Page 73 of The Amber House

"Put some proper shoes on," Emma announced, tossing the cloth onto the marble.

Victoria looked up from the open ledger, her palm still resting flat over the back of her silenced phone, keeping her expression impassive as her eyes tracked Emma’s worn denim shorts and lace-up boots. "I have no desire to hike across damp fields, but thank you for the offer."

"We are taking a walk. The house is totally quiet until tomorrow, you've been buried in my spreadsheets for three weeks straight, and there is somewhere I haven't taken you yet."

Victoria exhaled, letting out a low, put-upon sigh, before sliding the phone deep into her pocket and pushing back from the stool. "If you lead me near a herd of cows, I am turning around."

Emma drove them away from the village, steering Betsy along the winding secondary roads that cut through the valley. The windows were rolled all the way down. The cabin filled with the smell of pine needles, warm asphalt, and damp earth drying under the July heat. Victoria leaned back against the cracked vinyl, the rush of wind violently tangling her hair, her dark sunglasses catching the green canopy blurring overhead.

Normally, she would have analyzed the rattle in the axle, calculated the liability of driving an uninspected wreck, or checked her inbox every four minutes. Instead, she watched Emma’s profile—the curve of her nose, the unruly curls whipping across her cheek, the easy confidence with which she worked the stiff gearbox. Victoria felt a sudden ache in her chest. For the first time in twenty years, she wasn't performing. She didn't care about the wind ruining her blowout; she didn't care about the suspension. She just wanted the road to stretch out indefinitely.

Emma parked near a weathered wooden post at the edge of a dense tree line. They walked along a dirt path where the ground yielded softly under Victoria’s flat-soled boots. The canopy closed overhead, thick and insulating, filtering the harsh glare into streaks of pale gold.

After twenty minutes of navigating the incline, the trees broke open without warning.

Victoria stopped dead on the embankment, the air knocked clean out of her lungs.

Before them lay a secluded, glass-still lake, mirroring the summer sky with pristine clarity. Massive weeping willows flanked the water, their heavy branches dipping low into the reeds. Near the shallows, rising just above the surface, was a wide, flat grey rock.

Victoria’s polished composure fractured wholly. The memories hit her not as thoughts, but as sensory shocks—the smell of stagnant freshwater, the sound of an older man's booming laughter, the certainty of being completely safe.

"Joe used to talk about this place," Emma said gently beside her. Her voice was quiet, deeply respectful of the weight suddenly pressing down on the air. "He told me he brought you here when you were younger. He said you used to sit on that flat rock for hours, watching the ducks. I thought you’d like it."

An involuntary gasp snagged in Victoria's chest. She lifted a shaking hand to her lips, totally defenseless against the sudden rush of grief.

"I thought I dreamt it," Victoria whispered, her voice rough, barely more than a breath. "I thought my memory made it up."

Emma closed the distance between them, settling a hand on the small of Victoria's back. Victoria leaned into the quiet warmth of Emma's palm, letting out a long exhale as the heavy tension in her spine finally dissolved.

"It is exactly how I remembered it," Victoria murmured, resting her temple briefly against Emma's shoulder. “I’m… thank you, Emma.”

"He loved bringing you here," Emma said softly. "He talked about it all the time."

They stood there until the ache in Victoria’s chest smoothed into something peaceful. They continued their walk along the perimeter of the lake in a silence heavy with gratitude. Emma found a patch of dry ground shaded beneath the sweeping curtain of a willow tree. She slipped her backpack off her shoulders and spread a tartan blanket over the grass.

The heat of the afternoon settled warmly around them. Emma sat cross-legged, pulling a stray blade of grass from the edge of the wool. Victoria stretched out beside her, leaning back on her elbows, watching the water with a reflective expression.

"You know, I looked up a culinary school," Emma said, the words tumbling out as if she couldn't hold them back any longer.

Victoria shifted her gaze from the lake to Emma’s face, giving her undivided attention. "In London?"

"In Paris." Emma traced the frayed hem of the blanket, a nervous energy radiating from her. "It is an intensive pastry and baking course. Three months. They offer a certificate at the end. I actually printed the brochure two weeks ago and hid it under the blotter in the kitchen drawer because I was too scared to look at the application deadline."

Victoria absorbed the information, her mind naturally evaluating the scope, but when she spoke, her tone lacked any of its usual critical detachment. "Three months in Paris."

"Yes."

"Do you want to go?"

"I think I do," Emma admitted, the realization solidifying in her green eyes. "I love the B&B, don’t get me wrong. It’s my entire life. But I want to know I can do something else. I want to learn the science behind it, not just the instinct."

"I think you should go," Victoria said. The certainty in her tone was absolute, leaving no room for self-doubt. "You are incredibly talented, Emma. You deserve to have the credentials to back up the skill." And she thought, with a small, cold drop in her stomach, that if Emma went across the Channel, she would be out of range of whatever was coming.

Emma looked up. Victoria was watching her with an expression so open, so fiercely supportive, that it made Emma’s breath catch. There was no hesitation between them, no questioning of the practicality, no mention of the impending sale or the nightmare of running the inn alone.

Emma dropped the blade of grass. Her gaze fell briefly to Victoria's mouth. Without a word, she leaned forward across the blanket and pressed her lips against Victoria’s.

Victoria reacted instantly. She shifted her weight, wrapping an arm around Emma’s waist and pulling her firmly down against her body. The kiss began with quiet reverence, but the isolation under the willow quickly turned it into something demanding.