by Ellery Adams
Nora felt herself relaxing the stiff posture she held when newcomers inspected her.
“Excuse me.” The man pointed at her decimated pastry. “Where did you get that?”
Nora, who’d been feeding the scone to a small flock of mourning doves, replied, “From the Gingerbread House. They’re called comfort scones. The baker, Hester, makes custom scones based on what she thinks her patrons will be comforted by. You should pay her a visit.”
“I love scones, but I haven’t had one in forever. I used to have a chocolate-chip scone every Thursday afternoon at this little coffee shop near my office. But that was before everything changed. I couldn’t look the barista in the eye after—” The man fell into an abrupt silence. He sat very still and watched the doves devour Nora’s crumbs. When every last piece was gone, he asked, “Why are you feeding yours to the birds?”
“A customer dropped it on the floor while I was in the bakery buying a cinnamon twist,” Nora said. “I prefer cinnamon twists over scones because they’re easier to eat while I’m reading. That’s my main priority when it comes to food. Other people are obsessed with calories, nutritional value, antioxidants. I look at food and wonder: Can I eat that without having to put my book down?”
This elicited a small smile from the man. He pointed at the yellow building with the cobalt blue trim and doors on the far side of the park. The former train depot, which had been converted into a bookshop, possessed an air of charming dilapidation.
“So I take it you hang out there pretty often,” he said.
“I do.” Dusting crumbs from her hands, Nora added, “Miracle Books is my store.”
Hearing this, the man pivoted to face her.
The sudden movement startled the doves and they took off in a burst of alarmed coos and whooshing wings.
“An African American woman working at the thermal pools told me about the resident bibliotherapist. Was she talking about you?”
Nora saw the need in the man’s eyes. She’d seen it hundreds of times. But only from those who dared to look directly at her. “This woman said that the bibliotherapist was able to help people solve their problems by recommending certain titles.” The man gestured at Miracle Books. “It makes sense that you’d own a bookstore.”
“I have no official training,” Nora said, uttering her standard disclaimer. “Before I came to Miracle Springs, I was a librarian. I haven’t taken a single course in psychology. I’ve never done any formal counseling.”
The man frowned in confusion. “This woman said that people seek you out when the rest of the services in town failed to make them feel better. But I don’t get it. How can you succeed where all of the professionals—and the healing waters—can’t?”
Nora shrugged. “There’s no guarantee my method will work either. I read all the time. And I listen to people. I really listen.” She held the man’s dubious gaze. “Stories don’t change much across continents and centuries. Hearts are broken. Pride is wounded. Souls wander too far from home and become lost. The wrong roads are taken. The incorrect choice is made. Stories echo with loneliness. Grief. Longing. Redemption. Forgiveness. Hope. And love.” Now it was her turn to point at the bookstore. “That building is stuffed with books that, once opened, reveal our communal story. And, if you’re lucky, the words in those books will force you to grapple with the hardest truths of your life. After reducing you to a puddle of tears, they’ll raise you to your feet again. The words will pull you up, higher and higher, until you feel the sun on your face again. Until you’re suddenly humming on the way to the mailbox. Or you’re buying bouquets of gerbera daisies because you crave bright colors. And you’ll laugh again—as freely as champagne bubbling in a flute. When’s the last time you laughed like that?”
The man’s mouth twisted. He was trying to hold his emotion in check—to keep his pain from overtaking him. His hands gripped his knees so hard that his knuckles had gone white. He looked away from Nora, and she thought he might get up and leave. Instead, he asked, “How does it work? This bibliotherapy.”
“Go to the Gingerbread House and buy a comfort scone,” Nora said. “Tell Hester you’re coming to see me and she’ll put your scone in a takeout box. I have coffee, but the fanciest thing I make with my espresso machine is a latte, so if you’re used to soy no-foam mochaccinos, you’re going to be disappointed.”
“I confess to making decisions that have complicated my life and compromised my principles,” the man said. “But I’ve never taken my coffee any way but black.”
“Then we’re off to a good start.” Nora got to her feet. “While you’re eating, you can tell me what brought you to Miracle Springs.” She held up her hands. “This won’t be like a traditional counseling session where we sit and you talk for a long period of time. You won’t need to go into detail with me. I only need a broad brushstroke—a brief glimpse into the heart of your pain. That way, I can select the right books. After that, you can begin reading your way to a fresh start this evening.”
The man grunted, infusing his exhalation with a feeling of dismissal. “I’m not much of a reader.”
“Ah.” Nora moved away a few steps and then stopped and spun on her heel. “You came to Miracle Springs to make changes, didn’t you? Becoming a reader is a change for the better. Trust me. No one has ever lost by becoming addicted to stories—to the lessons learned by those who possess enough courage to put pen to paper.”
“You’ve got a point.” Another dismissive grunt. “What’s the worst that could happen from my opening the cover of a book?”
For the first time since they’d begun speaking, Nora smiled. And because she was showing the man the unblemished side of her face, she saw that he was utterly transfixed.
“You have no idea,” Nora said. Her smile wavered before completely vanishing. “Stories are just like people. If you don’t approach them with an open mind and a healthy dose of respect, they won’t reveal their hidden selves to you. In that event, you’ll miss out on what they have to offer. You’ll walk through life an empty husk instead of a vibrant kaleidoscope of passion, wisdom, and experience.”
The man studied her for a long moment. “I don’t want to be empty anymore. I came to Miracle Springs days ahead of my partners to figure out how to fix things before it happens all over again. Nothing’s worked. My partners arrive on the three o’clock train, so I have nothing to lose by giving your method a shot.” He grinned. “At the very least, I’ll have a scone for my efforts. Where is this celebrated Gingerbread House?”
Nora gave him directions and then continued on to Miracle Books. She had things to take care of before the man returned for his session. The trolley from the lodge would be arriving soon, and trolley-loads of rich and restless souls paid Nora’s bills.
Nora Pennington loved selling books. She loved talking to people about books. But what she wanted most was to heal people using books.
Four years ago, when Nora had been a patient in a hospital burn unit, she’d prayed for death. Not only were her prayers unanswered, but she was also given first-rate medical care and the perfect prescription of stories, courtesy of an Icelandic nurse with silver hair.
First, the nurse brought Nora books about physically deformed men who were capable of great genius, devout love, acts of madness, or all of the above. And while Nora refused to watch television or receive visitors, she grudgingly reread Frankenstein.
Next, she was given The Phantom of the Opera, followed by the Christine Sparks version of The Elephant Man.
“Are you trying to depress me? Because I don’t think I need any help in that department,” Nora had grumbled to the nurse. She’d been angry. She was always angry. And when she wasn’t angry, she was depressed. She felt no other emotions.
In response, the nurse had laid a copy of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame on her bed.
“Guess I’m ready for Dracula or Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” Nora had told her caregiver after she’d finished the Victor Hugo classic.
“You’
re heading in another direction,” the nurse had cheerfully informed her, placing John Green’s Looking for Alaska, Karen Kingsbury’s Waiting for Morning, and Kristin Hannah’s Night Road on Nora’s nightstand.
Because of the narcotics, Nora hadn’t immediately realized that the theme of this current set of novels was drunk driving, so she read on. As she’d turned the pages, her emotional pain became as intense as her physical pain.
“Why are you doing this?” she’d whispered to the nurse one night. “You heard about my accident. I thought you were kind.”
“You have to sink to the very bottom, my child,” the woman had whispered in her lullaby voice. “After that, you can push off with both feet and start swimming toward the surface. You’re strong. You can get there. But it’s going to hurt. You have to clean out the wound before it can heal. Let the stories be your antiseptic. Bear the pain now for a chance at a better tomorrow. Otherwise, you’ll repeat the mistakes that landed you in this bed.”
Nora had read every title. When she was done, the nurse had brought her a book called The Burn Journals by Brent Runyon. “It’s about a boy who set himself on fire when he was fourteen,” she told Nora. “I know you didn’t burn yourself on purpose, but I thought you’d like to read about his recovery process. He might even make you laugh.”
I doubt it, Nora had thought. She’d done a terrible, terrible thing. There would be no laughter in her life. Never again.
But she’d read the book. And the next one. And the next.
The night before she was to be discharged from the hospital, Nora had asked for more books.
“You’re a librarian,” the nurse had replied with a smile. “You know where to find them.”
Nora had dropped her eyes. “I’m not going back. I need to start over—in another place.”
The nurse had sat on the edge of Nora’s bed and taken her good hand in hers. “What would this place look like? The place where you’d begin a new life?”
“It would have lots and lots of books,” Nora had said. “I can’t live without them.” Gazing at the lights and omnipresent haze of the urban sprawl outside her window, she went on: “It would be in the country. Somewhere remote and lovely. A place where people still grow vegetable gardens and build purple-martin houses. Where they have quirky holiday parades and bake sales. A place where people look for the pets on posters stapled to telephone polls. A little town. Not so little that everyone will pry into my business, but small enough that the locals will eventually get used to my appearance. Eventually, they’ll stop whispering.”
“And what will you do for money in this paradise?” the nurse had asked.
At this question, Nora had gone clammy with fear. She’d been so caught up in her fantasy that she hadn’t considered the practicalities. During her lengthy convalescence, she’d ignored visitors, phone calls, and letters. But as of tomorrow, she couldn’t hide from the outside world anymore.
Her burn scars had begun to throb, which was good, because the pain kept her grounded. She wanted to feel pain. She deserved it, so she embraced it.
“I’ll open a bookstore,” she’d said calmly. “I have some savings, and if I find a town that needs a bookstore—”
“Doesn’t every town?” the nurse had interjected, her glacier-blue eyes twinkling with humor.
Nora had smiled. Smiling hurt the burn wound on her right cheek, but she owed this woman a smile, at the very least. “If it wants a soul, then yes. Every town needs a bookstore.”
* * *
Nora pushed open the door to Miracle Books to the jingle-jangle of sleigh bells. They weren’t a light, melodious tinkle, but a loud clanging that erupted from a leather horse harness covered in baseball-sized brass bells. Nora had bought the harness at the flea market and hung it from a nail on the back of the door. This way, she knew when a customer entered the shop, even if she was at the other end of the labyrinth of bookshelves she’d created to funnel people from the front toward the ticket-agent’s office.
Everything in the store—from the fainting couch to the leather sofa to the assortment of upholstered chairs in various stages of degeneration—came from yard sales and flea markets. Occasionally, Nora made purchases from the local auction company, but these treasures were reserved for her home: a four-room, tiny house that had once been a functioning railroad car. The locals referred to her diminutive abode as Caboose Cottage because her refurbished train car was a cheerful apple-red.
After flipping the SHUT sign over to read OPEN, Nora continued walking deeper into the shop. She needed to brew coffee. The trolley would be pulling into the public parking area any moment now.
Nora entered the small office where train tickets were once sold to Miracle Springs travelers. In order to convert the office into a basic coffee dispensary, Nora had removed the ticket window’s glass divide and hung a chalkboard next to the opening. The chalkboard listed the literary names of the beverages Miracle Books offered:
The Ernest Hemingway—Dark Roast
The Louisa May Alcott—Light Roast
The Dante Alighieri—Decaf
The Wilkie Collins—Cappuccino
The Jack London—Latte
The Agatha ChrisTEA—Earl Grey
From time to time, customers would suggest a new and complicated espresso recipe along with a suitable author name to match.
Nora, who’d learned to treat people’s feelings with care since her life had taken such a dramatic turn on a dark highway four years ago, would smile and praise the person for their creativity. She would then confess that her secondhand espresso maker could barely handle steaming milk, but if she ever had the chance to upgrade, she’d keep their drink idea in mind.
At this point, the enthusiastic customer would glance around the shop and notice, possibly for the first time, the piece of duct tape on the split chair cushion or that the reading lamp was burning one bulb instead of three. Seeing as they’d come to Miracle Springs in search of healing—from a physical or emotional injury, it wasn’t always easy to tell—Nora’s customers were usually empathetic people. Therefore, they’d drop the subject, order a coffee from the menu, and spend more money than they’d originally planned.
Nora made the latter especially easy to do by filling the store with impulse buys. Not only did she stock new and gently used books, but also signed books, collectible books, bookmarks, bookplates, and “shelf enhancers” as well.
Shelf enhancers were what Nora had dubbed the bookends, figurines, framed prints, paperweights, clay pots, birdcages, portrait plates, decoys, folk art, miniature needlework plaques, tea caddies, inkwells, apothecary jars, Depression-glass vases, tin signs, stone busts, vintage trophies, brass scales, old game boards, and so on, which she strategically placed on every shelf.
Nora purchased every item at its rock-bottom price. She hit the yard-sale scene on certain Saturday mornings, and on Sundays she combed the flea markets, examining any item captivating her interest with extreme care. The local vendors had come to respect her discriminating eye and shrewd bartering skills. They also knew that she resold their wares at a profit, but the profit margin was small and they didn’t begrudge her a living.
“What else is a woman like that going to do?” some of the less charitable sellers would whisper, seeing themselves as magnanimous for giving Nora extra discounts here and there.
Of course, Nora knew exactly which vendors felt this way and didn’t hesitate to accept said discounts. All she had was Miracle Books, and she’d do anything to keep her store afloat.
Almost anything, Nora thought, scooping coffee grounds into a paper filter. She hadn’t been very open to suggestions from local readers, most of whom were women looking to start a book club and use Miracle Books as their meeting place. Nora was fine with that aspect, but she’d stoutly declined when asked to serve as the book-club facilitator.
“I can’t” was all Nora had told Mrs. Cassidy at the time. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the idea of discussing a work of women’s f
iction as plates of homemade desserts were passed around, but Nora never put herself in the center of a crowd. She only felt truly comfortable inside the ticket booth, with a thick, wooden counter separating herself from other people. To sit in a circle facing a group of women—no, they would start asking her questions. They’d want to get to know her, and Nora couldn’t allow that to happen.
She’d come to Miracle Springs to forget.
The sleigh bells jingled and jangled from the front of the store and Nora glanced at her watch again. It was still too early for the trolley, and there was no chance the man from the bench had made it to the Gingerbread House, had a customized comfort scone prepared and packaged for him, and was now ready for his bibliotherapy session. That meant the newcomer was a customer, and Nora would let him or her wander in peace. She never approached browsers unless they gave off an air of needing help, and Nora had become adept at reading people’s vibes.
Back when she was a librarian, she didn’t pay much attention to vibes. Once, a patron requested a book on color auras. The title was long out of print and could only be acquired by interlibrary loan. As Nora was filling out the form, the patron informed her that she had a dark red aura.
“You’re practical, hardworking, loyal, and honest,” she’d said. “You’re also a survivor. You’ve had, or will have to face, a serious trauma.”
Nora, who’d foolishly believed herself to be content, dismissed the woman’s reading as the ramblings of a New Age hobbyist.
The trauma was coming, however. It was rushing toward Nora like a runaway train. And she stood directly in its path—too busy with work and other obligations to realize that she was about to be mowed down.
Do auras change? Nora wondered, as she pressed the brew button on the coffeemaker. They should. Because people change. For better and for worse.
In the distance, she heard the whistle of the afternoon train. Nora never tired of its long, heartrending note. What other sound could convey both the romance of returning home and the ache of leave-taking? The next whistle, which would blow in approximately five minutes, meant that the train was just about to enter the narrow, dark tunnel preceding the Miracle Springs station.
