by Bird, Peggy
Sadie Rose Perkins stared at the rain twisting down the plate-glass front window of the bookstore and sighed. It had been raining for three days straight, monotonous and gray and dreary, and neither the forecast nor the sky gave any indication that it was going to let up soon. Springtime in Cedar Valley, Ohio. She’d only had three customers today and it was already after lunch.
She propped her chin in her hand and forced herself to set the glossy travel brochure aside, all blue skies and smiling families. Apparently it never rained in the Greek Isles. If it did, it would be Mediterranean rain, and that had to be better than Midwestern rain. Or at least different.
She put the Webster’s unabridged dictionary on top of the brochure to forestall temptation and got back to work, turning to the book catalog from Caterina’s Closet that Bob (the mailman) had delivered yesterday. Caterina’s Closet sold only very sexy romances and at first, Sadie hadn’t been sure about ordering any. But she was a businessperson, and businesspersons had to look after the bottom line, so she’d bought just a few and put them discreetly behind the counter, hoping she wouldn’t end up being an agenda item at the next city council meeting. Willing to endure the storm if it came to that, she’d written a coy little note on purple paper and pasted it on a shelf in the romance section — and had been astonished to find that reading very sexy romances was the favorite pastime of the ladies and gentlemen who lived in the retirement home on the edge of town.
Now she brought each month’s order to the retirement home library herself and they’d be lined up five and six deep, waiting for her arrival on the appointed day. They enjoyed their fantasy lives every bit as much as Sadie did hers, though by comparison her dreams of adventure beyond the confines of this small town were modest and retiring.
While she had a special affection for the seniors, she liked all of her customers, even the nose-in-the-air ones from the university who furtively bought hard-boiled mysteries and hid them under the artistic book covers Aunt Gertrude quilted for her to sell at the shop. Pages: A Bookstore, as the sign out front said. (Gran had named it Pages, and Gramps had added the qualifier, so as to prevent confusion.) Sadie squinted out the window. You could hardly see the sign in this rain. But everyone in town already knew where the bookstore was. Not that she expected anyone else would be coming in today, not with the rain coming down like that.
She picked up her pen and turned back to the Caterina’s Closet catalog, making a tick against the title of a pirate romance. She would never be the haughty princess abducted by the swashbuckling pirate — she’d learned all about reality when she was a kid — but it was fun to imagine. She might not be the haughty princess, but she was going to be ready for her adventure when it came. She was sure it would, just as she was sure she would find The One, the missteps she’d had with the Allens and Marcuses of the world notwithstanding. They’d just been part of getting ready.
She turned a page of the catalog. Today may be the day he walks in the door. He would know it and she would know it and they would walk hand-in-hand into the future together. Maybe they would have an adventure first. If she was going to dream, she might as well dream about having it all. You never know. Wasn’t that what Gran had always said, smiling and patting her hand? You never know.
The bell above the shop door jangled and Sadie looked up, her breath catching. But it was only Bob, with the mail, dripping on the mat by the door as she came around to collect the envelopes.
• • •
Jordan Blaise shot his arm out and glanced at his watch. The university chancellor had gone on and on … a breakfast meeting that had lasted until lunchtime. These academic types had no idea how much the wasted time cost. After all of the mind-numbing and self-congratulatory talk, the chancellor had decided he couldn’t agree to certain terms that Jordan had believed final — leaving him back where he had started a month ago, only more frustrated.
And now this. He listened on his smartphone as Paula, his girlfriend, told him bitterly and in no uncertain terms that if his work was that important to him, he could just marry it.
“I told you I had to be out of town,” he began, but she was in no mood to hear it.
“I don’t care if you told me,” she said. “That’s not the point. I care that you’re never here. And if you’re never here, then why are we even dating?”
“I’m sorry,” he said but obviously not apologetically enough because she slammed the phone down in his ear. He sighed and pushed the off button. He was convinced the only reason she maintained a landline instead of relying solely on her iPhone was so she could slam the phone down in his ear.
Possibly he was becoming cynical, a character failing his mother gently chided him for from time to time. Well, if anyone had paid a price for cynicism, it was she. She should have held out for a hero.
He put the phone away and leaned his head against the leather headrest as Peter steered the town car through the rain. A headache was threatening, the result of listening to Paula’s high-pitched lecture immediately on the heels of having refrained from saying what he was thinking to the chancellor — a restraint he had been required to exercise for hours on end. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if his self-restraint failed. But so far it never had.
Paula would come around — she always did — but in the meantime there would be drama, and if he didn’t want to go through the trouble of finding a new girlfriend, or the annoyance of spending the next few months experiencing celibacy, and he was pretty sure he didn’t, he’d have to play his part in the production of reconciliation. But not just now. Later, he would figure out which combination of cajolery and gifts would win him back into her good graces.
Before he had a chance to take a calm, relaxing breath — his administrative assistant had once encouraged him to take up yoga, and he’d gone twice a week for an entire six-week session, so he knew the importance of breathing — Peter spoke up, glancing in the rearview mirror to catch Jordan’s eye even though Jordan had stressed on many occasions that a driver should keep his attention on the road. And his nose out of Jordan’s business. “Today’s your mother’s birthday.”
Jordan sat up, swearing softly. He’d forgotten it in the flurry of activity that had occupied the last few days. He could have stayed in Manhattan and wished her a happy birthday in person for all the good this trip had done. Of course, appearing in person would mean having to deal with his stepfather, not something he ever looked forward to.
He turned his phone back on, and, rubbing his throbbing temple with his free hand, punched in the number he knew best and had the most mixed feelings about. As usual, it was answered on the first ring. Phones did not go unattended at that house.
“Matthews residence.”
“Daniel?” That was Randall’s aide, a man who treated employment with Randall as if it were the same as being in the service of royalty. Rubbing shoulders with power, wealth, status or at least celebrity. Perhaps it was the same as being in the service of royalty. It almost certainly paid better.
Randall never answered his own phone, not even his personal cell phone. Not that Jordan ever called him on his personal cell phone. He just happened to know it was true. “It’s Jordan. May I speak with my mother?”
“Oh, sir, I left a message with your office.”
Daniel’s shocked voice made it all too clear that the message wasn’t good. Jordan’s lurking headache roared to full strength. The part of him that didn’t want to know made him reluctant to ask but he did it anyway. “What message?”
“Your mother, sir. She’s back in the hospital.”
The world shifted and Jordan gripped the phone tighter. “Dammit.” He’d believed she was getting better. She’d seemed frail but recovering the last time he’d seen her, and he hadn’t expected this news. Had she known it was possible and just hadn’t warned him? She sometimes thought she was protecting him by not telling him everything, and he often wondered what she thought she was protecting him from, and why she thought she needed t
o. He wasn’t the small boy he’d once been, lost and bewildered after his father’s unexpected death, but she didn’t seem to realize that. He wouldn’t have gone on this timewasting trip if he’d guessed she might end up back in the hospital. The university chancellor would always be there, one way or another. His mother wouldn’t.
The vise of tension, not satisfied with giving him a headache, now gripped his shoulders, working its way down his spine. Why hadn’t the message been conveyed to him before now? He tamped down his impatience — whoever had failed, it wasn’t Daniel, so there was no point in taking his frustrations out on the one person who’d tried to do the right thing. Jordan had no problem assigning blame, but he tried to do it fairly. He said, still not sure he wanted to know the answer, “What happened? Is she very bad?” If only it could be something like a broken leg, unfortunate but not insupportable —
“I don’t know all of the details, sir.” Daniel hesitated. “I believe she’s very ill.”
Jordan closed his eyes briefly. “Thank you,” he said tightly, and hung up. Peter didn’t, thankfully, ask any questions and kept his attention carefully on the road. For once.
Jordan’s elegant, worn-out mother deserved so much better than anything puffed-up Randall Matthews could give her. Love and laughter and joy — that was what she should have, should always have had. When he was small, after his father had died, he’d hugged her fiercely and promised he would take care of her. She’d laughed and hugged him back and said she would take care of him first. That had resulted in Randall.
Jordan stared out the car window, not taking in anything, the slashing rain a perfect match for his mood. I just want to see you happy, she’d told him last year, when the cancer was first diagnosed. Then, smiling mischievously, and I wouldn’t mind seeing my grandchildren.
If only he could convince his mother that he was happy and that he was working on the grandbabies. It might help her fight one more battle … and if not, at least she could go peacefully, thinking he had found what she wanted for him.
If only —
As much as he might wish to give her that gift for her birthday, he wasn’t going to be able to do it. Especially considering Paula’s most recent explosion. Still, he’d have to figure out something special to give to his mother. Something that would remind her that despite everything (such as Randall), he treasured their relationship.
A memory flitted through his mind, of her leaning near, her Chanel No. 5 a vague scent on the air around him, reading to him from a book of poems. He would have been very young then because she hadn’t tried to share poetry with him in more years than he could count. He wished he could have found it in him to like the poetry, or at least pretend he did. But he’d been too young then.
If he couldn’t bring her the promise of grandchildren, he could at least bring her some poetry.
The name of a shop flashed by, hard to read in the pouring rain but clear enough for him to guess what it was, and he leaned forward and said urgently, “Stop the car, Peter. We just passed a bookstore. I want to go in.”
Chapter Two
He shouldered into the bookstore, a tall dark man with a face like a hawk, followed by a big, beefy companion who was trying to hold a black umbrella over their heads. Both men were damp enough to convince Sadie that neither had gotten much use from it. Her glance strayed to the picture of the pirate on the book cover in the Caterina’s Closet catalog resting open on her counter. She’d never actually expected to see a pirate in real life. He’d brought the ship’s first mate, too. What was missing was the parrot and the barrel of rum, but she wasn’t going to quibble over that.
The tall one was the most attractive man she’d seen in months, since Katie, who helped out in the shop on evenings and weekends, had found herself a Navy SEAL on leave. Seeing the pirate in the flesh now, all sharp planes and male prowling energy, Sadie wished she hadn’t spent the morning with the Catherine’s Closet catalog, because she was getting ideas.
She straightened and self-consciously smoothed her denim skirt over her hips. She wasn’t quite sure what he was, although she had a pretty good idea what he was not: certainly not a professor or a student. The suit suggested he wasn’t one of the local farmers, nor a contractor who kept the university buildings under repair and the farmers’ equipment working. A businessman, probably, but the businessmen she met always seemed a little nervous, a little worried about closing the deal. In consequence, they laughed too hard and not always in the right places. He clearly wasn’t an artist or a writer. Or if he was, he was wearing camouflage.
He dripped rainwater on the hardwood floor and not on the mat she’d set out for just that purpose and she didn’t even care. Proof that Aunt Gertrude was right and there were men in the world who could make you forget your upbringing.
He glanced around the shop as if trying to get his bearings. She could tell he didn’t often find himself unsure of what to do next. Sadie always knew what to do next, too, but that was a result of the rut she’d gotten into and not a testament to her self-confidence. Not from around here, she thought, and then, not accustomed to bookstores, either. Maybe he sent his first mate when he needed something to read. Or possibly he downloaded them to an ereader. Just because he didn’t look like someone who whiled away rainy afternoons with Shakespeare or Robert Parker didn’t mean he wasn’t.
The first mate folded up the umbrella and set it in the stand by the door. He was dripping on the mat, not the hardwood. She and the first mate were going to get along just fine. The tall pirate captain? That remained to be seen.
She set aside the Catherine’s Closet catalog. Though she could easily imagine this man among the rigging and beams or whatever you called it — her grasp of sailing terminology was not too firm — scowling at the churning sea, unfortunately pirates and even privateers had gone out of fashion a while back, which meant that he hadn’t come to spirit her off on an adventure. She cleared her throat. “May I help you?”
The tall man turned dark assessing eyes in her direction, but she’d already figured out she was going to be susceptible, so she was ready for him. Her heart gave only one unsteady lurch before resuming its usual rhythm.
“I need a book of poetry.”
That sure narrowed it down. Sadie refrained from saying so. She knew better than to start making remarks to someone who obviously had a platinum card in his wallet and no compunction about using it in her bookstore.
She came around the counter, returning his assessing glance — she wouldn’t have pegged him as a poetry reader — and said, “The poetry section is this way.” She led him to a cozy nook furnished with a comfortable armchair upholstered in faded purple velveteen, a shaded reading lamp on a small table next to it.
“Would you like to browse or did you have a particular poet in mind?” she asked. She thought she would probably have to explain about alphabetical order by author’s last name, but he might surprise her.
“I don’t have much time,” he said, which meant he didn’t know what poet he was looking for, didn’t intend to browse, and expected her to figure it out for him. Which was fine, because what she liked best about the business was matching books up with people. The right book for the right person, Gran had always said, and if other people were born with more significant gifts, Sadie had never felt shortchanged.
“The book is for?” she asked delicately, since she had already guessed he was not possessed of a poetic spirit, but didn’t like to make assumptions (even though she already had).
“It’s for a gift.”
You’d think he was the spy who came in from the cold, given his unwillingness to yield any useful information, instead of just an out-of-town businessman who’d forgotten to pick up a gift. How did he expect her to use the knowledge against him? What kind of blackmail scheme was she likely to concoct from the fact that he wanted to buy a book of poetry for a gift?
“Who is the gift for?” she asked, resigned to pulling every detail out of him. Some people seemed t
o think it was akin to torture, shopping in a bookstore. But that was why she always tried to be helpful and friendly, not intimidating. If a person had a pleasant experience once, he might be inclined to try it again. Some people had just never learned the adventures to be had with the right book, and Sadie firmly believed it was never too late to find out.
Finding the right book for the right person was harder when the book was for a gift — matchmaking one step removed wasn’t always successful. People could think they knew something about the person they were buying for, but they were surprisingly wrong a lot of the time. Still, Sadie didn’t let that daunt her. She was very good at what she did.
If pressed, she would venture the book was for a polished blonde girlfriend, manicured to within an inch of her life. Sadie herself was blonde but “polished” and “manicured” didn’t exactly describe her. She could hear Aunt Gertrude hooting with laughter at the very thought. Not that Aunt Gertrude was mean-spirited. Just that she was realistic.
The pirate turned his dark eyes on Sadie again. This time she wasn’t quite ready and her heart skittered for a minute, reminding her that it (or actually her libido) still existed. She had to concentrate before she remembered to breathe.
“The book is for my mother.”
She raised a brow and slanted him a glance. She tried to envision it. Did pirates have mothers upon whom they doted? Unlikely. He’d probably sprung fully formed from the stones of the earth. It was impossible to imagine he was ever a little boy, or that he had skinned a knee falling off a bike or had a first love who broke his heart and left him standing in the rain.
But even as she thought I can’t imagine she could, which was both the blessing and the curse of her gift. She could imagine a very serious little boy with big black eyes and a solemn expression and a vague, somewhat remote mother …
“Edna St. Vincent Millay,” she said, and reached for the book she knew was on the shelf. Her fingers went unerringly to the hard cover — he could afford it — and she pulled it from the shelf and handed it to him with a slight smile. The right book for the right person. She’d been able to do it ever since she was a kid helping out at the shop. A lot had changed in the years since, but that never had.
