| Romance Fiction posted September 4, 2025 | Chapters: |
...3 4 -5- 6... 
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Emily and Will Meet
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
The Forgotten Dress Chap 5
by Begin Again
Ending of Chap 4
Emily darted instinctively, reaching out just as the chair bumped lightly against her knees.
"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry!" the nurse cried, hurrying back.
Will steadied the paper sack in his lap, his eyes lifting to Emily's face. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that gaze — deep, steady, touched with something like wonder.
His voice was low, warm. "The fault's mine, miss. Please forgive us."
Emily's breath caught. The timbre of his words curled around her like something remembered. She opened her mouth, but no words came. Flustered, she shook her head quickly. "No harm done."
Will's eyes lingered, searching her face. A faint crease formed between his brows, as though he glimpsed something familiar there but couldn't place it.
Emily's throat closed. She stepped back quickly, murmured something that might have been "Excuse me," and turned down the street, her heart racing.
Behind her, his gentle voice floated after her, "Take care, miss."
She didn't look back. She didn't need to look because she had engraved his face and those blue eyes in her mind.
CHAPTER 5.
By the time Emily reached the inn, the lamps glowed warmly in the windows, casting a soft light over the porch. She tried to slip through the front door quietly, but Fanny, the innkeeper, looked up from behind the desk where she was sorting a stack of receipts.
"My word, child," Fanny said, rising at once. "You look like you've been wrung out and hung to dry."
Emily forced a laugh that caught in her throat. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Mm-hmm." Fanny tilted her head knowingly, then waved toward the parlor. "Sit yourself down before you fall over. I'll fetch tea. Chamomile — good for nerves. And a croissant too, because you haven't eaten a thing since morning, I'd wager."
Emily blinked, startled by the accuracy, and allowed herself to be guided to a chair. A few minutes later, Fanny appeared with a tray, setting it gently on the table. "There now. Eat while it's warm."
Emily picked at the pastry, her hands trembling, then looked up with wet eyes. "You're very kind."
Fanny smiled, settling into the chair across from her. "Not kindness, dear. Just common sense. No one should face a heavy day on an empty stomach. And you've the look of someone carrying a very heavy burden."
Emily pressed her lips together, swallowing hard. She didn't explain — couldn't — but the quiet acceptance in Fanny's eyes felt like an anchor. The tea was warm and soothing, and for the first time since leaving the square, Emily's breath began to steady. For now, it was enough.
*****
The next morning, sunlight spilled soft and golden through the lace curtains in the inn's parlor. Emily lingered over her coffee, turning the paper-wrapped train in her lap, her thoughts tangled.
Fanny came bustling in with a vase of lilacs. She set them on the mantel, then paused, studying Emily in the quiet way only older women can. "You know," she said gently, "I've been thinking since you arrived. There's something about you — the tilt of your chin, the set of your eyes. You remind me of someone." She smiled faintly. "Someone I've known most of my life."
Emily's breath caught. She lowered her gaze quickly, her fingers tightening on the bundle in her lap.
Fanny didn't press. She only settled into the chair across from her, folding her hands. "Life leaves us with so many unanswered questions, dear. And sometimes with more hurt than we know what to do with. But anger —" her eyes softened "— anger is a heavy thing to carry. Forgiveness isn't saying the hurt didn't matter. It's saying you matter too much to keep carrying it."
Emily's throat ached. "That's easier said than done."
"Most worthwhile things are." Fanny leaned forward, her voice low but steady. "You don't have to make peace with the whole past in a day. But if there's someone you need to see, someone who needs to hear what you have to say — don't wait too long. Doors close when we least expect it."
Emily swallowed hard, tears pricking her eyes. She rose slowly, clutching the train. "Thank you, Fanny."
"Don't thank me, child. Just go where your heart is tugging you."
*****
Emily's heart pounded as she walked the gravel road toward the white house at the edge of town. The maple tree stretched its shade across the yard, and from the gate she saw him — Will — seated in his chair on the porch. His hands moved with quiet rhythm over a block of wood, shavings curling into the basket at his side.
Emily's heart pounded as she walked the gravel road toward the white house at the edge of town. The maple tree stretched its shade across the yard, and from the gate she saw him — Will — seated in his chair on the porch. His hands moved with quiet rhythm over a block of wood, shavings curling into the basket at his side.
She gripped the gatepost, frozen, only steps away.
The screen door creaked, and the nurse stepped outside carrying a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. She set them on the small table beside Will and glanced toward the gate. "Oh! We've got company," she said brightly. To Emily, she added, "You'll melt out there in the sun. Come on in, dear." She walked down a step, smiling. "Didn't we run into you yesterday by the store? Heavens, I nearly sent this chair flying into you. What a lapse." She laughed lightly, shaking her head.
Emily managed a slight nod, her mouth dry. "Yes, that was me."
The nurse motioned toward the porch. "Well, don't just stand there. Come up and have a glass of lemonade. I'll fetch another." She disappeared back inside, the screen door snapping shut behind her.
Silence fell. Will had stopped carving, his hands resting motionless on the wood. Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward her. Their eyes met across the yard — his steady and searching, hers wide and uncertain.
It was now or never.
She pushed the gate open. The hinges groaned as she stepped onto the path, her shoes crunching over the gravel. Each step felt both impossibly heavy and far too quick.
Will hadn't moved. The block of wood still rested in his lap, his hands poised over it as though frozen in time. His gaze followed her, steady and unblinking, a question etched in the lines of his face.
Emily mounted the porch steps, her knees trembling. For a moment, she stood there, not daring to sit, not daring to speak.
Will inclined his head slightly, his voice low and warm, the same voice that had haunted her since the store. "Seems we've met twice in as many days." A faint smile touched his lips. "Small towns are like that."
Emily's throat tightened. She managed a whisper, "Yes, I guess they are."
His eyes lingered on her, searching. Something flickered there — confusion, curiosity, maybe even recognition — before he looked down at the carving in his lap, brushing a thumb over the grain. "Won't you sit?" he asked gently, nodding to the empty chair across the table.
Emily hesitated, then lowered herself into it, her heart racing. The pitcher of lemonade gleamed between them, condensation slipping down the glass. For the first time, father and daughter sat across from each other, neither yet knowing how deeply they were bound together.
The screen door creaked again, and the nurse came out with another glass in her hand. She poured lemonade into it and set it in front of Emily with a smile. "There we are," she said. "Nothing better on a warm afternoon."
Emily murmured her thanks, her fingers curling around the cool glass.
The nurse straightened, wiping her palms on her apron. "If you'll excuse me a moment, I need to make a quick telephone call. Just down the hall." She smiled between them. "You two will be fine without me."
Before Emily could respond, she had slipped back inside, the door clicking softly shut. Silence settled over the porch, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the maple tree.
Will glanced at Emily, his gaze steady, curious. "You're not from here." His voice was gentle, the observation simple, but it wrapped around her with surprising warmth.
Emily shook her head, her throat dry. "No. I'm visiting."
Will nodded, his hand brushing a curl of wood from his lap. His eyes lingered on her face, narrowing slightly as if trying to place something half-remembered.
Emily's gaze drifted to the shape taking form in his lap. Her breath caught. "That's — a train, isn't it?"
Will glanced up, the corners of his mouth lifting faintly. "It is. Haven't made one in a while, but my hands remember the way." His voice was calm and low, carrying both weariness and quiet pride.
Emily leaned forward slightly, her heart hammering. "It's beautiful." She hesitated, then added softly, "I actually found one in an antique shop here in town. It looked just like that."
Something flickered across his face — surprise, then a warmth that softened his features. "One of mine, then." He brushed a shaving away with his thumb. "Makes me glad to know a few are still out there, still being held."
Emily blinked against the sting of tears. "It reminded me of something my mother had when I was little. I didn't know why it felt familiar. Not until I started asking questions."
His eyes searched hers, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "Questions about what?"
"About you." The words trembled out before she could stop them.
The knife slipped against the wood, leaving a shallow nick. Will set both aside, his fingers curling tightly in his lap. His voice was low, roughened. "I don't understand."
Emily's hands shook as she reached into her bag. She drew out the bundle of letters, still bound in their faded ribbon, and set them gently on the table between them. "I found these," she whispered. "In my mother's things. The letters you wrote to her. And letters she wrote back that came back unopened. She never showed them to me. She never told me about you."
Will stared at the bundle as though it were something alive, something dangerous. His chest rose and fell unsteadily.
Emily swallowed hard, her voice breaking. "I'm Emily. Margaret's daughter."
The silence that followed was thick, shattering. Will's eyes lifted slowly to her face. He looked at her long and searching, his expression shifting through disbelief, recognition, and something so raw it nearly undid her.
"Margaret's — daughter." His voice was scarcely more than a whisper.
Emily's tears blurred the edges of him, but she held his gaze. "Yes, I'm your daughter."
 Recognized |
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