The store was fairly empty, which made sense given it was a Tuesday at eleven in the morning. A few college-age students adorned the wooden tables in the small café and bar, their earbuds in and their laptops out. Two moms with young tots in strollers chatted over iced drinks, their hair thrown back in messy buns and flip-flops dangling from their feet. The smells of coffee and wine mingled in the air.
Sophia chose her favorite chair next to the window and settled in, cracking open the book in her hands. In moments, she was lost in the story, in the cadence of Cornish waves crashing against bluffs, in the way Julia’s hands brushed across the tops of long grass as she moved through the moor, contemplating Martin’s declaration of love.
The story was as familiar as breathing, and it calmed her.
“You know your lips move when you’re reading, right?”
With a start, Sophia lost her grip on the book and swung her gaze upward. Joy plopped into the seat next to her.
“What are you doing here?” Sophia leaned over and grabbed the novel, which had slipped to the floor.
“You always come here when you’re upset.”
Did she? She only knew that being at the bookstore felt better than being at home. Something about the books, the stories—they spoke to her, whether they were nearly two centuries old or brand new. Each one had something to say, and she longed to absorb the wisdom held in the secret places of each page. The ink soaked from the pages into her soul.
“Did you hear me?” Joy’s voice broke through her reverie.
“No, sorry.”
“I said, what happened today? I came out of my nine o’clock and Kristin told me you’d run off about ten minutes into yours. Just left, without a word to anyone. I had to see my ten o’clock and then asked Kristin to rearrange my schedule for the next few hours.” Joy played with her oversized orange hoop earring.
For a moment, Sophia considered lying. Joy would never let her come back to the practice if she told the truth. But other than Mom, there was no one Sophia trusted more in this world than Joy, and Sophia couldn’t repay her with falsehood. “I panicked. My client . . . She was an abuse victim.”
Joy’s fingers stilled. “No, she said she suffered from anxiety. I thought . . . but of course she lied. Oh, Soph, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. Of course you didn’t know.”
Nearby, one of the children in the strollers started to cry. One-handedly, the mother unstrapped the girl and pulled her into her lap, where she played happily with a plastic straw wrapper as her mom continued her conversation.
“Come on. I need coffee.” Joy stood and tugged on Sophia’s arm. She grabbed the novel and placed it on a shelf for restocking, then poked Sophia in the ribs with a good-natured smirk. “Your obsession with those novels is getting a bit extreme.”
With a gentle push, she nudged Sophia toward the eating area, where a wooden counter outlined the bar and café. Wineglasses hung from a rack on the ceiling, creating a crystal halo above the bartender’s head. A gleaming espresso machine sat on the counter behind a barista working to fill coffee and pastry orders.
While Joy ordered an iced coffee, Sophia ordered hers hot and black. Once the drinks were delivered, they selected a small table in the corner for privacy.
Sophia took a sip of her coffee, scalding her upper lip with the hot liquid. “I know I let you down.” What else could she say?
“You absolutely did not. You just weren’t ready.”
“Guess this is the part where you say ‘I told you so.’”
Joy reached for her hand and squeezed. “Best friends don’t say that. And it’s not like I’m glad to be right. Soph, you’ve got to heal more yourself before you try to help others do the same. Otherwise, their pain is too great. It latches onto you and threatens to pull you under. If you’ve still got all of your own pain attached . . .”
The visual left Sophia nearly gasping for air. She wrapped her hands around her cup. “I really did think I was ready. Now I wonder if I ever will be. I mean, what client wants a domestic abuse victim counseling her? It’s hypocritical.” Of course, when it was happening, she’d made excuses. Stuffed the abuse in the closet of her heart, telling herself it wasn’t real. That the love story between her and David was the reality.
She’d told no one about it when David was alive. And once he’d died, no one but Mom and Joy—and now Cindy—even knew. Everyone still assumed her breakdown had everything to do with David’s death, not the strange mixture of intense relief and overwhelming grief she’d felt after it happened.
“Hey.” Joy waited till Sophia looked up at her. “You will get past this. And when you do, you’ll have such a wealth of knowledge and empathy for these women that you’ll be the best therapist they could possibly find. But until then, maybe you could take some of my advice.”
“What advice is that?”
“Journal your story.” Her friend had even given Sophia a beautiful notebook for just that purpose.
“No. I’ve already told you. I couldn’t do that. The idea of putting the words on a page—I just can’t.” The pain she’d experienced—her confusion, her guilt, her everything—written in ink felt like a vise gripping her throat.
“But isn’t that often the very tactic that helps so many of our clients experience a turnaround? Sure, it isn’t instantaneous, but something about writing it out means you can’t hide from it. It means you can’t lie to yourself anymore.”
“Is that what you think I’ve been doing?”
Joy shrugged a shoulder. “I know you’re desperate to be strong, even though you don’t have to be. He’s not here to hurt you anymore, Sophia.”
“You don’t get it, Joy. He is. He’s still here. Everywhere I go, I feel him. Like a ghost I’ll never get rid of. His voice, in my head. His words, forever ingrained on my heart.”
“And so you escape into your novels.”
“No, that’s not . . . I don’t know, maybe. But counseling is helping me, though maybe more slowly than I’d hoped.”
“Your story is worth telling, Soph.”
Her friend’s words were a barb to Sophia’s tender heart. But maybe she was right. At this point, shouldn’t Sophia be willing to try anything if it meant she could stop relying on other people and finally be the independent woman she’d always been . . . before? “Okay, fine. I’ll try it.”
“And another thing.” Joy reached for her arm and squeezed. “You’re not going to like it. But you have to take more leave from work. At least two or three more months. Maybe even take the whole summer.”
Joy was right. Sophia knew it.
Though she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever be strong enough to help anyone else ever again.
4
GINNY
“. . . go home where you belong.”
Mr. Brown’s words pounded through Ginny’s head with every step she took down High Street. The smell of fish and salt permeated the air the closer she came to the harbor. The scent of it churned in her gut as she marched past galleries filled with vibrant local art, pubs serving Cornish mead and saffron cakes, and specialty shops designed to appeal to tourists. Within weeks, the official summer season would begin, and the winding streets of Port Willis would fill with visitors on the hunt for a bit of Cornish magic.
They’d come to her bookstore, perhaps to find the perfect souvenir to take home—would she still be open by then?
“. . . go home where you belong.”
Didn’t Mr. Brown realize? Ginny didn’t know if such a place existed. She’d thought it was in Garrett’s arms, but now . . .
No. She couldn’t give up. Because then what would she do? The one course in life she’d finally chosen for herself would come to a dead end. And she would have used up all of her family’s goodwill on the wrong one.
As Ginny made her way toward the bookstore from the bank, a sudden break in the buildings left her with a spectacular view of the bluffs. Grass waved along the ocean-battered coastline,
a friend begging her to slip off her clunky heels and go for a run.
But she turned her gaze toward the street once more, watching granite-and-slate-fronted houses and buildings seem to grow around her as the street dipped downward into a valley. The harbor was close, and with it, her lifeblood. Nestled between the newly updated Port Willis Pottery Club and the ever-cozy Loretta’s Bed & Breakfast, Rosebud Books stood sentinel. She and Garrett had fallen in love with the eighteenth-century shop, which had been vacant for several years after the last bookstore owners decided to move to Ireland for retirement. The lease had been affordable and the landlords were thrilled to have renters once more. Together, she and her husband had poured hours of sweat and love into this place, fixed it up, made it their own.
A tear began to roll down Ginny’s cheek. Not again. She couldn’t focus on the pain, the things out of her control. All she could do was hope for a brighter future. With a quick swipe across her cheek, she dipped her hand into her purse and pulled out her keys. Unlocking the cheery yellow door, she was met with the quaint jingle of a bell above her head.
The smell of old books greeted her, reminding her a bit of the Beauty and the Beast–style library at Wingate, her family’s Nantucket estate. It seemed a lifetime since she’d been back there.
Ginny flicked on the lights and unloaded her purse onto the front desk counter, a large oak piece Garrett had created himself. His father had been a carpenter and passed his love of woodworking on to his youngest son. Though he hadn’t been a rich man, the sale of his house and other belongings after his death had been divided between his two sons, and Garrett had used his as the seed money for the bookstore.
She ran her hand over the oak countertop, felt the dips and ridges in the wood—imperfect but beautiful, crafted from love.
Her fingers formed a fist and she pounded the desk. A sharp pang radiated through the side of her hand. She bit back a choice phrase.
“Gin?”
Her neck twisted upward. “William?” How had she not heard her brother-in-law enter? “What are you doing here?” She shook out her hand and winced.
“Checking on you. You okay?” He closed the door behind him and strode toward her. He and Garrett looked so much alike—well built and lean but not overly muscular, with sloping noses and dirty-blond curls cut short. Today he wore his dark-rimmed glasses, making him appear every inch the literature professor he was.
“I’m fine.” Her hand fairly throbbed, but hey . . .
“You don’t look great.”
“Just what every girl wants to hear.” She lifted an eyebrow, then added a little smirk to show him she really was fine. People who weren’t fine didn’t kid around, did they?
But William clearly wasn’t in a joking mood. He folded his arms across his chest. “What happened? Why are you crying? Did Garrett—”
“No. I haven’t heard from him.” In weeks. “I requested a loan from Brown & Brothers. Mr. Brown denied my request.”
William groaned. “I’m sorry, Ginny.”
She flexed her hand. It was finally starting to exhibit a dull pain instead of a sharp one. “It’ll be okay.” Determined to avoid further inquisition, she snatched up an old rag and some furniture polish. She hadn’t cleaned the shelves in . . . oh, a day or so. As she headed toward the nearest bookcase, which towered over her five-seven frame, Ginny squirted some polish onto the rag, then rubbed it into the wood.
“How bad are things?” And there was William, at her back, his question boring a hole into her attempt to distract herself. “And don’t say they’re ‘fine’ or ‘okay.’”
Didn’t he understand that if she was going to stay upbeat about all of this, she couldn’t get into the nitty-gritty? “It doesn’t matter.
You can’t help anyway.” Ginny rubbed the bookshelf until the sun from outside was reflected in the wood.
“I have a little saved.”
“No. That’s the money for your sabbatical.” William had been working as a professor in the nearby town of Danby for years, and planning his time off to travel and write a book for just as long.
“We’re family. What’s mine is yours. Especially since that no-good brother of mine left you high and dry.”
Her hand stilled. “William, he didn’t leave me high and dry. He just needs time. I’m trying to give him that.” Of course, there had been the times when she’d caved and called him anyway—telling herself it was to discuss the future of the bookstore, and not to beg him to come home.
He’d never answered those calls.
The scent of the furniture polish burned her nostrils as she fired another shot of it onto the bookshelf and scrubbed for all she was worth.
His lips flattened into a frown. “You’re so much better than he deserves. I still can’t believe he did this to you.” The pain that flashed across his face tore at Ginny’s gut. “My brother was never the most selfless person, but he seemed a changed man when he married you.”
“He never struck me as selfish, just driven to achieve his dreams.”
“How can you of all people defend him?”
Didn’t he get it? Garrett was all she had. Him . . . and this bookstore.
She shifted the conversation slightly. “Have you talked to him yet?” After his initial attempts to talk sense into Garrett, William had refused any further communication with his brother.
“No.” William fidgeted with the strap of his messenger bag. “I know I should, but I can’t forgive him for leaving you, Ginny. It’s wrong.”
“For the last time, he didn’t leave me.” Why wouldn’t anyone believe her? Garrett had not filed for divorce yet. Wouldn’t he have done so if he was leaving for good? “We’re just taking some time apart . . .”
“Time where he does whatever he wants and lets you keep running his business on your own? He’s abandoned his responsibilities. And for what?”
“To find himself.” The words squeaked out of Ginny’s throat. Even six months later, she still didn’t understand. Garrett Rose had always seemed so sure of himself and what he wanted. For a girl who’d spent her whole life doing exactly what her parents had demanded of her, Ginny hadn’t stood a chance against Garrett’s charms. He was all the things she’d always wanted to be, and he’d inspired her to finally take a leap down her own path.
Ginny swiped at her eyes. “He needs to know who he is without all of this . . . even me. He assured me he’d be back when he could get it all sorted. Do I wish he’d let me help him? Yeah, of course. But he’s asked me to give him space, so I am.”
Her voice sounded much harsher than she’d intended. She considered apologizing, but squirted more polish onto the rag. The hiss of the can filled the silence. Ginny rubbed until the ache from her hand spread up her arm.
“I’m just sorry he’s putting you through this.” William leaned against the bookcase. “I’m praying that he’ll see what he’s doing to you and come home soon.”
She’d never really given prayer much credence—it wasn’t how she’d been raised—but the gesture was well meant and appreciated.
“Thank you.” Ginny sighed and put the rag and polish down. “You’ve been a good friend and brother to me. Even my own parents would love to see me fail if it’d mean slinking home with my tail between my legs, admitting I was wrong.”
“Have you considered asking them for a loan?”
The caustic laugh from her lips attacked the air. “George and Mariah Bentley have disowned me until I ‘come to my senses.’ They don’t even know that Garrett has . . . that things are the way they are. I haven’t spoken to them in a long time. There’s no way I can ask them for money. Even access to my trust fund has been frozen until I ‘cooperate.’”
“What other options do you have? How long until you’re out of money?”
Should she tell him the truth? But why not? He’d find out soon enough if she had to close her doors. “Let’s just say my need is immediate. I have to brainstorm some ways to make extra money, pronto. I’ve go
t a few ideas, but have no idea if they’ll make a difference or not.”
“Like what?”
“I put an ad on B&B Today.”
“The vacation rental site?”
“Yes. I thought I’d rent out the flat over the bookstore. It’s got a bed, bathroom, and small kitchenette. And I posted it with the opportunity to work in the bookstore for lower rent. I figured I wouldn’t have to hire summer help if I could keep a steady enough flow of visitors.”
“Nice way to think outside the box. What else do you have?”
“Not much else. A few marketing ideas, but finding a way to afford them might be tough.”
At this point, with no loan and no prospects for financial windfalls, she had to admit it—she needed a miracle to keep this bookstore alive. It seemed everyone in town knew it.
Why couldn’t she accept the truth too?
Ginny took up the rag and polish once more, moving on to the next bookcase.
5
SOPHIA
Heat hit Sophia’s face as she entered her home through the garage door. She’d set the air conditioner to kick on in an hour or if it got too hot for her cat. She hadn’t anticipated being home this soon, but she’d killed as much time as she could at the bookstore.
She moved forward through the arched hallway tiled with travertine until she reached the thermostat and turned on the AC. Then she headed toward her huge kitchen. Setting her bag on the granite countertop, she stared at the gleaming stainless steel appliances, the oversized farm sink, the designer cabinets. What a pity no one had cooked here since she and David had moved in a month after getting engaged—unless using the microwave to reheat leftovers counted.
A light pressure grazed against the bottom of her pants. Sophia bent down and snatched Gigi into her arms. “Hey, girl. Looks like you’re going to be seeing more of me. Again.” The vibration of her Persian’s purrs rumbled through her arms.
The Secrets of Paper and Ink Page 3
