Chapter 1

Jo

My sleepy village is waking up to the promise of autumn as I stroll to work.

The sweaty vacationers fitting in their early morning runs greet me as they conquer the cobbled streets. I nod and smile at them, casually sipping the strong coffee in my hand.

It's a normal, pleasant morning, just like any other in Mirror Lake. I breathe deeply of the brisk air that hints at changing colors in the coming weeks.

I can't wait to take my woolen knits out of storage soon. And after that, it's a fun and festive autumn and winter with loads of activities to keep us villagers busy during the quieter months. I could go snow skiing in Europe, I suppose. But what can I say? I enjoy the simple life.

I look forward to the comforting rhythm of the seasons here. In September, the tourists still come and go at a regular clip, but they aren't quite bursting from the shuttle bus every hour on the hour anymore.

A couple passes me on the street, the two lovebirds on their way to the coffee shop I just left. They hold hands and laugh about something. They see me coming and say good morning with their glowing, contented, sun-kissed faces. Sailing enthusiasts or kayakers. They look so happy they make me blush when I return their greeting.

Stop thinking about sex, you silly pigeon. Not everyone who's flushed and giggling just had sex.

But those two? Definitely just had morning sex.

Summer in Mirror Lake is fun and busy and necessary to keep our community in the black. But it's also exhausting. The kiosks of yarn, apples, and warm drinks will soon open up. The air will be scented with distant campfire smoke and spice from the cider mills.

Mirror Lake is lovely during the slow season, even if I have no one to share it with in my little cottage in the woods.

I imagine wild morning sex with someone I love, but I don't yet know what being in love is like.

I once loved someone. But that was an innocent childhood sort of love.

As I turn the corner onto Main Street, a familiar figure catches my eye. The village postman, Mr. Lundgren, waves a stack of letters in my direction, his bushy white mustache twitching. I'm amused as I approach him. What's this all about?

"Morning, Josie." His voice is cheerful despite a guarded expression. "Got something here for you."

"I'm guessing these are not food vendor invoices that got misplaced in the mail." Not this many at one time; that would be a catastrophe. We don't have a lot of those here.

Mr. Lundgren shrugs.

I accept the stack of old, weathered letters, my fingers brushing against the faded paper. The address on each envelope sends a shiver down my spine—an old, nearly-forgotten address.

Breathe, Josephine.

I've tried to put that place behind me since…all the unpleasantness happened.

The postmark on the most faded letter on the top is dated fifteen years ago.

"Mr. Lundgren, where did you find these?" I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.

I search his face for answers, but I can already see he has none.

"They turned up at the post office in Arenhammer city center, tucked away in a forgotten corner," he explains with a shrug. "Seems they've been waiting for quite a while. Someone must have checked the nationwide database and saw this was your most recent address. So here we are."

With a nod of thanks, I continue my journey to the market. Turning the twined stack of letters over, I spy the return address. Only the first line stands out: Jakob Sterling.

My gods…

I feel as if I've had the wind knocked out of me.

Jakob? That Jakob?

I could rip the letters open and read them all here on the street with my heart in my throat. However, the Josephine that's bound to duty and order knows better. I should wait. Yes, that's what I should do. Of course, that's what I should do.

Reading the letters here and now will make me late for my shift at the grocery store, and there's a large shipment of late summer vegetables coming in from the countryside today.

And me? Am I a frivolous girl who saddles other people with extra work? Certainly not.

The letters weigh heavily in my bag for the remainder of my commute. I'm determined to keep them there and not peek at them. Focus, Josephine.

Everything has a time and place and a compartment. Emotional journeys are not part of my plan today.

Throughout my day at the village's only supermarket, my thoughts wander to the letters. I'm so curious.

I can't fathom how that many deliveries never reached me when I lived with my father in England. And I wonder who sent them back to the capital city in Gravenland. And why have they surfaced now, after all these years?

The market bustles with villagers and tourists alike, wandering the aisles, perusing the fresh produce and locally crafted goods. I handle the vegetable delivery and all the associated paperwork.

I do what I always do. I make small talk with the familiar deliveryman and help the stock people unload the crates. I help the new cashiers when they get flustered by the ancient cash registers. I reorganize the end caps to make them more tempting.

The toughest moments are when I'm alone in my office at my computer: making signs, entering data, rifling through job applications, and paying vendors. All throughout the day, I catch myself stealing glances at my bag, yearning for the end of my work shift.

My shift finally ends after eight hours, after what feels like twelve. Normally, my workday flies by with all the varied and mildly fun tasks that keep me busy. Today has been utter torture.

I barely contain my frustration as the evening manager shows up to work five minutes late, a regular occurrence that typically does not bother me in the least.

I huff out a restless farewell to my colleagues, then practically skip through the village streets on my way back home.

First, wine.

With trembling hands, I uncork a bottle of rather-expensive-for-me Beaujolais that I've been saving for a special occasion. It's time. This is the most exciting occasion that has happened since Mr. Lundgren's 80th birthday pub crawl.

I settle onto my well-worn sofa, the letters spread out before me like treasure.

Should I read them oldest to newest, or vice versa? Oldest to newest, obviously. This is a man's life journey, after all. What sense would it make to go backwards?

The first envelope, fifteen years old, is delicate in my hands as I carefully tear it open.

I take a sip of wine as I read the first lines.

"Dear Josephine,"

Immediately my heart hammers in my throat. No one calls me that, no one except the still, small voice in my head. And Jakob, as I now recall.

I've been Jo or Josie to everyone my whole life—everyone but Jakob. He always called me Josephine because he said it sounded like a name "fit for a queen."

I need more wine for this. A lot more. I read on:

"I hope you like England and your schoolmates are nice to you. I'm doing awesome in art class. I wish you were here to help me with maths. Yesterday I knocked on your bedroom window as I was leaving for school. I forgot you don't live there anymore. Walking to school alone is fine, though. The group home let me have an old iPod because the director is getting a smartphone or something. Anyway, I found a podcast on it you should listen to. These funny Americans recap that monster hunter show you like. I wish your dad would buy you a flip phone. Even the group home lets us have them to take to school for emergencies. I can sneak one at night sometime if you want to talk. I know, I know. You'd probably be too worried I'd get into trouble. Here's the number to the group home, in case you forgot, haha. Send me your new number, ok?"

The wine eases down my throat as the picture of Jakob appears in my head. I smile at the memory of him squirming through Supernatural as I swooned.

I read the next letter, and right away I'm punched in the gut by guilt as he writes:

"Hey, hope you're okay. Haven't seen any letters from you but that's fine. I'm doing great! I made the rugby team, even though rugby isn't my favorite…"

He didn't get my letters? How is that possible?

Wouldn't it be wild if by some twist of fate, Jakob is somewhere reading my old newly-discovered letters?

The four or five letters I sent, that is, before I gave up.

On and on I read, and before I know it, I've demolished half the bottle of wine and I'm barely halfway through the stack.

Laughter mingles with tears. Jakob's references to old pop songs, TV shows, movies, and the news place me in those spaces in my memory. I remember exactly what I was doing when each of those letters would have arrived. In 2008, I was starting a new school in Birmingham. When he wrote about rugby, I was angling to take more advanced maths courses. And my father? He was spending all our money on get-rich-quick schemes and dating one horrible shrew after another, largely ignoring me.

I realize as I read these old letters that they are not just a connection to my old address—the one to which my father whisked me off to escape his creditors. Jakob's messages are a bridge to my own history, a reminder of all the things that shaped me, both joyful and painful.

The second most recent letter, which he sent over a year ago, tells me all about his new place in the capital city, where he shares rent on a house in the artist district with two women.

I'm not prepared for the wash of jealousy in me.

The feeling is utter silliness; I have no claim on Jakob. And yet, who are these women? Are they pretty? Does he sleep with them? Is there a subtext here I'm not getting?

Not everything is about sex, I remind myself.

It is when you're 29 and ready to turn in your V card,says my monkey mind.

Before we were separated, Jakob and I made a silly marriage pact that if we were still friends and single at age 30, we'd get married. We were very different children—he was artistic and forgetful. I was good at maths and lists and organizing. But he understood me, and I understood him. We had a mental connection that just made sense. We would sneak out of our rooms and spend all night talking and stargazing in the back gardens.

I suppose that silly childhood marriage pact has made me into a bit of a dreamer, always wondering whatever happened to him. Maybe that's why I'm still single and hopelessly inexperienced with men.

We were 14 years old when my father moved me to England. Jakob grew up and busied himself with sports. With as brawny and tall as he was, that's no surprise. I used to wonder how he did in school; I asked him as much in my first few letters—before I gave up.

Guilt floods me, and I mentally kick myself for quitting on him.

At this time last year, I was being promoted from assistant manager to manager of the market. If I'd still been corresponding with Jakob, I might've sent him the little newspaper clipping about my promotion. But now that I think of it, it doesn't sound half as glamorous as him setting up his own studio in the arts district.

Don't sell yourself short, Jo. You helped that poor stranded tourist a while ago when her ride didn't show up. You saved her ice cream from melting, and you totally looked the other way when she borrowed one of the village bikes without pre-paying. You are a wild one, Josephine.

The final letter is postmarked less than a month ago.

But why go an entire year without contact, I wonder. And how did this letter just so happen to find its way to its companion letters?

Tenderly, I open the most recent missive, and read.

This one is a confession.

My eyes widen, and my heart races. I blink in disbelief, my mind struggling to process the weight of his revelation.

I re-read it a second and third time to make sure I'm not mistaken and to be sure he's not making this story up.

No, this is the truth. I'm sure of it.

"No one else knows this but I have to tell someone. Even though I haven't heard from you in forever, I still feel as if these letters are reaching you—that you're still as trustworthy as ever. I just need to get it out.

I'm hoping that by telling you this truth, that I'll know what to do next. Even if you don't write me back, maybe thinking about what you would do will help clear my head. And here it is: I am the mystery man who caught Princess Flora when she fell on the Prince's birthday."

Is this real? He must be joking. But when I read on, I know Jakob is telling the truth.

"I hope this does not feel like a burden but I have to tell someone. I know no one who is as sensible and as kind as you, Josephine. I know of no one else who could be as good of a friend right now as you. On the off chance this letter reaches you, I'd very much like to see you."

Sitting here in my comfortable living room, the evening breeze sweeping through the windows, I am a tempest of emotions. I'm floored that Jakob has confessed this to me.

Shocked, melancholy, and intensely curious only scratches the surface of what I'm feeling right now.

Closing my eyes, I imagine what Jakob looks like today.

When I open my eyes again, I see that he's written his phone number on the bottom of the letter.

My breath catches.

Tomorrow is Friday—my day off. And so, not in danger of a hangover affecting my day, I pour another glass of wine and reach for my phone.