“Hey.” Steven glanced at her splattered apron and pink polka-dot pajama pants. “Sorry to drop in so late. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“You’re not.” Ginny swung her arm wide, indicating he should come inside. “I’m just trying to perfect my beignet recipe.”
“Beignets? Don’t think I’ve ever had those before.” Steven closed the door behind him and shrugged out of his jacket, revealing a blue henley sweater that matched his eyes—too well.
She really wished she’d looked in the mirror before answering the door. With her hair thrown up in a messy bun, random strands hanging down and sticking to her sweaty forehead, she probably looked the very opposite of fabulous.
Not that it should matter. This was Steven. A friend.
Ginny swiveled on her heel and walked toward the kitchen. “You’re welcome to have some when I’m done.”
“I can help if you like.”
Turning, she raised an eyebrow his direction. “Really?”
He rolled up his sleeves. “Just give me an apron, and I’m all yours.”
He doesn’t mean it like that, Ginny. Okay, it really was warm in here. She hurried to the window over her sink and pushed it open, letting in some fresh air. A cool breeze passed over her cheeks.
“So, what’s up? Did you just happen to know I was baking? Looking to score more cookies?” She pasted on a smile as she headed to the pantry for an apron. The only options included a small flowery one and Garrett’s grilling apron. She reached for the latter but her fingers twitched, changing direction at the last minute. Ginny turned to hand the smaller apron to Steven.
He pursed his lips, holding back a full smile. “Really, Ginny? C’mon . . .”
“What, not comfortable enough in your masculinity?” She looped the apron over his head, leaving the strings dangling at his sides. “Look, the color brings out the red in your hair.”
“Everything brings out the red in my hair.” He snatched the strings and brought them around his trunk. Designed for a petite woman—not a well-built man—they were barely long enough to tie together. “And I’m here because I wanted to deliver some good news in person.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” Ginny picked up the rolling pin and finished flattening the dough till it was a quarter inch thick.
“You already made your five hundredth sale on the website.”
Her head shot up to look at him. “No way. It’s only been live for two weeks.”
“I know. All the marketing money you’ve been putting into the launch has really paid off.”
“Not to mention your amazing SEO and webmaster skills.”
“Guess we make a good team, eh?” Steven cocked his head, then pointed to the dough. “Speaking of which, what do you want me to do? I didn’t get all dolled up in an apron to stand here and look pretty.”
She couldn’t stop the unladylike snort. “Find me a dough cutter, would you? In that drawer over there.”
He opened the indicated drawer and fumbled through it, various utensils scraping against one another as he did so. “I can’t seem to locate it. Of course, it would help if I knew what in the world a dough cutter was.”
“How do you survive without one?” Ginny tried to keep her tone serious, but couldn’t.
He straightened and turned to face her, then winked. “I just trick females into thinking I’m helpless and they bake for me.”
“Is that so?” She had to force a laugh—which was ridiculous. Why should the comment bother her? “Here, let me.” She strode toward him.
“Okay, well, it’s mostly just you and my mum.” He flashed a mischievous grin as he tried to move aside for her, but this part of the kitchen was particularly narrow. Steven had to squeeze around her to switch places.
She flattened herself against the counter, but their arms still brushed. The contact unnerved her. Or maybe just the way it made her heart skitter.
When she reached the open drawer, her eyes flew straight to the dough cutter, tucked away under a few spatulas in the back right corner. “Found it.”
“Ginny for the win.” Steven wandered to an old radio sitting atop her microwave. “Mind if I put on some music?”
“Be my guest.”
He flicked the dial on and a Rolling Stones song pulsed out, filling the kitchen with a lively tune. “Now, show me what to do.”
She demonstrated how to cut the dough into one-inch squares. Then they put them on to deep fry, the crackling oil barely audible over the music. He helped to flip them in the fryer until they became golden brown.
As they worked, a familiar Beatles song came on the radio. Steven started singing at the top of his lungs, wiggling his hips in a ridiculous manner as he flipped beignets in the flowery apron. Ginny joined him, echoing the lyrics as she transferred the deep-fried dough from the stovetop to paper towels, then into a bag of powdered sugar. The powder leapt up in happy puffs whenever a beignet was plopped inside the bag.
One song rolled into another. Together they powdered the rest of the treats and sang until their voices were hoarse. Laughing, he took advantage of a moment when her hands were empty to spin her around the room, dancing to an upbeat song she’d never heard before.
They stopped spinning as the song ended. Her heart pounded with the exertion—and if she admitted it, Steven’s nearness. She couldn’t help but look up at him. Their laughter cut off. The moment seemed to last forever, hung in the balance between what was and what could be. The tension between them pounded in her ears.
He reached up and brushed his finger lightly down her nose. “You’ve got powdered sugar everywhere.”
Her hand trembled as she watched it rise of its own accord to his hair, flecked with white. She pushed her fingers through it. “You too.”
Steven’s hands, which rested on her waist, seemed to tighten then, his fingers flexing. A breath shuddered in and out as he watched her. “I’ve never seen you like this before. So happy and lit up. It’s as if you’ve been hiding and didn’t even know it.”
He got her, didn’t he? Even when she didn’t get herself.
And in a way, quite possibly, that Garrett never had.
What would it be like to kiss him? She closed her eyes, lifted up on her tiptoes—but something stopped her. She knew she’d regret it.
Part of her didn’t care—she just wanted to not feel the emptiness inside of her anymore, the raw pain from Garrett’s betrayal. Was there really anything wrong with that?
A sharp jab to her conscience.
Yes.
Because it wouldn’t be fair to Steven. He was a good guy, one who deserved all of someone, not the broken leftover pieces.
She placed her hands on his chest, felt the rapid beating of his heart. “Steven . . .” The word came out strangled, a mixture of groaning and aching.
He studied her for a moment, taking a piece of her fallen hair and smoothing it down. “I really didn’t mean to fall for you, Gin. I tried not to, but you have a way about you that draws a man in.” Then he pulled her to his chest in a fierce hug, his whispered words hot on her forehead. “You aren’t ready, and the timing’s not good, and I get that. But someday, if you are, and it is, I’ll be here.”
Tears fell from her eyes and she nodded, burying her face in his strong chest. The soft cotton of his shirt grazed her cheek. He smelled sweet, like the treats they’d just created together. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
She pulled away and swiped at her tears. “Should we sample our handiwork?”
He stared at her for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, of course. But I have to grab something first, okay?”
“Sure.”
Steven left the kitchen and she turned to the cabinet, pulling down two plates and two glasses. After filling the glasses with water, she plated two beignets and waited at the kitchen table for him to return.
He finally did, and in his hands he held what looked like a brochure. Sitting in the chair next to her, he slid the brochure acr
oss the table. On the front was a picture of three people, each wearing a toque blanche on their head and a double-breasted white jacket. They posed in front of a stovetop. The London Culinary Institute flowed in cursive script across the top of the pamphlet.
“Why are you giving me this?”
Steven’s fingers drummed along the rim of the ceramic plate in front of him. “I researched a bunch, and this is the best one in England. When I requested a brochure, I spoke with an enrollment adviser. There’s still time to apply for the spring start in January. They have a fairly quick application process.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa. “That’s so sweet of you to do that, but I can’t go off to culinary school. That ship has sailed. Like I told you, I’ve got the bookstore now and that’s where my focus is.”
“You’ve worked really hard at making a comeback with your bookstore, but it just doesn’t seem to be something you enjoy. When you talk about baking, though—I don’t know, you just light up. And then seeing you tonight just confirmed it for me.” He considered her. “I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped my bounds . . .”
His words edged close to the wounds she carried inside. “Don’t you think I can do it? Save the bookstore, I mean.” She hadn’t thought so either, but then her friends had rallied around her, helped her do more than she’d dreamed possible—and in such a short amount of time too.
“That’s not it at all. You are more than capable of doing whatever you put your mind to, Ginny Rose. But there’s a difference between merely existing and really living. We all need to stop caring what other people say about us. We need to do what makes us come alive, because that’s where we will truly find joy.”
He’d reached the wound, jabbing it and sending shooting pains through her heart.
“It’s not that simple, is it?” Her thoughts turned to Garrett, her parents, her life from beginning until now. “I’ve been searching for that joy, and it comes in bits and pieces, but then always fizzles out. At least the bookstore is something tangible I can hold on to when everything else is crumbling around me.”
“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong place.”
“Thanks, that’s helpful.” Anger surged—not really at Steven, but at the way he’d pulled the bandage off her wounds, exposing them to air. The sting was gut-wrenchingly painful.
He ran his hand over his jaw. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I think you should go.” She shoved the brochure back toward him.
Steven hesitated, then nodded and stood, leaving the brochure on the table. He walked toward the living room, but before he was out of her sight, he turned. “You are more than you think you are, and more than how others have labeled you. Don’t be afraid to embrace that.”
34
SOPHIA
“Have a lovely day. And enjoy the rest of your visit.” Sophia waved at the elderly German couple as they grabbed their purchases and headed out the bookstore’s front door. The bell rang out a good-bye.
“Wow, that was like the twentieth customer to buy something already today.” Pulling open the display case door, Ginny used plastic tongs to place fresh blueberry muffins inside. “Business is booming lately.”
Ever since they’d opened the loft upstairs, locals and tourists alike had started drifting in and staying, purchasing baked goods and browsing the books downstairs when they needed a break from their work.
“It really is. I’ve hardly sat down at all.” Sophia pulled a piece of paper from the printer underneath the computer. It had ten orders from the last twenty-four hours alone. “And I haven’t had time yet to process these online orders. Would you like me to do that now?”
“That’d be great. I’m done baking for the morning, so I can man the front.”
“Perfect.” Sophia didn’t mind interacting with customers—she’d grown to really love it, actually. But she relished being among the books too, so locating the stock and packaging it up for delivery was one of her new favorite things to do.
She headed to the rare books section, passing a teen wearing earbuds who snapped her gum as she thumbed through a copy of the latest McManus murder mystery. Then there was a man in a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows checking out the Philosophy section. His style and build reminded her of William. Sophia smiled.
Finally, she was alone with the books. The hustle and bustle of the front of the store became only a murmur here in this cocoon of shelves and pages. The sweet, musky smell, almost like vanilla, pricked her nose as she wandered the section, pulling the first few ordered books into her arms.
Her phone vibrated in her back pocket. Sophia placed the handful of books on the edge of a table and pulled her phone out. Joy. “Hey, girl.”
“Hi! How are you?” Her best friend’s voice lit the line, though something sounded . . . off. They hadn’t communicated in at least a week, and that had consisted of texts sent back and forth over the course of several hours. She’d missed Joy—though she would see her in three weeks’ time. The thought brought both comfort and heartache.
Because . . . William. And Ginny. And having to go back to work, resume normalcy, when this place and her time away had done so much to free her. She still had a long way to go, but the thought of returning seemed stifling.
But she didn’t want to think about that now. “No complaints here. Oh, but William and I got one step closer to finding out about Emily’s story.”
It had been a little more than a week since they’d sent off for birth certificates for two different James Bryants who had been born in a plausible time frame. Normally, it only took anywhere from one to four days to receive the information, but the genealogical indices they’d searched had been sparse with information, so it was going to take longer for the General Registrar Office to track down the certificates. In the meantime, she and William had spent their time sightseeing or hanging out together, talking about deep subjects and falling for each other more and more.
Sophia sighed happily. With a quick glance at the paper still in her other hand, she started looking for the next book on the list. “How’s it going out your way?”
“Well . . .”
Sophia stopped. “Is everything okay?”
“No, actually.” Joy’s voice shuddered. “It’s my mom. She’s got Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh, friend.” Sophia slumped against the nearest wall. Joy’s parents were just the sweetest. They always invited Sophia out to dinner with them when they were visiting Joy from Florida. “How bad is it?”
“In the early stages, but she was just diagnosed on Monday. And you know how much Dad depends on her. He’s nearly eighty and his diabetes has gotten worse.”
Despite being sixty, Sophia’s own mother was the picture of health. She couldn’t imagine what Joy was feeling. “How are your parents handling it?”
“Dad is being all optimistic, of course, but I can tell he’s scared. And Mom . . . Well, I knew she had some dementia, but apparently she’s been bad for a while. She just hid it from me until she couldn’t anymore.”
“I’m sorry. Are you planning a visit soon?”
“Of course. I’m going to leave today, in fact. But . . .”
Her friend needed Sophia. She owned the practice, but Sophia was her right-hand therapist—or had been, before she’d taken her leave. But Sophia was stronger now. No, she wasn’t really ready to return, but for Joy, she’d do anything. “I’ll book a flight.” The thought of bailing on Ginny and William made her queasy, but Joy had been her family long before she’d met either of them. “I can be there tomorrow.”
“No, you can’t do that. I won’t be here.”
“Right, but you need me to return to work, don’t you?” The air back here suddenly seemed heavy.
“Tracy—you know, the therapist I hired to temporarily replace you when you left for England?—is fine with taking on some extra clients, and between her and Veronica I think there’s enough coverage until you return after Labor Day.”
Relief flooded Sophia’s vein
s. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. But, Soph, there’s more.” A pause. “With my parents’ declining health, I’ve been thinking about this for a while, but didn’t say anything because of all you were going through. And now with Mom’s diagnosis, it’s the final straw. I don’t think I’m coming back.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, who knows how long my parents are going to need me? My dad needs help, and I want all the good memories I can get with Mom. I’ve decided to move in with them for the foreseeable future.”
She couldn’t argue with her friend’s compassionate heart. “I—”
“And I’ve decided to sell the practice to help my parents pay for the medical bills. They’re on a limited income, and even with the insurance they have, the best treatment costs more than they can afford. Especially if Mom has to be moved to a nursing home. Of course, I’ll do all I can to keep her home with us.” Joy was sniffling now.
“Joy, you built LifeSong from the ground up. Are you sure about this?”
“I am. I have to be. I can always rebuild, but I can’t ever get this time back with my parents. They’ve done so much for me over the years.”
“Oh, girl. I wish I could wrap my arms around you right now. I’m coming to Florida. I insist.”
“Don’t you dare leave. You’re finally finding yourself again, and I won’t be the reason you don’t. When I’m settled and you’re back, you can come visit. Okay?”
When Joy made up her mind about something, it was best not to argue. Sophia rubbed her temple. “This doesn’t feel right.”
“I know.”
“You tell me if you change your mind, and I’m there in a flash, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.” Joy sighed. “I do have one more thing to ask you, though.”
The Secrets of Paper and Ink Page 22
