The Bookshop on the Corner Page 2

  “Do you recall us?” Gerald asked.

  “Yes,” I said, smiling at the memory. “Gloria bought a sci-fi novel—something wacky. You stayed in the reading room sipping tea while we watched the snow fall through the windows and talked about books for hours.” How could I have forgotten them? They came in a few years back. Gloria had a quiet grace about her, but also a zany sense of humor that had me in fits of laughter. When they left, I remembered thinking I hoped I’d have a relationship like theirs one day. They just seemed to fit, perfectly, like two pieces of the same jigsaw.

  “What happened to her?” I asked before it dawned on me I could have worded it better.

  Gerald sighed, and took a moment before replying: “She passed on, Sarah. Not too long after we came into your bookshop. It was sudden. I woke up one morning, and she was gone. But you know what? She’d just that last night finished the book she was reading. And I think that was a sign especially for me—that she knew what was coming somehow and it was okay. God chose the right moment, at least, in that respect. She would have given Him hell if He’d taken her halfway through a book.” He laughed softly, but it sounded hollow.

  “Which book was she reading?” I wanted to read that book, and wonder what she might have thought about that last night when she went to sleep.

  “It was The Notebook, by Nicholas Sparks...” Gerald sniffed, and I gripped the phone tighter, hoping he wouldn’t end the call just yet. I wanted to hear more of their story. “You know, I read the book afterward,” he said, “and it seemed fitting. Right, somehow. I’ve never told anyone this, but sometimes I read passages from The Notebook aloud, pretending she’s there, and is listening, with that glorious Gloria smile on her face. It makes me feel close to her. As though she’s just stepped into the other room for a minute...” His voice trailed off, and it took all my might not to cry into the phone. They’d exuded this radiance, and that kind of shine only came from real, once-in-a-lifetime love.

  “I’m so sorry, Gerald. I can only imagine...” Anything I could say would only seem trite in such circumstances, but I tried desperately to think of something to say that would comfort him.

  “It’s okay, Sarah. I’m doing better. I know we’ll meet again, so I live for that. I live for her, because it’s what she would want. But it’s time for me to move now. There’s too many memories in this big old house, and I’m too old to be tending gardens, and wandering around waiting for her to come back. Which brings me to the books. I want you to have them. I know they aren’t worth anything money-wise, and even if they were, it’s not about that. I want them to go to someone who understands their value, albeit sentimental.”

  I exhaled quietly, trying to keep my emotions at bay. “Are you sure? There’s no way you can take them where you’re going?”

  “I’m sure. I’ll keep a few that hold an extra-special memory, but the rest, I would like to ship to you, if you’ll have them.”

  Light spilled into the small hallway from the reading room off to the side of the shop. It was a small room with a few high-back chairs that had seen better days, a fireplace and bookshelves around three of the walls. It was a space for customers to read when it was cold, and a room the local book club used for their monthly meetings.

  “Gerald, I’d be honored to have them. But I won’t sell them. I’d like to put them in the reading room, the room you used when you visited, and then they can be enjoyed the way they’re meant to be.”

  Gerald didn’t speak immediately. I sensed he was crying, and trying to quell the tears before responding. I pictured Gloria’s books arranged along the shelves in the reading room, including the one she bought here all those years ago. They’d have another life, those books, and Gerald could move along with his.

  “Thank you, my dear. From the bottom of my heart. Gloria rhapsodized about you and your bookshop all the time. You’ve made an old man very happy.”

  “I hope you find comfort in your new place, Gerald. And if you’re ever in town, come by and say hello.”

  We finished the call; when I hung up I let the tears flow. And I knew right then, that was what I was missing in my life...a love affair like theirs. I wanted someone who knew books were more than just words on paper. Someone who understood my introspective nature and didn’t try to change me. I dabbed at my eyes with a tissue, ruminating about the fact that there was no one like that in Ashford. I could see the type of man I wanted: quiet, bookish, and introverted, someone who wouldn’t make me feel that reading all day was weird. And someone who’d snuggle right up next to me and read too.

  My last thought before heading to Missy’s was that I hoped Gerald would find his way without his glorious Gloria.

  “Hey!” Missy said, snipping away at a manic pace on a client’s hair as I wandered into her salon. “Busy morning?” she asked, her voice as loud as her clothing.

  “I wish,” I said and sat heavily on the pink sofa. The bookshop figures had been dwindling each week. I had my out-of-town clients who sought hard-to-find books, and without them the bookshop wouldn’t survive, but worryingly they weren’t ordering as much these days either. My walk-in traffic had increased over the chocolate festival but not enough to stop the worry that seemed to plague me.

  I rested my head against the back of the sofa, recalling the conversation with Gerald. “I had a lovely gentleman call and offer me his wife’s book collection for my reading room. She’s passed on...” My voice broke as I thought of Gloria.

  Missy eyed me for a moment and said softly, “Must be a mighty fine collection all right—only the best go into that room.”

  The reading room was my own personal library. It was filled with books that meant something to me, or that had changed the way I viewed the world. Anyone could sit in there and read, but the books weren’t for sale. Now, though, I’d take those volumes home and Gloria’s books would take pride of place.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s time for a shake-up. I thought I might rearrange the shop, maybe organize a weekend away or something. I just feel like...change.”

  Missy arched an eyebrow, and stopped her furious scissoring. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Did you just say you’d rearrange the shop?”

  “I did.”

  “And the C word? Change? What’s brought this on? I know you, and change isn’t in your vocabulary.”

  I laughed at Missy’s reaction. Change was so alien to me, it was almost another language. I was a staunch fan of the “if it’s not broke—don’t fix it” mentality. Missy ran her hands through her client’s hair, fluffing it up. “I’ll just blow-dry Lettie’s hair, and then we can have a proper girl chat—what do you say?”

  Lettie piped up. “Don’t mind me, gals. I’m enjoying this.”

  Missy threw her head back and hooted. “I’m sure you are, Miss Lettie. Shame I’m about to drown out any conversation with this little beauty.” She winked at me and pulled out a hair dryer. The whooshing sound prevented us from talking, so I walked out back and made a pot of tea. When I returned Lettie was gone and Missy was sweeping up piles of golden-blond hair from around the chair.

  She rested the broom against the mirror and said, “What’s this really about?”

  I poured tea in two dainty but mismatched cups, and handed one to Missy.

  “The gentleman who called told me the most incredible story about his wife, and their relationship...and seeing Lil and Damon every morning, kissing like their life depends upon it, I just feel a little lost. Dormant. Maybe nothing happens to me because I don’t try hard enough.” The words fell from my lips before I could edit them.

  Missy clucked her tongue. “Oh, Sarah, you don’t need to try. You’re perfect just the way you are, and the quicker you see that, the better.” She sashayed over to me and joined me on the sofa. “I think broadening your horizons is a great idea but don’t go changing who you are.”

  “I won’t,” I promised. “It’s tim
e for this little bookworm to scramble from the pages for a few days, at least.”

  Missy leaned in to hug me. “Who knows? Maybe you won’t need to. Maybe change will blow in on the wind under the guise of a six-foot-tall, dark, and handsome stranger.”

  “You romantic, you,” I said, and rested my head on her shoulder.

  * * *

  LATER THAT DAY, I was finishing an order for a client who collected old comics, when Mary-Rose, a regular, walked in. She worked down the street a way, selling aromatic candles, and beautiful bath products.

  “You literally smell like peaches, Mary-Rose,” I said.

  “I’ve just made a batch of peaches and cream bath bombs. The whole shop smells divine!”

  Mary-Rose made everything from scratch using natural products; often the scent would meld its way down the street, having us scurry up to see what concoction she’d made this time. “I’m still in love with the marshmallow bath bombs. They make my whole house smell gorgeous for days after. You’re an alchemist.”

  Mary-Rose grinned. “That’s what I keep telling Paul, but will he listen? No!”

  Paul was Mary-Rose’s husband, who originally told her it was preposterous opening up a bath shop in Ashford. That she’d go broke before the first week was out. But she hadn’t. It seemed the townsfolk of Ashford adored her products, and what girl didn’t like smelling as if she’d just bathed in a tub of peaches?

  “Paul will work it out eventually, once you’re sunning yourself in Spain, a holiday paid with the profits!”

  “Wouldn’t that be something?” she said longingly before shaking her head. “Must not think of Spain. I’ll get the worst hankering for tapas and I’m not likely to find them around here, unless I get Lil to expressly cater them for me. Now, I’m looking for a book.”

  “What kind of book?” I moved around the counter.

  Mary-Rose scratched her chin. “It’s got a red cover.”

  I tried to keep the grin off my face. “A red cover, right. Do you know the title?”

  “Hmm, no.”

  “The author? Or genre?”

  Mary-Rose crossed her arms, and gazed around the shop. “Well, no... I think it might be classed as romance, but it could also be family saga.”

  It never ceased to amaze me when customers inquired about a book they wanted purely based on the color of the cover. As though there were only a few books in all the world with a red cover, and it was just a matter of narrowing it down.

  “Family saga, well, let’s start there,” I said. “Come to the back, Mary-Rose. I think I have just the book you’re after.”

  I’m sure the books rustled in anticipation, and somehow we found the mysterious red-covered volume Mary-Rose was searching for. That was the inexplicable magic books held over us mere mortals.

  * * *

  AFTER A LONG night at the kitchen table poring over the paperwork for the bookshop, I’d eventually given up, and gone to bed with a regency romance. Debonair heroes were just what the doctor ordered, and I’d ended up finishing the book just as midnight struck.

  I’d fallen into a restless sleep, dreaming about my life and how to make the bookshop a little more successful. Words flashed through my mind, until I plucked a couple from my dream. Book blogging. It couldn’t hurt to start a blog, discussing my love of books, and what the bookshop had in stock. Maybe I’d review books as I read them. Start discussions on the latest trends, including the popularity of the ebook. I knew there were a lot of books being published that were only in digital format, and, being a voracious reader, I didn’t want to miss out purely because they weren’t in paper form. Either way, a daily blog post could only help the bookshop, and who knew what might come of it? Energized, I got up in the predawn darkness and dressed for another day at the bookshop.

  * * *

  “BOOK BLOGGING?” Missy cried. “That’s about the greatest thing I’ve ever heard of! I follow a bunch of lifestyle blogs, and they’re great! I can’t believe we haven’t thought of this before.” Her forehead furrowed. “At any rate, it’s not too late. And, you know, you can have a link to your online store too.”

  I’d been waiting all morning for Missy to arrive to tell her my plans. “Right, well, today The Bookshop on the Corner blog will be born!”

  Missy sipped her coffee and then said, “The possibilities are endless. You can do a monthly book club, or monthly discounts, book bundles, all sorts of things...”

  I inched forward on the high-back chair in the reading room. “Guest authors, interviews, I’m in heaven just considering it.”

  Missy stood, and kissed my cheek. “Let me know when it’s up, sugar, and I’ll send it out to my veritable treasure trove of online friends.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE BOOKSHOP ON the Corner blog took off moments after I sent the link to clients old and new and my friends in Ashford. It seemed people loved to read about daily life in a secondhand bookshop. Within a month, I had over three thousand followers, and the numbers grew daily. I’d met a community of other book bloggers who were supportive, and funny, and felt like real friends.

  Orders poured in for vintage Harlequin romance books, so I’d been busy scouring my usual sources trying to find more. I was as busy as I’d ever been, and this new venture had given me a major confidence boost. Women emailed me daily with stories about their lives, and how books had been there for them when times were tough. It reminded me of the Ernest Hemingway quote, “There is no friend as loyal as a book.” And this new cluster of online friends made me cherish our shared passion, always and forever—reading. I’d found people who were just like me, and it made me feel as though I could do anything, and be myself and that I was enough. It changed me almost overnight, giving me a sense of self-assurance I’d never had before.

  The cloud of feeling lost that had hung over me the weeks before had vanished as quickly as it had come. For the first time in ages I was invigorated, and felt that the world—albeit virtually—was opening up to me, as I tried to open up to it.

  * * *

  AFTER SCHEDULING MY blog post for the morning I gave in to temptation and settled behind the counter with my book, promising myself I’d only read for ten minutes. Twenty if I finished on an odd-numbered page. Thirty if I was stuck halfway through a chapter. Okay, I’d stop when a customer walked in.

  A silhouette loomed through the open doorway blocking out the last vestiges of the summer sun. The half shadow seemed rugged, masculine. A second later, a man stepped over the threshold of the bookshop dipping his hat. The girl held her breath, hoping the stranger would be as handsome as his powerful saunter implied. She gulped as he stood in front of her; the orange glow of the overhead light lit up his face, highlighting his chiseled cheekbones, and piercing gaze, making her mute with desire...

  “Excuse me, miss?”

  The book fell from my hands as the presence of a man startled me. There he was, the rugged stranger with chiseled cheekbones, and a look in his eye that screamed take me to bed!

  It took a moment for my brain to unscramble and realize I was not in fact living out the scene I had just read. Actually, it took far too long for me to understand that I was staring at him, my eyes wide, jaw hanging open, like some kind of fool. Gathering my thoughts, I coughed, clearing my throat, and donned my professional bookseller face.

  “Can I help you? Let me guess, you’re looking for a book on...” I took in his appearance: tight denim jeans, casual white T-shirt, tight around the bicep region—I mean, wasn’t that uncomfortable? The sleeve of his tee looked as though it were practically cutting off the blood supply. I dragged my eyes back to his face, and my breath caught. I hadn’t seen a man so good-looking except in my imagination.

  “On...” he prompted, raising an eyebrow.

  Damn! No more romance reading during work hours.

  I coughed again, this time more forcefully, to pul
l myself together and focus on the job of selling books. “Right, a book on, er...” It was a gift of mine to be able to garner what book a person was looking for just by their dress, and their mannerisms, but this guy had me stumped. All I could imagine was that little man crease thing, right where his jeans hung. Note to self: stop dropping gaze to his nether regions.

  I was doing it again. The mute, bamboozled, mouth-open thing.

  “I’d say you’re a thriller man.” There. Done.

  He shook his head. “Wrong.”

  Folding my arms across my chest, I said, “What do you mean ‘wrong’? You have thriller written all over you.”

  He made a huge show of looking for the word thriller on his clothing; he pulled his T-shirt out, and, oh, good God...his six-pack rippled, exactly as it did on the hero of a Harlequin cover.

  This time I shook myself as though I’d just come out of the ocean. I couldn’t keep clearing my throat and coughing; he’d think I was sick, or worse contagious, or something.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, tilting his head.

  I moved from behind the counter, and headed toward the front door. It was steamy in here all of a sudden. I made a mental note to open some more windows in future. And maybe stock an ice pack or two.

  “I’m totally fine. Just a little hot.” I needed some space. This guy had me dreaming Harlequin, and I didn’t know how I was supposed to do that and keep the giddy, dreamy look off my face.

  He followed me, leaning against the opposite doorjamb. “Let me guess, you’re more of a romance reader?”

  I double blinked and hastily said, “I am not!” Please tell me I didn’t say out loud his abs rippled. “I mainly read true crime. And horror. The gorier, the better,” I big-fat lied. For some reason he looked like the kind of guy who’d belittle romance readers, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing.