The Secrets of Paper and Ink

by Lindsay Harrel

  “I appreciate that.”

  Once Julia and the children left, Ginny gathered her things, walked out the door, locked up again, and headed around back to her cottage, which she also rented from Aldwin and Julia. If she couldn’t renew the bookstore’s lease, she might lose her home too—the first place where she’d ever had any say in the decor, in the things that were purchased. The Bentleys may have been loaded, but never once had Mother asked her opinion on anything, from her room design to her clothing to her first car. In fact, an interior decorator had done up the pink-and-lace shabby chic room where she’d spent eighteen years of her life.

  Ginny hated pink.

  She set her keys on the counter and looked around the gray-and-black modern kitchen that Garrett had let her redesign—not in an expensive way, but in an it’s-all-yours-and-I-trust-you kind of way. He had given her a place to belong and let her stretch her wings for the first time in—ever.

  Oh, how she missed him.

  If he was here, they’d be able to figure this out together.

  Anger and raw hurt flared anew. Why wasn’t he here? He’d never given her a solid reason, just vague generalities and cliché statements. And despite all the people who raised an eyebrow and clucked their tongues—who thought for sure his absence meant he was having an affair—she’d believed him when he said that wasn’t what this was about. She’d known it was possible to need time to discover yourself. She’d been patient.

  But now, the bookstore was going to close if something didn’t change. Fast.

  She’d tried to pretend she could manage it on her own, that she could handle the burden without him and give him the space he’d requested.

  But if he came back and his beloved bookstore was closed . . . Well, he needed to know. He did still care about what happened to it, didn’t he?

  Oh please, let him still care.

  Her hand slid into the pocket of her purse and pulled out her phone. She dialed his number. It would probably go to voicemail . . .

  “Hello? Ginny?”

  “Garrett.” She breathed out his name like an amen.

  “Wow. It’s a bit like fate that you called. I was just going to call you.”

  “You were?” Relief surged through her. Her body sagged as she sank onto one of her kitchen stools—their kitchen stools. He missed her. Perhaps he was ready to come home at long last. His voice sounded hesitant, but there was no need.

  “Yes.” He paused. “I’m not sure how to begin.”

  “It’s okay, Garrett.” The past was in the past. “Of course you can come home. I forgive you.”

  “You what?” A deep breath. “I wasn’t going to . . . That’s not what this is about.”

  She grabbed at a napkin sitting on the counter, began tearing it into long shreds. “Oh? Well, how’s London? Is it raining a whole bunch? We’ve had beautiful weather here. A few scattered storms, but nothing like last year.” Her own reason for calling had flown completely out of her mind.

  “Really, Gin? The weather?” Agonizing moments walked laps around her. Finally, the words she’d dreaded and thought impossible came from his lips. “I’m filing for divorce.”

  A gentle knocking. The murmuring of her name, muffled. An ache in her neck.

  Ginny groaned as she roused from sleep. Where was she? Cold pressed against her cheek as she opened her eyes and lifted her head. She’d fallen asleep at her kitchen bar, the granite countertop her pillow, the stool her bed.

  No wonder her whole body screamed at her.

  But why had she . . .?

  Memories of her conversation with Garrett flooded her mind and stole her breath. After she’d begged him to reconsider and he’d once again given her hardly any information to go on, they’d hung up.

  Ginny glanced at the stovetop, where she’d left a cherry pie, snickerdoodles, pumpkin muffins, and a bowl with chocolate cake batter—evidence of her post–phone call baking frenzy. Around two in the morning, she’d collapsed on the stool for a rest and must have fallen asleep altogether.

  “Ginny?” Again that muffled voice.

  She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, wishing she could head straight to her bedroom. A yawn forced its way out. Wait. What time was it? Ginny squinted at the clock on her microwave. Great. She’d been due to open the bookstore almost an hour ago. Thankfully, Sophia was working it today . . .

  Rap rap rap. “Ginny? Are you okay?”

  Sophia? Ginny raced to the door. Opening it, she found her pseudo employee standing there, questions in her eyes. “Why are you here?”

  “Good morning to you too. But you didn’t answer my question. Are you okay? You look awful.”

  “Thanks a bunch. But you didn’t answer my question either. Why are you here and not the bookstore?” She hated the accusing tone snapping from her tongue.

  “When you didn’t show up, I called William and asked him to come in. He’s got it handled.”

  Thank goodness for her brother-in-law and Sophia. She’d have been out of business already if not for them.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Thanks for arranging that.” Ginny tried to laugh, but her throat rumbled. “I’m okay.”

  Sophia cocked her head. “Something’s wrong.”

  Her new friend was far too perceptive.

  Maybe if she acted like everything was fine, it would be. “Just overslept.” Ginny headed to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out a bottled water. She twisted off the cap and took a sip, cleansing her body from all the sadness, all the tears, all the . . .

  “C’mon, Ginny. That’s not the truth and we both know it.”

  Ginny’s fingers tightened around the bottle, crunching the plastic a bit. She sighed. “Guess I can’t fool the shrink.”

  Sophia closed the door and came inside. “I’m a therapist, not a shrink.” She smiled and placed her hand on Ginny’s upper arm. “Right now, though, I’m just a concerned friend. What’s going on?”

  With quivering lips, Ginny downed the rest of the water. She did not want to think about this anymore. Last night had left her with more questions than answers. “I have to get to the bookstore.”

  Sophia pointed to the kitchen table, another of Garrett’s creations. It was small and round—their “eat-in” kitchen wouldn’t fit anything larger than a two-seater—and shoved up against the window. “Sit.”

  No, no, no. When she sat, she wallowed. “Want some breakfast? I have pie. And I can make some coffee.”

  “Sure.” A picture of calm, Sophia settled into one of the chairs.

  Ginny felt her friend’s eyes on her as she pulled two plates down from the open-faced cabinets. “Any word from William’s friend about Emily’s story?” Sophia had been so bummed when more information hadn’t turned up.

  She unwrapped the cellophane from the pie, cut two generous slices, and placed them on the plates.

  “Yes, actually. I think we’re going to go meet her in London this weekend.” A pause. “I know you’ve got your own stuff going on, so you don’t have to come this time if you don’t want to. Of course, you’re welcome to. That’s not what I mean.”

  “I don’t feel like I was much help last time.” After all, she hadn’t read Emily’s story, so she hadn’t had any thoughts to contribute. She’d really just gone to make sure Sophia was okay being alone with William. “That reminds me, though. What happened at the library? When I came back into the room after my phone call, you looked white as a coconut cream pie.”

  It took a moment for Sophia to answer. “To be honest, William got a little close to me when we were signing in to the computer. It was all very innocent, but I had a flashback.” She sighed. “I kept having to remind myself that he is not like David.”

  Ginny brought the plates to the table and set them down. “I’m so sorry.” Maybe her friend did need her to go to London after all. But it took about four to five hours each way to drive there, and she couldn’t really afford that much time away from the bookstore.

  “Thank
you.” Sophia pursed her lips, but Ginny saw the tremble there. Then she seemed to compose herself and eyed the pie. “Seeing all this food reminds me. A few customers came in wanting muffins this morning, but the display case was empty. So we should probably take some over once we’re done here. It looks like you have plenty.”

  “That’s what happens when you’re up past midnight stress baking.” Wincing at her own remark, Ginny turned on her heel. Coffee. They needed coffee. She practically scrambled to her espresso machine—a gift from Garrett for their fourth anniversary.

  “Not able to sleep?”

  “Something like that.” Ginny filled the machine’s reservoir with cold, filtered water. Then she groaned. That’s right. It took nearly fifteen minutes for it to heat up. Out of excuses. She flicked on the machine and faced Sophia once more.

  Her friend studied her. How was it possible that Ginny was closer to her—whom she’d known not even three weeks—than to her own brother and sister or anyone else she’d met in the last five years living here?

  But there was something about their mutual hurt that drew them together. And that meant Sophia was a safe place. Perhaps she could give her some ideas about how to make Garrett see reason.

  Ginny grabbed two forks from the silverware drawer and handed Sophia one, then slid into the seat across from her.

  With a sigh, she set her fork down on the table and stared at her pie. The flaky, golden-brown crust housed the beautiful red filling. The arrangement looked almost too perfect to eat. “My landlord came by. It’s time to renew my lease, but she’s nearly doubling the monthly price of rent if I want to renew.”

  Sophia frowned. “That’s awful.”

  “It gets worse. I called Garrett to let him know, to see if he had any solutions.”

  “It must have been difficult to talk to him again.”

  “That’s the thing. I was nervous, yes, but excited to talk with him. It’s like I finally had a real excuse to do so. Imagine, feeling like you couldn’t talk to your husband without bugging him.”

  The garden box outside the window caught her attention. She’d always taken such pride in working the soil, planting gorgeous local flowers and watching them bloom. This year, however, she’d been far too busy with the bookstore and Garrett’s absence to tend to the tiny garden. Weeds grew in place of many of the pretty plants. The flowers that did grow were stunted from lack of care—the only water they’d received was what had fallen from the sky this winter and spring.

  “So did he have a solution?”

  “I never got to tell him about the bookstore. He . . .” She expected a flash flood to issue from her tear ducts, but none came. Must have dried up after last night. “He said he was filing for divorce.”

  Sophia dropped her fork and reached for Ginny’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Oh, Ginny.”

  “I was in shock at first. It seems dumb, right? I mean, he’s been gone for more than six months and it’s been weeks since we’ve even spoken. But I kept telling myself that he’d come home when he was ready.” Ginny picked up her fork again and poked a cherry tucked inside the pie. It tumbled out in slow motion, stuck in the gelatinous filling. “You can ask me what I know you must be wondering.”

  “And what’s that?” Sophia’s voice remained tranquil and low.

  “Aside from ‘What kind of idiot are you—’”

  “Stop right there.” Sophia folded her hands and looked Ginny straight in the eye. “I understand that this kind of pain and grief leads to self-doubt, but negative self-talk gets you nowhere. Believe me. I know from experience. I fight it every day. A lot of days, it wins.”

  Ginny’s chest squeezed. The sun began to rise higher outside the window, casting part of the garden box in light. One flower—a bright-yellow vetch—seemed to almost lean toward the lit section from the shadows.

  “I tried to ask him why. I just want to understand. Maybe if I do, I could fix it for him. Bring him home. Remind him that we belong together.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he hadn’t been happy for a while. That he didn’t know if he loved me anymore.” The words had been like using a butter knife to slice steak—just plain wrong. Impossible. That couldn’t be how he truly felt. “I just don’t get it. He loves this town, this bookstore. He always has. And despite what he says, I know that he loves me. How could he just leave?” A tear finally slid from her eye and plopped onto her pie, soaking into the crust.

  From across the table, Sophia handed Ginny a tissue.

  She used it to wipe her eyes.

  Her friend sighed. “I don’t have the answers. Sometimes it’s easier to leave than to deal with your emotions.”

  “But at some point, you do have to deal with them, right? I never thought he’d stay away this long or that he’d decide not to return.”

  “So he said he’s staying there?”

  “For now.”

  “You didn’t get to talk about the bookstore at all?”

  “No. He wasn’t exactly open to discussing the particulars. Just said his lawyer would be contacting me.”

  What did she do now? Give up on the bookstore? Give up on Garrett? Go back to the States, where her parents would surely lord her failures over her?

  The light drifted away from the yellow flower, pulled in the other direction. And yet still the flower seemed to lean.

  “Wait. When are you guys leaving for London?”

  19

  EMILY

  MAY 1858

  I never would have believed it possible, but I missed being a governess. As a governess, I could hide away from society for the most part. My behavior wasn’t under constant scrutiny, since children were my main observers. They didn’t care whether I was entirely proper or said the right things.

  But as a lady’s companion, I felt constantly trapped, like an insect whose wings were pinned to a board. I accompanied Louisa to parties and called on countless families with her, slipping into the background while she flitted around like a butterfly, free to flirt, prattle, and preen with the rest of them.

  In some ways, I envied her. In others, I could not imagine being like her.

  But I did miss freedom.

  Not that being a governess was truly freeing either. I would have no true freedom until I called myself a published author and began receiving payment through which I could live my own life, doing what I loved. In the few months since my manuscript had fallen in the snow, I had used the dying flames of my candle every night to reconstruct the ending of my story—and in doing so, discovered that second chances were often the most beautiful. The story was richer now, fuller. Experience had added to its flavor.

  And one unexpected thing that had come from my new position was a blossoming friendship with Edward’s sister. Ever since that day when Louisa had discovered my secret, we had become much closer—not as close as Edward and me, but closer than any female friend I’d ever had.

  I dreamed of such things as I placed a bite of lamb into my mouth and chewed. All around me, forks scraped plates and conversation droned. Edward’s family had invited a few families to dine with us this evening. The women looked divine in their gowns, especially a young woman named Rosamond, whose deep brown hair reminded me of spun silk in its soft appearance. Her waist appeared to be half the size of my own, but she did not seem weak as many petite women did. Whenever she laughed, joy seemed to spread throughout the room, though I could not fathom why—it was not a kind-natured laugh, but a rather obnoxious one.

  My view of her may not have been entirely unbiased, I admit. For this was not the first time her family had dined with Edward’s, nor the first time she had been seated next to Edward and engaged him in conversation for the entire meal. In fact, rumors had swirled among the servants that their parents were intent on arranging a union between them.

  I dug my fork into a pile of peas and stabbed one. The clang seemed to reverberate around the room and a few heads turned my way, including Edward’s and Rosamo
nd’s. Edward smiled at me. Rosamond did not.

  I set my fork down and dabbed my lips.

  “How are you enjoying London, Miss Fairfax?” Rosamond’s mother asked. I had been seated between her and Louisa. Though she’d been speaking to the guest on her other side, she must have noticed my embarrassment. Bless her for attempting to cover my faux pas.

  “It is perfectly lovely.”

  “Oh, come now. You infinitely prefer the countryside.”

  I glanced up at Edward’s teasing words. His eyes sparkled with mischief.

  “I can’t imagine what you mean.” I felt the corners of my lips lifting.

  “Why would anyone prefer the country to the excitement of London?” Rosamond’s laugh grated against my ears.

  Why must she become involved in the conversation? “I merely prefer the quiet. I’m not much for socializing.”

  “How can that be? Socializing is the height of enjoyment.” Rosamond glanced between me and Edward, a sliver of annoyance simmering beneath her composed façade.

  “Our dear Miss Fairfax here much prefers the company of books.”

  “’Tis true. I have always been guilty of that. Of course, you indulge my tastes by giving me plenty to digest.”

  “I can hardly keep up with your voracious appetite for books now.” Edward turned to Rosamond, breaking the spell between us. “Miss Fairfax here is a very accomplished reader, and her tastes span the gamut.”

  I raised my cup to my lips in an effort to keep a full grin from spreading across my face.

  “How interesting.” The words slid from Rosamond’s perfectly shaped lips as she turned her attention to me. “I hear that you are not merely an accomplished reader, but also an authoress.”

  Several drops of water dribbled from my lips. I set my cup down and quickly dabbed my face with a napkin. The other guests stopped speaking and turned their heads of one accord to me.

  My gaze shot back to Edward’s, and this time his look was one of confusion. “You must be mistaken. Miss Fairfax is no authoress.”