by Ellery Adams
“It sounds like Amanda was really lonely,” Hester said. “But like Estella said last night, her struggles are over. Wherever she is now, I hope she has company. If there’s a heaven, it has to be a place where no one is lonely. And you can eat whatever you want and read books all day.”
“Speaking of heaven, let’s talk about those book pockets,” Nora said.
Hester informed Nora that Abilene would be swinging by in a few minutes to deliver the inaugural batch.
“It would make Abilene happy if they sell,” Hester said. “She puts her heart into her work. I can see it. I’ve never hired an assistant because no one bakes to my standards. Except Abilene. Having her here first thing every morning is turning out to be a good thing for both of us.”
“I’m glad. I wish I could say the same,” Nora said. “I like Abilene, but if she stays in Miracle Springs much longer, she’ll have to find another couch to crash on. My tiny house is just too tiny for us both.”
* * *
“I have the solution to your problem,” Estella announced that afternoon. Following a last-minute cancelation, she’d decided to walk over to Miracle Books for a cappuccino and a chat.
“Buy a book pocket too,” Nora said. “Abilene made them and I’d like to be able to tell her that we sold out of her first batch. I have a few chocolate ones left. The apples are all gone.”
Estella touched her flat belly and appeared to engage in a brief internal debate. “Oh, fine,” she said, taking out her money. “Twist my arm. Can you warm it up? I like everything a little toasty.”
Nora popped the pastry into the microwave and made the cappuccino. After serving Estella, Nora asked her to explain what problem she’d found a solution for.
“You know that expression about guests,” said Estella as she got comfortable in a reading chair. “They’re like fish. After three days, they start to stink.”
Nora frowned. “Abilene barely makes a peep. She cooks me dinner and she invented the pastry you’re devouring. She’s a nice person. The real problem is me. I don’t want a roommate. If I’d wanted a roommate, I’d have a cat. A fat, lazy cat to keep my feet warm in the winter.”
“That’s what men are for, honey.”
Nora spread her hands. “What’s your solution?”
Estella took a folded sheet of paper out of her handbag and passed it to Nora. “A new business is opening in town, and I think it has the power to grant all of your wishes.”
Unable to comprehend Estella’s words or her ridiculous brow wiggling, Nora examined the glossy flyer.
NEED CASH FAST?
YOUR CLUTTER IS ANOTHER’S TREASURE!
LET US SELL IT FOR YOU!
VIRTUAL GENIE
WE TURN WISHES INTO REALITY!
QUICK PAYMENT!
LOW SELLER’S FEE!
COME TO OUR APPRAISAL FAIR
WEDNESDAY, 10AM–6PM
EXCHANGE COLLECTIBLES FOR CASH!
Nora glanced from the flyer to Estella. “I don’t see how this helps me.”
Estella’s mouth split into her cat-got-the-cream grin. “I got this from the new owner. He was outside his shop, overseeing the placement of his new sign. It’s tasteful, by the way. Just a brass lamp, like the one from Aladdin, with a plume of purplish smoke embellished with sparkling lights. The owner is also quite lovely to look at. He has dark hair, dark eyes, and gorgeous hands. I could just imagine those long fingers—”
“He’s good-looking. I get it,” Nora said, interrupting Estella before she could get too graphic. “You still haven’t said how the arrival of this Virtual Genie solves my problems. I certainly don’t have collectibles to sell other than the ones I intend to sell in my own shop.”
“If you’d let me finish, I’d explain that Mr. Kingsley—he’s the proprietor—plans to rent out the studio above the store. Because it’s in need of lots of TLC and he doesn’t plan on investing in it, he’s looking to rent it out cheaply.”
Nora had to admit that this was intriguing news, but before she could get too excited, she realized that the idea was unlikely to see fruition. “Abilene would have to provide personal information. She can’t even rent a post office box without completing paperwork and having a picture ID of some kind.”
Estella gazed into her mug. “That’s true. Abilene will have to decide if she’d prefer to keep running or trust us to help her stay in Miracle Springs. If she decides to move on, the least we can do is get her some sneakers. That outfit she was wearing the night we met her—the housedress and the flip-flops—weren’t even close to her size. Do you think she stole that stuff?”
“Maybe. Or else they were given to her by another woman who was willing to help without asking questions.”
“Or Abilene asked one too many and had to run after getting the clothes,” Estella said. “But she can’t live the rest of her life in fear. Eventually, she has to face her demons. Better to do that while she has other people around than facing them out there”—she pointed toward the front of the store—“all alone.”
Nora recalled Jed’s warning. “For those of us in the Secret, Book, and Scone Society, the demons we needed to face were in here.” She touched her temple. “And in here.” She moved her hand to her heart. “What if Abilene’s are made of flesh and blood?”
Estella stood up and put her empty mug on the ticket agent counter. “Some of us have been cut on the inside. Clawed at by a person we were foolish enough to trust. Or to love.” She gently rested her fingertips on Nora’s scarred forearm. “I bet these healed faster than your internal scars. Some wounds never close.”
Nora waved her free arm, encompassing the whole bookstore in the gesture. “Which is why we need places like this. Places where we can connect with other people. Places where we can sit quietly, read, and drink a cup of coffee while the rain falls. Small sanctuaries disguised as bookstores.”
Shouldering her purse, Estella pointed at the flyer. “Show that to Abilene and give her a choice. She can become like us—strong, scarred, wise, and wonderful—or she can keep running from her secret. You and I both know that it’ll come out eventually. Secrets always find a way of surfacing.”
Nora wondered if Estella had been thinking of Amanda when she’d made that remark. Nora had, and the image of the body in the pond haunted her for the rest of the day.
* * *
That night, Nora took the empty book-pocket tray home to Abilene.
“People loved them,” she told her. “You should be proud.”
Abilene’s face glowed. Even though Nora had already washed the tray, Abilene washed it again.
“I learned to cook out of necessity,” she said as she dried the tray with the dish towel, rubbing it until the steel shone like glass. “My parents were missionaries. When I was very young, they went on a mission trip and never came back. I was sent to live with my mother’s second cousin. He was a very demanding man who didn’t like children.”
This was the most Abilene had ever shared, and Nora waited a long moment before responding. She wanted to say the right thing, to keep the conversation going.
“You don’t ever have to see him again,” she assured Abilene. “Not ever. You’re not a little girl anymore. He has no power over you. You’re in charge of your fate.”
Abilene shook her head, silently conveying the message that Nora didn’t understand the situation. This was true. Nora didn’t understand. But she knew enough to recognize that Abilene was afraid of this man. Her fear was a tangible thing. It made Abilene’s eyes go dark. It made her fingers turn fidgety and her shoulders droop.
“Do you want to stay in Miracle Springs?” Nora softly asked. “Do you want to keep working at the bakery?”
Meeting Nora’s gaze, Abilene said, “Yes.”
“Okay, then.” Nora put her hand over Abilene’s. With a light, gentle touch, she uncurled Abilene’s clenched fist. “Okay,” she repeated.
Abilene glanced down at Nora’s scarred hand. After a long pause, she turned her
own hand over, offering Nora her bandaged palm—her own scarred skin.
Both women looked down at their imperfect hands, which were stacked like two pieces of warm bread.
“Okay,” Abilene said and smiled.
* * *
The next morning, Nora walked across the park in the center of town, keeping to shaded areas beneath the trees. Though she liked the sunshine, she’d forgotten her hat and didn’t want to expose her burn scars to direct sunlight.
The square was crowded with tourists, which didn’t surprise Nora. School would be starting soon and there was an end-of-summer feel to the day. The sun was still hot. The air was still damp and sticky. But there had been a subtle shift—a sense that the season had lost much of its vigor.
The countdown to September had an uncanny effect on visitors to Miracle Springs. They tried to squeeze in as many activities as possible during their stay. They scheduled spa treatments, went on hikes, bathed in the hot springs multiple times, dined at local eateries, and they shopped, shopped, and shopped. Based on previous summers, Nora had learned to stock extra shelf enhancers for this time of year.
As she walked, she wondered how a new business catering to locals could survive in a tourist town.
I bet the owner is a vulture in disguise, she thought. He’s here to pick the bones of the people who lost their jobs and must now sell their possessions if they want to put food on the table.
Nora slowed her pace as she approached her destination. Standing under the shade of the awning belonging to a neighboring business, she studied the Virtual Genie sign. As Estella had said, the sign looked like an antique Middle Eastern lamp. It was covered with several coats of shiny bronze paint and the purplish-blue smoke plume was pierced with dozens of tiny electric lights.
Glancing from the sign to the storefront, Nora saw a dark-haired man of medium build exit through the doorway. He held the door open for a large, bearded man with a stern face who exited Virtual Genie as if escaping a gas station restroom.
“Again, I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Frye,” said the dark-haired man.
The name immediately caught Nora’s attention and she watched the bearded man with interest. She assumed she was witnessing an interaction between Amanda Frye’s son and Mr. Kingsley, the owner of Virtual Genie. Estella had described him as being dark-haired and handsome. This man fit that bill.
“Everyone says that when a person dies,” said Mr. Frye. “But can I tell you something that might surprise you?”
Mr. Kingsley spread his hands in invitation. “Please do. What fun would life be without surprises?”
Mr. Frye hesitated a moment before continuing in a hostile tone. “I’m not sorry. My mother is dead, but it wasn’t a loss for me.” He held out a finger to forestall the other man from interrupting, even though it was clear by Mr. Kingsley’s expression that he was too shocked to respond. “I’m sure that sounds cold to you, but you don’t know the whole story. You don’t know the half of it.”
“I’m—” Mr. Kingsley began.
“Here it is in a nutshell,” Mr. Frye went on. His voice was cold and sharp, like an icicle. “My dad and I were really close,” he said. “I loved that man and he loved me.”
Mr. Kingsley managed a tight smile. “That’s good.”
“Oh, it was good. Everything was good,” snarled the bearded man. “Until my mom killed him.”
Chapter 4
Great books help you understand, and they help you to feel understood.
—John Green
Having issued this shocking statement, Amanda Frye’s son walked away without so much as a good-bye. He stepped out into the street, blatantly putting himself in the path of an oncoming car.
Nora tensed and waited for a horn blare or the shriek of brakes. But Frye simply held out his arm like he was a traffic cop and sauntered to the opposite side of the street as if he owned the town.
He then squeezed his oversized frame into the driver’s seat of a yellow Mazda Miata. He barely fit in the small convertible and looked like a cartoon figure as he pulled into traffic, cutting off a driver and forcing him to swerve into the other lane. The driver honked in indignation and Frye responded by flipping him the bird. Watching this scene, Nora was reminded of Bluto, the villain from the Popeye comic books. She found the comparison between Frye and the famous bully amusing.
“A lovely smile for a lovely morning,” said a voice. Nora turned to find Mr. Kingsley standing next to her.
“Not for him, apparently.” She pointed at the Mazda seconds before it rounded the block and disappeared from view.
Mr. Kingsley quietly surveyed the passersby for a moment. “People have different ways of processing grief. Anger is a typical response. And a natural one as well.” Looking at Nora, he continued. “But let’s not dwell on unpleasant thoughts. I’m Griffin Kingsley, proprietor of Virtual Genie.”
Nora rarely warmed to others straightaway, but Griffin’s bright brown eyes and direct gaze drew her in. He looked at her like she wasn’t scarred. He looked at her like people had looked at her before she was burned. His directness made Nora feel good.
“I’m Nora Pennington. I own Miracle Books.”
Griffin’s smile widened. “Ah, the bookstore in the train depot! I’ve been looking forward to visiting—I love books—but I’ve been working like a madman preparing for our appraisal fair. I—” He lowered his head and touched his fingers to the bridge of his nose in a self-effacing gesture. “Forgive me. Won’t you come in and have something cool to drink? Tamara, my business partner, makes the most wonderful iced chai tea. It’s the perfect remedy for the humidity.”
Nora accepted his invitation and followed him inside Virtual Genie. When the door closed behind her, she felt like she’d left her small town in the North Carolina mountains out on the sidewalk and had entered another world.
She stood in a large, open space that might have been transported from a medieval sheik’s palace. There were gilded birdcages, opulent divans, carved desks and chairs, brass light fixtures, and a dozen exotic plants in pots embellished with mosaic tiles. The hardwood floors were completely covered by Persian rugs and the walls had been draped with multiple layers of colorful silks. Over the silks, Griffin had hung poster-sized quotes from The Arabian Nights. Each quote, printed in a stylized font with lots of graceful curls, was encased in a gilt frame.
Griffin clearly enjoyed witnessing Nora’s reaction. His eyes danced as he led her to a pair of chairs covered in crimson velvet.
“It’s hard to believe this was once a candle shop,” Nora said in amazement. “The transformation is magical.”
Griffin waited for Nora to be seated before sitting in the chair opposite her. “People often have a hard time naming their favorite book. I don’t have that problem.”
Nora laughed. “I think I know which one made a serious impression on you. And why not? What wonderful stories. When did you first read it?”
“My mother read it to me when I was very young,” Griffin said. “She had a beautiful voice. I imagine part of the reason Scheherazade was such a skilled storyteller was that she was also gifted with a melodious voice.” He pointed at the framed quotes. “Did you know that The Arabian Nights is not the book’s original title? Arabian Nights comes from the later version. The English edition. The original title is One Thousand and One Nights.”
“You should prepare yourself. People might ask if those quotes are from Aladdin. Or they might wonder why you don’t have a blue genie coming out of the lamp outside.”
Griffin raised a finger and made an imaginary check in the air. “There’s a woman in her eighties, a grandmother to twelve, who’s seen the Disney movie at least twenty times. She asked me both of those questions.”
“Are you talking about that sweet lady from Atlanta? The one who took care of her daughter’s kids all day so she could go back to school?” asked a woman who’d suddenly appeared from an opening in the silk. Nora saw a doorway concealed behind the fabric.
> Griffin got to his feet. “I had the good fortune of running into Ms. Pennington on the sidewalk. She owns Miracle Books. Ms. Pennington, this is my associate, Tamara Beacham.”
Nora told Tamara to call her by her first name and shook the other woman’s outstretched hand. Tamara’s handshake was so brief that it bordered on rudeness.
My scars aren’t contagious, Nora felt like saying, but suppressed the comment.
After smiling nervously at Nora, Tamara offered to make iced chai tea and ducked back through the opening in the silk.
“No wonder I didn’t see her come in,” Nora said.
Griffin followed her gaze. “Like the setting of a well-written story, a business should invoke a certain mood. We’ve attempted to create an aura of luxury and escapism. It’s an artifice, yes, but an artifice built with the intention of putting our customers at ease. When people come to us looking to sell their possessions, they’re often facing hardship. A relative has passed away, leaving unexpected debts. Or they’ve suddenly lost a job.” He paused, reflected for a moment, and then continued. “We also have clients looking to downsize or declutter. These people can experience anxiety in letting go of their possessions. Our business appears to focus on material goods, but it’s truly about helping people through challenging transitions.”
Griffin went on to ask about Miracle Books, and since the shop was Nora’s favorite subject, she was able to exchange innocuous small talk until Tamara reemerged from the back room carrying a silver serving tray. She placed the tray on the table between Griffin and Nora and touched the gold box in the center of it.
