Page 110 of Charlotte

Lottie lifted her chin. “Then tell me, Cecil Peterson. Say the words out loud.” Cecil swallowed. “No lists,” she said. “No noble speeches. No telling me what I deserve. If you are refusing me, refuse me.”

His face had gone pale beneath the beard.

“Lottie.”

“No. Say it.” She slapped her hand against her leg, feeling the sting beneath the cotton.

His hand curled around the hat brim until the felt bent.

“I cannot marry you.”

A choked sob broke from Lottie’s throat.

She had thought the worst would be his leaving. It was not. The worst was that he said it as if each word cut him too, and she still could not stop them from landing.

“Thank you,” she said. “For saying it to my face.”

His mouth parted, but no words came.

Lottie turned to Val. “Is there a paper I must sign?”

Val looked at Preacher Sutton. The preacher shook his head.

“No formal paper today. The Sisters’ records can note the match is unresolved until both parties speak with a clear mind.”

Cecil’s head lifted. “I spoke clearly.”

“So, you did,” Preacher Sutton said. “Grief often mistakes itself for clarity.”

Cecil looked away. Lottie almost hugged the preacher for that. Almost.

She smoothed her gloves. “Then leave the record as it is. Mr. Peterson has made his position plain. I have heard him.”

“Lottie,” Cecil said.

She looked at him once more. The room blurred at the edges, but he remained painfully clear: tall, wounded, stubborn, trying to be good, and doing harm with both hands.

“I will not chase you today,” she said, ignoring the stricken look on his face. “I will not stand in the schoolyard arguing my worth against your fear. I will not beg you to grant me the dignity of a choice you have already refused to honor.” Her voice trembled, but it held. “If you need to leave, leave. If you need to call it noble, I suppose you may. Do not ask me to praise the knife because you polished the handle.”

Val drew a quiet breath. Cecil looked as though he had no shield left and no idea what to do without one.

Lottie walked to the door. Her hand was on the knob when he spoke.

“The library will be finished.”

She closed her eyes.

Of course.

Of course, he would offer her walls after taking himself away.

She looked back over her shoulder. “I never doubted the building, Cecil. It was the man I had hoped would stay.”

She opened the door and stepped into the July sun, making it as far as the churchyard before the first tear fell. By the time she reached the lakeshore, she had stopped trying to hold them back.

The water spread green and bright beneath the sky, indifferent to human misery in a way that felt almost rude. Lottie sat in the long grass and pressed both hands over her mouth so the sob would not carry.

He loved her.