging such a thing. I’d rather see you write a book than marry and lose all ambition.”
“How can you say that?” I asked Cym. “When you’re so happy with Viktor? You can’t tell me that love isn’t the finest thing of all. Even better than jumping off a mountain.”
“Yes, love is grand,” Cym said. “But so is winning.”
“Poor long-suffering Viktor,” Jo said, laughing. “Patience was his friend.”
“Still is,” I said.
“Do you see how mean they are to me?” Cym asked Addie.
We all laughed, our giggles as lovely as the birds that chirped above and the notes coming from the piano. I was right, I decided, feeling rather smug. Love in all its forms was indeed the grandest of all things.