Amy looked away. “You have no idea.”

We drove past bare trees and brown fields and ditches that never drained. “I was wrong,” I announced.

“Well, duh,” Amy said. A pause. “About what?”

“About you. You’re not Lydia Bennet. You’re Marianne Dashwood.”

“Who?”

“The younger sister in Sense and Sensibility. The emotional one. She makes some dumb decisions, but she always acts with her whole heart.”

“Bet she doesn’t marry Darcy, though.”

“Well, no, since he’s in another book. She marries Colonel Brandon.” Amy still looked blank. “Alan Rickman, in the movie,” I said.

“The old guy?”

“He’s not that old,” I said, oddly defensive.

“Well, not anymore. He’s dead.”

A snort escaped me.

Amy heaved an exaggerated sigh, her eyes sparkling with humor. “It’s not fair. You—your character—gets Colin Firth in a wet white shirt and I get stuck with Professor Snape.”

I grinned. “Yeah, but he’s crazy in love with you. And rich.”

“Richer than Darcy?”

I hesitated.

“Never mind,” Amy said. “I don’t need some selfish, entitled asshole in my life. I’m going to start my own design label and become fabulously wealthy on my own.”

“Now you sound like me,” I said.

“Shoot me now,” Amy said. But she was smiling.

Eric wasn’t an asshole, I thought as I turned up the drive to the farm. He was a proud, private man. A good man. A good boss. Until he fired me. Or I quit. I wasn’t sure anymore. Either way, my working for him was a problem. I didn’t belong on the fringes of his life in New York any more than I belonged on the fringes of Trey’s life in Bunyan.

Where did I belong?

I yanked my hair into a ponytail and went to feed the goats. When I came in from the barn, Amy met me at the door.

“Somebody left this,” she said, handing me a brightly wrapped package. “For you.”

My first thought was that Trey had brought my Christmas present. But the handwriting on the note wasn’t Trey’s. Or the signature.

Sorry I missed you. Eric.

My heart stopped. “He was here?”

“Who?”

“Eric. The guy who brought this.”

“I don’t know. It was at the front door when I came in.”

I clutched the note, my insides swooping and tumbling like a flock of swallows. “He was here, and I missed him.”

“At least he brought you a present,” Amy said. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

I pulled at the wrapping paper, my fingers trembling with some emotion I couldn’t name. Fear? Happiness? Hope?

“It’s just an old cookbook,” Amy said, disappointed.

“It’s Eric’s copy of The French Laundry. Signed by Thomas Keller.” I turned reverently to the title page to show her. There, under the author’s signature, Eric had written another note.

“‘To Jo. Write your story. Eric,’” Amy read aloud. “What does that mean?”

I stroked the message without answering, replaying our conversation in my head. “He kicked me out.” Eric’s voice had been easy, amused, as he spoke of his old boss. “Time to fly on my own, yeah? Cook my own food. Find my own voice.”