Note from a stranger

“When a mysterious letter arrives at her brownstone apartment, Clara Vance-an editor nursing heartbreak in the heart of Manhattan-finds herself drawn into the story of a town that doesn't exist on any map. Her curiosity eventually leads her to Eli Dawson, a quiet artist with his own secrets. Clara begins to unravel a past that may not be entirely hers with the assistance of her jovial roommate Marla, a reclusive bookseller by the name of Bea, and letters signed by an unknown individual. A moving tale about second chances, quiet places, and the kind of love that comes out of nowhere. October in New York City A coppery wax stamp without initials sealed the creamy white envelope, which was thick and textured. It was in Clara Vance's mailbox, between an unsubscribed issue of The New Yorker and an electric bill. She opened it in the hallway, leaning against the peeling paint of the front door of her brownstone. The bookstore café down the hall was emitting the scent of roasted coffee beans. > "To the girl who forgets to look up: There's a place that misses you. Locate it. It is standing by the lake." There was no signature. merely a return address from Davenport's Reach, New York, a place she'd never heard of. In their tiny, sun-drenched kitchen, she showed it to Marla that night over wine and leftover pad thai. Marla read it twice. "This is either a stalker, a marketing ploy, or an angel whose handwriting is terrible." Too exhausted to care, Clara laughed. "Or the incorrect Vance was simply discovered by mail," The name Davenport's Reach, on the other hand, lingered in her mind as she lay in bed later. The Last Page was run by Bea Kensington. It was a bookstore café on Amsterdam Avenue that was hidden between two flower shops. The shelves creaked, the scones were always warm, and the regulars mostly brought their own mugs. Clara had edited novels there for three years. It was there that Julian Park broke off their engagement six months after she fell in love with him. It was also where she met Rosa, the barista who brewed heartbreak the same way she brewed espresso-bold and with a twist of sarcasm. Before Clara spoke, the letter was noticed by Bea. "That's Davenport's Reach," the old woman said, adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses. "I haven't heard that name in fifty years." "Have you been there?" "More like I left it behind," Bea said. "Before the city pulled me in. There are some places you only visit in letters or dreams. Clara felt the pull again. not only of the location but also of the story. An editor's curse. "Do you think it's real?" Bea sipped her tea. "Does it matter? If a place is written well enough, it might as well be." She met him on the F train. Clara's tote bag had tipped over, spilling manuscripts all over the floor, and it was crowded. He knelt down to assist her and handed her the pages without observing. A sketchbook was in his lap, and his fingers were covered in ink. "Thanks," she said, catching her breath. He responded, glancing at the title of the manuscript, "No problem." "That one has a sad ending." "Have you read it?" He nodded. "Once. In a different life." His name was Eli Dawson. He lived in a fourth-floor walk-up in Brooklyn, painted portraits that looked like they missed someone, and rarely smiled with his eyes. There was something about him that made Clara feel like she had just walked into the second chapter of something she should've started long ago. They started running into each other more-on the train, in Central Park, in the bookstore. Rosa called it "a plot device." The second letter came with a pressed leaf. > "The lake turns silver in October. That's when the geese start calling. You always said the silence there was louder than the subway." It made Clara ache. Over breakfast, she told Marla. "It's like they know things I've never said aloud." Marla played with a spoon. "Maybe they do. Perhaps you are writing to yourself. Your future self." "Or my past." The letters kept coming. Stories were sometimes told. Occasionally, lists Once, a map of a lakeside town with no roads in or out. She told Eli about them on a walk through Central Park, leaves crunching beneath their boots. He looked distant. "My brother used to send me letters like that. After his stroke, he forgot most things but remembered places that never existed." "Henry?" Eli nodded. "I had no idea he was sick," I said. He's doing better now. But changed. He paints only one thing now-a dock, on a lake, with a red canoe. Julian Park appeared at her doorstep one rainy afternoon, hair wet, eyes nostalgic. "I saw your name on a galley proof," he said. "Missing you." Clara's response was, "You missed owning me." "There is a distinction." Life, to Julian, was always like a chessboard. Clara had had enough of him being his queen. The next day, she ran into Zadi Thompson-Eli's ex-at The Last Page. Zadi was all angles and red lips. "You're the editor," Zadi said, leani”