Once in a Blue Moon by Amanda Ashby

Author:Amanda Ashby [Ashby, Amanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Small Town Fiction; Small Town Romance; Women's Fiction; Contemporary American Fiction; Contemporary Women’s Fiction; Enemies to Lovers Romance; Widow Fiction; Widow Romance; Entangled Publishing; Amanda Ashby; August; Second Chance Romance; Popular Romance; Series Romance;
Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC (Amara)
Published: 2020-01-22T00:00:00+00:00

Four hours later, Adam didn’t know who was claiming victory. Violet’s idea of a walk had been a delicate amble along the water while wearing what appeared to be a cape. It was fire hydrant red and trimmed with gold. He had to give it to the little dog—she certainly knew how to work it. He doubted Eloise could have done a better strut. It took over half an hour to cover the length of the tiny beach.

Violet then decided she was done with walking and had come to an abrupt halt, forcing him to carry her back to the car, still giving him the occasional growl as he did.

The rest of the afternoon had been spent with Violet napping while Adam had worked, moving everything out of the cottage into the barn for the auction house to sort through. He’d filled the dumpster with old newspapers and milk cartons that had been carefully washed and stored. He wasn’t sure why, but they had obviously been important to Doug.

Outside, he took a shot of a huge old oak tree with his phone. If Doug really wasn’t coming back to his cottage, he might like some final photos. He finished up and went into the bedroom to move a small dresser. It was heavier than it appeared, and sweat beaded on his brow as his tired muscles strained.

Violet barked.

“Funny, is it?” He walked through the now-empty living room, and the dresser door swung open. Awkwardly, he tried to use one hand to shut it, but it didn’t work.

Something was jammed in there. Setting it back down, he reached in and pulled out an envelope, crisp with age. The paper was smooth against his fingertips, and on the front, in flowing cursive, was written, To My Dearest Love.

A love letter? He peered back into the drawer and pulled out a whole bundle of them. Some addressed the same way, and others in a messier pen that simply said, My Girl.

They weren’t his to read. But if they were love letters between Doug and Mary, they needed to be saved for when he was better.

He added them to the box of other things he thought Doug would want. Two golden wedding bands tied together with a piece of twine. A trophy for winning a bowling tournament in 1975. An ancient teddy bear. And a folder of pressed flowers, with the names of each one, all in the same beautiful flowing cursive, which he concluded belonged to Doug’s much-missed wife, Mary.

Energy hummed through him, flooding him like an incoming tide.

The same guy who’d collected eight hundred and fifty milk cartons had a quiet, gentle love story within the walls of the rundown cottage. Nothing like the blinding romances from the movies.

Or the stuff I write.

There was something to be learned from both Doug and Carl, but he had no idea what. Violet walked behind him, her eyes still narrowed in suspicion as he carried the dresser out.

“You have trust issues,” he informed her as she raced around the corner of the barn and sniffed a stick.

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