Chapter Text
Doylestown, Pennsylvania – May 1883
By the time the train stops in Doylestown, the sun has set completely, blanketing the smallest town Larry can ever recall visiting in total darkness.
When he steps off with his suitcase in hand, he squints around the station, trying to find something discerning about this town he’s been all but exiled to, but he can’t seem to. It’s just open fields and one little road and a night sky so big and wide Larry’s sure there are stars here that he’d never see in New York, or Boston, or maybe anywhere else at all.
He supposes that’s a silver lining, though a rather small one.
Huffing a bit, Larry starts for the road, figuring he’s going to be walking into town, as it doesn’t seem likely to catch a cab here. He finds himself grumbling as he does, but damn it all, he’s exhausted and he’s been traveling for over a dozen hours and the absolute last thing he wants to do is walk all the way to an inn just to sleep on a lumpy mattress.
But, as he walks, following the signs that point him toward the center of town, it gives him ample time to further regret the choices that got him to this point. Namely, not pushing back when he revealed to his father he wanted to be an architect. Namely, not standing up for himself and insisting he didn’t want to be the poor second act failure. Namely, not telling his father he wanted the chance to be a great man in his own right.
Instead, he moped, went home and licked his wounds, and never brought up the subject again. And now he’s here in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania on a mission by his father to organize the construction of a new railway station.
Though, seeing the town, Larry has absolutely no idea why anyone would ever want to come here. Rationally he knows it makes sense to build – Trenton isn’t far by railway standards, and it could be a fine enough transfer point in his father’s grand plan to cover each and every state with his railways, but somehow, Larry still knows that his father sending him here was some sort of test. Or punishment, really.
He doesn’t need to be here, overseeing this project. And Larry isn’t entirely sure what game his father is playing with him, but nonetheless he had no choice in being sent here.
By the time he makes it to the inn (Sign of the Ship, it’s called, though Larry can’t imagine why, since they’re miles from any body of water), he’s so completely bone tired he’s sure he’ll sleep for a week. Which also isn’t an option, since he’ll surely find a telegraph from his father waiting for him when he wakes up.
When he gets his key, drops his bag, and settles in his night clothes, Larry flops down on the bed (the mattress is lumpy, blast it all) and closes his eyes. But the silence overwhelms him entirely, and he opens them again, staring up at the ceiling, assured of the fact that he won’t be getting a second of sleep.
Marian Brook is quite sure the man who’s just stepped into the library is an angel.
She pulls the book in her hand to her chest as she tries to peer discreetly around the stack (she’s found herself in fiction again, plucking through Pride and Prejudice like she does most days) to get a better look at him.
He’s tall, but not all that broad like Tom Raikes, her late father’s lawyer who’s always poking around the library, talking Marian’s ear off about inconsequential things she doesn’t care about. No, this man isn’t all shoulders, imposing and large – he’s lean, and his clothes are tailored almost perfectly to his long limbs, the first sign he’s not from Doylestown.
But even if he hadn’t looked so polished and put together, Marian knew instantly he wasn’t from here. She knows all the men around her age, and has since infancy.
And they all knew her. Poor, lonely Marian Brook. Motherless at a young age, fatherless more recently, unmarried and not interested in anyone in Doylestown.
Not to say she’s interested in this out-of-town stranger, either. But she can’t help but notice the fine structure of his cheekbones and the way his curly hair falls into his forehead.
He’s gorgeous – unlike any man she’s ever seen before.
She’s a bit breathless, really, and she looks down at the Austen novel in her hand, wondering if one of her dashing heroes has jumped from the page and into the library.
Marian shakes her head as she reshelves the book and walks out of the stacks, clutching the rest of the titles that need to be reshelved, avoiding meeting the stranger’s eye as she heads back toward her desk.
But he doesn’t let her go far.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
Marian bites her lip as she spins, facing the man who’s gripping a well-loved copy of Around the World in 80 Days. “Yes, sir?”
“Do you work here?”
She looks around the library. They’re the only two in here, and she’s holding a stack of books in her hand. “I do, yes.”
“I was wondering if you have more of Verne’s work. I only noticed this one.”
Marian’s mind rushes over the titles she’s seen come through. “I believe we have Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, but it might be checked out. I can look for you, if you’d like?”
“Are those the only two titles you have?”
“From Verne?” Marian asks, blinking. “I… I believe so.”
“No Mysterious Island? From Earth to the Moon?”
Marian draws in a breath, squaring her shoulders. He may be good-looking, but there’s no mistaking the attitude in his question. “I don’t believe we shelve those, sir.”
The man closes his eyes in obvious frustration, grumbling something suspiciously nasty under his breath before he looks back up at her and asks, “Is there possibly another library in the area? One with a more robust selection?”
Marian curves her brows in, and shakes her head, turning to place the books down on the table opposite her, just so she can cross her arms. “Where are you from, might I ask?”
“What makes you think I’m from somewhere?”
“Because you don’t know that this is the only library for quite a long way and you expect us to have the entirety of Verne’s works at your disposal. As you can clearly tell, I don’t have endless shelves here, sir. We buy the books that circulate the most.”
The man blinks a few times, looks down at the book in his hand, then closes his eyes again. Though this time, he at least has the decency to appear ashamed. “Forgive me, please. I didn’t mean to insinuate that your selection isn’t suitable. I’m just looking for something to read that may pass the time, and I’ve already read this.”
She cocks a brow. “Do you only read Verne?”
“Pardon me?”
“You’re inquiring specifically about Verne and said you’re looking for his other titles. I suppose I’m to assume that all the other authors on the shelves are of no nevermind to you.”
He narrows his eyes. “I read other authors. I recently read Around the World and I enjoyed it, so I was looking for some of his other books.”
Marian uncrosses her arms and raises her chin. “Well. Since you’ve read that one and we have no other Verne on hand, might you be open to suggestions?”
He sighs, visibly swallowing as the tips of his ears turn red. “Of course. Thank you, ma’am.”
She offers him a smile, reaching out to take back the book in his hand as she walks around him, carefully reshelving it. “I suppose you like adventure stories,” she says over her shoulder as she heads back into the stacks.
“I guess you might say that.”
Turning a corner, she pulls a novel from the shelf. “So you must have read Gulliver’s Travels?”
“I–” He starts, his ears going even redder. “No, I haven’t.”
Up close, she can see that his eyes are a warm shade of brown beneath his dark brows, and his bottom lip has an almost constant pout. He really is the most beautiful man she’s ever laid eyes on, and it’s almost a shame he’s just passing through. But maybe not a shame at all – because it’s not as if a man like him would ever desire someone like her.
She’s nearly twenty-three, and has heard the town gossips whispering the phrase spinster in the making when she passes by more than once. But she’s resolved to that fact. She’s made peace with it. No matter how much time Tom Raikes spends chatting with her.
Marrying him would be the smart choice, of course. After her father died, she was lucky the house was paid off with a bit of money left to spare. Of course, she had to find work almost immediately after he died. And she had to let go of all the household staff, small as it was.
Marian did her own cooking, her own cleaning, her own mending, and all between working at the library. And still it wasn’t enough, and the money was dwindling, and she didn’t know what she was going to do, but she knew she didn’t want to marry Tom Raikes.
If she does marry, she wishes to be in love. But maybe marrying for love is more of a delusion than a dream.
She snaps from her thoughts as she hands him the book. “I think you might enjoy it. What are your thoughts on Poe?”
“As in Edgar Allen?” The man asks, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile.
“The one and only.”
“I’m not much for poetry,” he admits. “Or anything gothic, really.”
“He doesn’t only write poetry,” Marian attests, rounding the stack and plucking another book off the shelf. “This has a collection of his short stories, and a few of his poems. I think you should try them. You might like them if you keep an open mind.”
“Sure,” he relents, accepting the book, smiling a bit shyly. “Do you recommend any in particular?”
“I would say to read The Cask of Amontillado. There’s a really exciting twist I think you’ll enjoy,” Marian grins. She can talk about this sort of thing forever – she’s sure she’s read every book that’s come through the library. “As far as poems, Annabel Lee is my favorite.”
The man looks down at the two books in his hand, smiling sheepishly. “Do you think you can write that down?”
“Of course,” she says, walking around him and leading him back toward the desk. On the way she stops at the table where she left the other books, reaching over to pick them up.
“Oh, allow me,” he cuts in, placing his books beneath his arm, lifting the stack for her.
“Thank you, sir,” she says, nodding her head as she walks to her desk, putting a hand down. “You can set them here.”
He puts them down carefully, then pulls his books from under his arm and places them on the desk in front of her. “Thank you, for the suggestions.”
“Happy to help,” she smiles, reaching for some paper. “I like Verne, too, if it’s any consolation. I’ve been trying to get them to buy Journey to the Center of the Earth, but I’ve had no luck.”
“To be honest, I’ve only really just found the time to catch up on my reading,” the man admits. “School took up so much of my time, and when I finished, well… life took up a lot of time. But now I’m here, so. I’ve found I have some free time.”
“What brings you to Doylestown, Mister..?” She looks up, pen hovering over the sign-out book, recognizing she needs a name to write down.
“Russell,” he finishes. “Larry Russell.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mister Russell.” She beams, scrawling his name down. “I’m Marian Brook.”
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Brook,” he replies. “And I’m here for work. My father owns a railroad company, and we’re building a station here for his new line. He sent me to oversee the work.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” Marian muses, thinking about what she would do if she could get on a train and leave Doylestown for good. After her father died, she’d gotten a letter from her estranged aunt, Ada Brook. She’d enclosed a ticket from Doylestown to New York, but Marian never used it. She hadn’t needed to, at the time. She thought she would be okay on her own.
Now, maybe part of her regrets not going. But part of her doesn’t, at the same time. She doesn’t wish to be anyone’s charity case, certainly not a family member who’d never even acknowledged her existence before her father’s death. She sent a kind reply back, thanking her for the tickets and wishing her well, and that was the last she heard from Ada Brook.
But yet, the thought of leaving this town behind – now it held a bit more appeal.
She shakes away the thought, and hands Mr. Russell the note with the titles she’d written out for him. “The books are due back in a week. How long will you be in town for?”
“More than a week,” Mr. Russell grumbles under his breath, and Marian raises her brows. “Forgive me, again, I – really, I’m not usually like this, I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Might I suggest you head to the tavern before bed, then,” Marian teases. “I’ve heard that helps.”
“I might just do that,” he smiles back. “Thank you again for your help, Miss Brook. I’ll bid you good day.”
He nods his head, backing away from the desk with his books in hand, headed out the door before she can get in another word.
Marian sighs, dropping down to her chair, figuring she won’t have another interaction that interesting all day. Maybe even all week.
Larry returns to the library the very next day.
He hadn’t made a dent in the Jonathan Swift novel, but only because he’d been so engrossed by the Edgar Allen Poe stories. He hadn’t been living under a rock, he was familiar with the writer, but he tended to stay away from poetry all together usually and he really didn’t think he’d like the gothic undertones of the stories.
But he was very wrong – not only had he read the story she recommended, he read several others in the book, and Annabel Lee, and Lenore, and The Raven.
And he doesn’t know why, but he wants to tell Miss Brook. Really, she’s the only person he knows in this town –even if he doesn’t really know her– besides the barkeep at the tavern, which he did visit last night and he did have enough to drink to finally get some sleep.
Though he’s still not used to the quiet.
No carriages roll through the way they do in New York. It’s just rustling leaves and wind and he feels so alone and unsettled he just wants to talk to someone. And he enjoyed talking to the librarian, even if he put his foot in his mouth several times.
When he opens the door to the library, Miss Brook is sitting at the desk, but there’s another man before her. He stands tall, probably taller than Larry, with broad shoulders, wearing a coat that doesn’t fit him properly and talking much too loudly for a library.
Miss Brook’s eyes lift toward the door when he walks in, and he nods once at her, not wanting to disrupt the conversation, before moving toward the stacks and picking up a book, trying to appear nonchalant.
“So I told Mister Baker that perhaps he should consider dropping the charges, but that old man is too stubborn for his own good. He’s going forward, despite my every insistence.” The man is blabbering on, and Larry walks around the stack of books, hoping to conceal himself somewhere that he can eavesdrop a bit less obviously.
“Oh, is he?” Miss Brook drones, and Larry detects some sort of hesitation in her tone. He hadn’t noticed a ring on her finger yesterday, and he supposes this man could just be a patron of the library, but he was standing rather close to her – Larry suspects he’s interested in her for more than just book suggestions.
“I could tell you more over dinner, if you’re free this week?”
Larry all but rolls his eyes. How obvious the man is.
“I don’t believe I am free this week, but maybe next,” Miss Brook says, and this time, Larry can certainly hear how bored she sounds.
“Miss Brook,” the man rumbles, “you say that every week.”
“And every week, I find myself busy.”
“What will it take to convince you I mean to be your friend?”
“Mister Raikes,” Miss Brook says, laughing. “I don’t mean to be forward, but it’s rather obvious to me you desire more than friendship.”
Larry bites back a laugh – he does admire her tenacity. Most women he knows wouldn’t have the gall to speak so bluntly.
“And I don’t mean to pry, but I did oversee your father’s accounts, Miss Brook,” the man goes on, stubborn as ever. “I know you need taking care of. You must be–”
Larry snaps the book closed, stepping out from between the shelves and effectively cutting the man off mid-sentence. “Excuse me?”
Miss Brook and the man –a Mr. Raikes, apparently– both look up, and Larry swears he sees the librarian sigh with relief. She recovers quickly, lifting her head. “Yes, sir?”
“I require assistance, if you could please?” Larry tries to keep a level face, but he’s not looking at Miss Brook. He’s looking at the impertinent man standing in front of the desk, who’s appraising him with a slow once over.
Mr. Raikes approaches him and lifts a hand. “Tom Raikes. Who might you be?”
“Larry Russell,” he says with a curt head nod as he accepts the man’s overly firm handshake.
“New in town, Mister Russell?”
Larry shakes his head. “Just passing through on some business.”
Tom nods, then turns away from Larry, back toward the desk. “Good day, Miss Brook. I’ll be seeing you soon.”
Before he walks out the door, Tom looks back at Larry one final time, his face a bit less friendly than one would expect from a stranger, but then again, it’s obvious he’s upset at having his time with Miss Brook cut short.
Larry shakes his head when he’s gone – no gentleman should speak to a lady in such a manner. Especially one with intimate knowledge of her financial situation – holding it over her head in such a way seems to be an abuse of power in Larry’s opinion.
“Thank you,” Miss Brook says, and Larry pulls his gaze from the door Tom left through. She looks rather stricken, wringing her fingers together and looking down at the floor. “I appreciate your doing that. How much did you hear?”
“Enough to know he wasn’t speaking to you respectfully,” Larry says softly, not about to rehash it or inquire about what was mentioned. It’s her business, not his. “I could see you didn’t wish to entertain his advances any longer.”
Miss Brook snorts. “Entertain advances? That sounds like a dance step in the gavotte.”
Larry chuckles, too, glad to see her smiling. “I’ve seen enough of it, anyway. My sister back home fields enough young men for me to spot the ones who are a bit too overeager.”
“She’s lucky to have you as her protector,” Miss Brook compliments, before shaking her head and looking up. “What brings you back so soon, Mister Russell? You can’t have finished the Swift already.”
“I haven’t started,” Larry admits. “But I did read a few of the stories and the poems.” He pulls the book from his pocket, where he’s noted a few of the pages he especially enjoyed.
“You liked them?” She’s beaming again, and Larry’s stomach flips a bit. When she smiles it’s almost like he hears bells in his mind. Music swirling in the air.
“I did,” he laughs, surprised still. “They were… haunting and beautiful. That one you suggested, Annabel Lee, it was so tragic but so heartfelt and sincere.”
She takes a seat on one of the plush leather chairs, gesturing for him to do the same opposite her. “So, you’re a romantic.”
“I suppose I am.” He feels the tips of his ears turning red, and he looks down at the book, wondering how much the writer must have felt to write such words about his beloved. “Do you like any other poetry?”
Miss Brook smiles at him, her eyes twinkling. “That’s like asking if the sun rises each morning, Mister Russell.”
“Would you offer more suggestions?”
“That depends,” she tilts her head. “Would you be willing to read Shakespeare?”
Larry comes to visit the library every single day that week.
On the third day he returns both Gulliver’s Travels (which he tells her he adored) and the Poe collection, though he seems a bit upset to part with it. He checks out Les Miserables and some of Shakespeare’s sonnets, but he sits with her for a few hours while he reads the latter. He interprets the language rather well, but does ask her for help a few times with some of the more complicated, vintage English. And she’s more than happy to sit with him and talk about the meaning behind the Bard’s words.
She finds she looks forward to seeing him, and that scares her. Because however long he’s here for, he’s leaving eventually. And she doesn’t want her chest to ache when he’s gone. She’s only just started to feel herself again after the death of her father.
Marian knows he heard what Tom said that day – and though it wasn’t much, it was enough to infer that her financial situation is precarious. But he’s been a true gentleman, and he hasn’t brought it up.
When Larry Russell steps into the library today, she’s crouched down, helping Mrs. Reynolds’s daughter sound out a sentence in the book she’d selected for her. Mr. Russell smiles at her, and Marian just knows her eyes have lit up. She’s so in awe of his handsome face every time she lays eyes on him. She’s never felt such attraction to a man before.
Mr. Russell pulls out Les Miserables as he sits in one of the leather chairs, reading quietly until the young girl has thanked Marian and darted out the door of the library. He looks up at her once she’s gone, smiling softly. “You’re quite good with children.”
“Children are easier than adults, I should think,” Marian sighs, perching on the chair next to him. “Less judgemental. Less wary of the world.”
Mr. Russell looks down at his lap. “I hope you’re not so wary of the world. I should hate to think you burdened with worry.”
“There’s much to be wary of, I’m afraid,” Marian mutters, looking up at him. She doesn’t usually speak so freely about her situation, but for some reason, she trusts Larry Russell. “Especially for the likes of me. I’m an unmarried woman. Since my father died, I’ve no real means to live on. The library doesn’t pay much.”
“I’m very sorry,” Mr. Russell says, hanging his head a bit, gravely. “I suppose he left behind a home?”
“Yes, thankfully.”
“Can’t you sell? Maybe seek a life somewhere with more opportunity?”
She’d thought about it – selling the house, moving to New York or some other place and finding work as a governess, maybe. But she doesn’t know if she’d survive in a city so big. It’s as daunting as it is thrilling, the idea of leaving.
“I’ve lived here as long as I can remember, Mister Russell,” she admits, shrugging her shoulders. “And perhaps I’ll have to leave it behind down the line, but I’m trying to see it through as long as I can.”
Outside the window, Tom Raikes passes by, but he notices Larry and narrows his eyes, walking on. Marian shakes her head, wishing he would only see she isn’t interested.
“And clearly the idea of marrying him isn’t appealing to you,” Larry says, grumbling.
“Certainly not,” Marian shakes her head. “He’s rather boastful, if I’m being honest. Always talking of his cases like they’re front page news, but they’re so dull.”
Larry laughs, his eyes lighting up, and she thinks she could swoon just looking at him. “I’m not much interested in his company either, to be honest. I’ve seen him a couple times at the tavern – he can’t hold his drink, I can assure you of that. Rather odd for a man so large.”
Marian snorts in a rather unladylike manner, turning to cover her face as she does. “Forgive me, Mister Russell,” she says, trying to compose herself, knowing her chest is blooming with color in the most unbecoming way.
But she feels a hand on hers, and her laughter stops, and she spins back to face him, out of breath, heart beating for an entirely different reason. Larry’s eyes are sincere as his fingers brush hers. “You shouldn’t apologize for laughing. I very much enjoy hearing you laugh. Seeing you smile.”
Her lips part, and she stares at him, and for the first time in her life she feels something rush over her. A feeling so entirely apart from anything she’s ever felt before, she’s sure it must be entirely new to the world of emotion. It’s not fear, though she feels shaky – it’s much closer to elation, to adoration. The way she feels when she opens a book and reads the first line and just knows she’s going to fall in love with the world she’s stepping into.
That’s when she realizes – she’s falling for him.
The thought strikes her like lightning and she stands abruptly, pulling her hand back, and Mr. Russell follows instantly. “Forgive me, I didn’t–”
“No,” Marian shakes her head, then puts a hand to her chest. “I apologize, I wasn’t–”
But she’s cut off when the door to the library opens, and Mrs. Baker walks in, smiling at Marian warmly as she moves through the room.
Marian turns back to Larry, who’s stepped back a bit from her. “I should be going, but, I’ll see you tomorrow?”
He asks the question warily, as if afraid she might tell him not to come. “Not tomorrow, it’s my day off. But, the day after?”
Larry’s eyes go soft again, and her heart feels lighter in her chest. “I’ll be counting down the moments,” he says, his voice just an octave above a whisper, and he nods his head to her before picking up his book and walking out.
Marian swallows, her hand still pressed to her heart, knowing she’s too far gone, now. And when he leaves here forever, she’ll miss him just as long.
The following day as Larry walks through the thick wood surrounding the edge of town, he considers the predicament he’s found himself in.
He knows he has feelings for Miss Brook. Over the hours they’ve spent together this last week, he’s sure he’s never met a woman more sure and confident, more clever and steadfast, more beautiful and kind-hearted. He looks forward to seeing her each day, feeling more alive sitting with her in the library discussing Shakespeare’s prose or Swift’s use of satire than he has probably ever before in his life.
But his reality remains the same, and he just knows what his mother would say if he brought her back to New York. That she has bigger plans for him than to marry a librarian from Doylestown.
He doesn’t know if he’s a strong enough person to push against her. But more than that, he doesn’t know if Marian would even wish to marry him. They’ve only known each other a few days, after all.
Maybe a few days is all it takes, though.
He stopped by the station earlier, oversaw the work being done, wrote up his daily report and sent it off to his father. Larry still doesn’t see the point in his being here – surely his father employs a hundred other men who could do this job. He doesn’t even really need to be here, anyway. The work is moving along just fine.
But George Russell does nothing without a purpose, and Larry is determined to figure out what that purpose is.
Since his report doesn’t take long, Larry usually finds himself walking, exploring the nature of the area around him, the likes of which he wouldn’t find in New York. He’ll bring the books he’s gotten from the library and read, or he’ll sketch, enjoying the warm spring breeze and the lush greenery in a clearing he discovered on his second day here.
A small river runs through, and the sound of rushing water levels him in a way he didn’t think it would. A streaming waterfall dips over the side, and today he’s determined to set it to paper, even though his art does leave a bit to be desired. Architecture was a different story – it’s technical and precise, and he loves that work, too, but he likes the escape of sketching. He’s free to make mistakes.
But when he crosses over into the clearing today, he’s not alone. There’s a figure laying in the grass close to the bank.
That figure is Marian Brook.
His breath catches – he hadn’t been expecting to see her today, yet here she is, eyes closed to the sun, wearing a simple day dress and no shoes. She has an arm thrown over her forehead, and she looks positively incandescent.
He’s brought back to the moment yesterday, when he touched her hand and she’d been so nervous she jumped back from him. He thought she enjoyed his company the way he enjoyed hers, but he can’t be sure.
Stepping closer, he clears his throat. “Miss Brook?”
She startles, sitting up, eyes bulging when she spots him. “Mister Russell?”
He starts to close the gap between them, and she tucks her bare feet beneath her dress. “What are you doing here?”
She lifts a brow. “I’m the local, Mister Russell. I’ve been coming here since I could walk. I should ask you what you’re doing here.”
Larry shrugs. “I do a lot of walking and I stumbled upon it. Seems a good place to sit and think.”
“Indeed,” Marian agrees, squinting as she looks up at him. “You’re free to join me, if you wish.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“I enjoy your company,” she says, smiling but looking down, hoping he can’t see how she’s blushing.
He does. It sends a spark through his whole body.
Delicately, he sits beside her, though he keeps a few feet of respectful distance. She looks up at him, nodding her head toward the black book in his hands. “What’s that?”
He looks down, clearing his throat again. “It’s my sketchbook.”
She smiles. “You’re an artist?”
“Not at all,” he laughs. “I draw for fun, that’s all.”
“And that doesn’t make you an artist?”
“I’m not very good, is what I mean.”
She cocks a brow. “Would you show me?”
He bites his lip – he’s never shown anyone his drawings before, not even Gladys. But for some reason, he finds himself handing the sketchbook over to her, watching as she opens it, taking in page after page of his mindless sketching.
She lingers a few times, on some drawings he did of town square, of a fountain in Central Park, of the bumbling brook they’re sitting in front of. When she looks up, her expression is earnest. “They’re wonderful, Mister Russell.”
He knows she means it, and it makes his heart beat in a funny way. “Thank you,” he says, bashfully, before he lifts his eyes to meet hers again. “You can call me Larry, if you want to.”
“Isn’t that improper?”
“I don’t think so,” he shrugs. “It’s my name, isn’t it? You should use it.”
She grins. “Well then, Larry, you should call me Marian.”
His name sounds more musical coming from her lips than he’s ever heard it, and since he’s been given permission, he needs to test out hers. “Marian,” he says, watching how she smiles and her cheeks stain pink.
And he can tell, in that moment. She feels what he does, at least a bit. She must.
She hands him back his sketchbook, and she lays back again, closing her eyes, letting the sun warm her face. He follows suit, recognizing that this isn’t something he’d be able to do back in New York.
“You come out here a lot?” He asks, turning his head toward her.
“When I have the time, and when the weather suits,” she says softly, twisting to meet his eyes. “I like the quiet.”
“Yes,” Larry mutters, recognizing that for the first time, it hasn’t bothered him. “I think I do, too.”