by Laura Briggs
“Think you can stand to look through a few more books this week?” he asked, as they strolled towards the parking area. “Because, there’s a secondhand shop in the old part of Delaford—not a lot of selection, but worth a try.”
“Anything to help,” she said, with a smile. “When can we meet?”
Mentally, he checked his schedule, which included advisor meetings with students and a Christmas faculty luncheon. “How does noon on Wednesday sound?” he asked, remembering he would be downtown, anyway, to revisit the art gallery.
“Fine,” she said, wrapping her fringed scarf around her shoulder. “I better go, now. My…volunteer work starts in a couple hours.”
“See you next week, then. And I’ll call if something turns up before then.” His heart hoped it wouldn’t even as he spoke.
Back in Delaford, he stopped at the local newspaper office. “I’d like to place an ad in the Lost and Found section,” he told the clerk at the front desk, ignoring her raised brows as he gave a basic description of the book. Not that he blamed her—most people reported a pet or maybe a piece of jewelry, but an Austen novel was bound to draw a few stares.
His heart skipped a beat at the thought of receiving a reply from the mysterious Jane Austen figure who crossed his path in the fog.
Driving past the town square, he couldn’t help but glance in the direction of the park, half-wishing a figure in historical attire would be strolling along its path. But of course, there was nothing.
A glint of neon light from the Starry Night Bistro’s sign drew his gaze to the other side of the street. He almost stopped, before remembering that Julia wouldn’t be working that night. She had a volunteer event instead—he had forgotten to ask where, probably an art event of some kind.
And it wasn’t as if he was in a position to pry into her life—especially after letting slip that strange story about “seeing” Jane Austen. What sensible girl would want to spend time with a guy who hallucinated about literary characters?
He smacked the steering wheel at the memory of that awkward moment at the book sale. What made him think she could understand something like that? That was the kind of thing you only told family members and close friends. After a story like that one, there was little chance that Julia would want to be anything more than a distant acquaintance.
****
Julia sat by the crackling fire, the book on her lap half-open with her finger marking its page. Despite its fast-paced plot, her mind kept straying from the spunky heroine’s adventures, as instead, it replayed bits and pieces from her day out with Eliot.
Usually, she strolled around the room, pretending that “Jane” was amusing herself by reading a copy of her latest book, providing commentary in between chapters. But today, she found herself quiet by comparison, more willing to offer a smile and friendly greeting to the visitors who passed by on the other side of the velvet ropes, as if Jane Austen was half-dozing before the fire’s warmth.
Her fingers touched her hand, recalling the memory of accidentally brushing Eliot’s in the pile of books. Her cheeks burned, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in a dreamy smile. Silly, she told herself, smoothing her skirt. Letting herself get carried away by a crush on a man she barely knew—what was she thinking?
By noon on Wednesday, she was alternating between dread and anticipation. Nervous one moment, she chided herself for being too excited the next.
“Don’t look now,” Harriet whispered, “but I think Prince Charming just walked in.”
Turning around, she saw Eliot waiting at the counter. Dressed in faded jeans and a dark blue jersey, his brown hair was brushed casually across his forehead. For once, her friend wasn’t exaggerating—he looked like a hero fresh from the cover of paperback romance.
“Hey.” She flashed a shy smile, wiping her hands on her uniform apron.
“I brought us lunch,” he said, holding up two brown paper sacks. “Grilled chicken sandwiches from Darcy’s Delicatessen. I thought we could eat them in between book hunting.”
“It smells great,” she said. “Just let me clock out and grab my backpack.” Julia avoided her co-worker’s teasing smile as she ducked into the break room.
Outside, Eliot unlocked the passenger door to his car, holding it open in a chivalrous gesture that seemed like second nature rather than a last-minute thought. Slipping into the driver’s seat, he turned the ignition key, bringing the engine to life, as well as the sound of the local sports talk station, a choice that made Julia’s eyebrows shoot up.
He grinned at her surprise. “I know a book historian sounds kind of nerdy, but believe it or not, I did play on the high school basketball team.”
“Oh, I believe it. You have the build,” she said, regretting the words the moment they escaped her mouth. “I didn’t mean—well…”
He cut her off with a shake of the head. “I never let people take compliments back. Anyway, how about switching to something more festive?” He reached down and flicked the dial, finally stopping on a choral version of the “Carol of the Bells.” “So tell me—what are you doing for Christmas? Besides scouring the city for hard-to-find novels, that is.”
“The usual stuff,” she said, fidgeting with her seatbelt. “Attend a big family dinner, where I argue about why I’m still single. We open presents, I brush off a few jokes about my career, then pass out from eating too much chocolate and candy.”
He grinned. “No kidding? I have almost exactly the same plans. Except my extended family usually meets closer to New Year’s.”
“Of course, before all that, comes the church Christmas program,” she said, spotting the steeple of Delaford’s historic church as it peeked above the other street buildings. “We do a community caroling every December, along with the usual potluck dinner.”
“You go to Delaford Chapel?” he asked.
She nodded. “For the last two years. Ever since I moved here, actually.”
“I’ve gone there since I was born.” He flicked the turn signal as the car approached a stop sign. “My mom taught the Sunday school class when I was a kid, so of course, I knew my Bible verses better than any kid there.”
“How come I’ve never seen you there?” She knew the chapel’s congregation was large, but surely, they would’ve crossed paths at some point. Somehow, she felt sure she would remember seeing him.
“I’m only at the evening service,” he explained. “Sunday mornings I meet with some fellow teachers and students for a Bible Study group. We visit the congregation’s homebound members, as well as the ones at the hospital, and the local nursing home.”
“That sounds nice,” she answered, warmth surging through her over the mental picture his words painted.
At least you share the same faith, a voice whispered inside her. That and a strange appreciation for past traditions others had largely forgotten. To her, however, that wasn’t reason enough to indulge in flirtatious feelings, given their different worlds.
“First stop, Collins’s Collectables,” Eliot said, as they pulled into a narrow side street. “The most disorganized secondhand book shop in the state of Massachusetts. Also, the darkest and mustiest.”
She decided he wasn’t kidding as they approached the hole-in-the-wall shop, with its grimy windows and peeling sign. Pushing through the entrance doors, they were greeted by a chilly, dim atmosphere and empty front desk. Faint thumping sounds implied the owner was working somewhere among the rows of dusty volumes.
Eliot gave her arm a gentle nudge. “Spooky, huh?”
“A little.” She peered down the long, dimly lit aisle. “Guess it’s appropriate for the gothic novel section, though.”
“Maybe I’ll check out the nineteenth century romances while you do these.” He started to walk away, then turned and shot her a mock serious look. “Unless, of course, you don’t feel safe on your own.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thanks, but I think I can handle a few shadows. Being a grownup and all that.”
But her confi
dence shrank a few minutes after he turned the corner. Her gaze swept across tattered old copies of books with titles like Mysterious Warnings and Midnight Bell. She shivered as scuffling sounds echoed from one of the nearby aisles.
Don’t be childish. It’s just a bunch of old books.
Spotting a boxed set in a crushed morocco color, she reached to pull it out, then squealed as it moved aside to reveal a pair of dark green eyes.
“Did I mention this place can be a little scary?” Eliot grinned at her through the empty shelf space.
She closed her eyes as her heart slowed to its normal rhythm, then raised her chin and flashed him her best ominous expression. “Don’t move from that spot.” Her words made him vanish in a hurry, as she raced after him, laughing in spite of herself.
****
Eliot parked the car in front of the Starry Night Bistro and switched off the ignition. Glancing at Julia, he offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry it was another dead end.”
It had been a long hour of pawing through boxes and shelves of musty books, with no results. Except for a first edition of Huckleberry Finn, no rare and wonderful copies emerged.
“It’s not your fault,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt. “Finding the book was a long shot to begin with. At least this way I can say I tried.”
Her defeated expression stirred his protective instincts. He wanted to press a comforting hand against hers, curious to feel the same touch as before, at the book market, but for a moment longer this time.
He was fairly certain that such a move would widen the space between them instead of closing it, so he settled for encouraging words. “This is just a temporary setback,” he reminded her. “I still have a few calls to place. One of my friends in Boston is a dealer, so he might know where to make some inquiries.”
She shook her head. “Thanks, but I can’t ask you to waste any more time on this. The Christmas season is busy enough without conducting a full-fledged search for someone else’s wish list.” With a sigh, she nodded towards the cafe. “I should probably go clock in and start my shift.”
“Wait.” He touched her arm, his heart jumping as their skin made contact. “Even if we can’t meet the deadline, we’ll find it, eventually. So don’t expect me to give up, because I’m going to track it down if it takes ‘til next Christmas. Got it?”
A rosy flush spread across her cheeks, whether from the intensity of his voice or the touch of his hand, he couldn’t tell. But she didn’t pull away. The spark in her hazel eyes flashed a beacon of gratitude.
“OK,” she said. “Promise you won’t let it interfere with your other work, though. Like delivering that lecture I read about in the paper.”
“Would you like to come to that?” he asked, blurting out the stupid question without thinking, then picturing the bored expression on her face as she slumped in an auditorium seat for two hours, like other female acquaintances he’d invited over the years.
Julia hesitated, a funny smile appearing on her lips after a moment. “I’d like that—the chance to see a book historian in action.” In a teasing voice, she added, “Do they hand out rotten tomatoes or should I bring my own?”
“Bring your own. It’ll help keep the rest of the audience awake.”
She laughed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her expression growing reluctant as she turned in the direction of the crowded bistro. “I’m about to be late, so…”
“Right,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”
His gaze followed her to the door, where she turned and gave him a parting wave. Whistling, he pulled out of the parking lot and turned in the direction of Crawford’s Art Gallery, where he’d agreed to meet Bella to continue the search for the mystery Regency woman.
He wondered which would excite her more, the possibility of finding the girl in the park, or the details behind his afternoon book shopping with the intriguing artist.
Bella was waiting on a bench outside the shop, her hands stuffed deep in her pea coat pockets. As soon as she spotted his car, she sprang up and perched on the edge of the curb, arms crossed as if preparing to lecture him. Already, he could see the excited flush in her cheeks.
“You’re late,” she said, as soon as he opened the car door. “And I think I know who to blame for it.” A sense of glee danced in her eyes, reminding him of her previous ribbing over his meeting an actual flesh-and-blood female.
He rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t Julia’s fault. I just lost track of time, as usual.”
“Oh, so you’re on a first-name basis now.” Bella gave his arm a meaningful squeeze as he linked it with her own. “Sounds like it’s already more serious than your other relationships. The ones that lasted three whole dates, I mean.”
“Hey, show a little compassion. We’ll see how you handle it a few years from now when every boy you know is treated as a potential matrimony candidate by Mom and Dad.” He ruffled her hair with his free hand as they passed beneath the art gallery’s sign.
The shop’s interior was crowded with Christmas shoppers, many of them waiting to have their purchases gift wrapped at the front desk. Eliot steered Bella down a series of aisles, dodging customers who stepped back to examine pictures from different angles, from watercolor seascapes to Dali-esque nightmares.
They turned the corner and his gaze went to the spot where the Jane Austen portrait hung, a space now occupied by a crayon version of Mona Lisa, who offered him a placid smile from a hideous green and gold frame.
“Where’s Jane?” he asked, a note of panic in his voice, his gaze darting around the room to see if it had been moved to another wall. The familiar hazel eyes and soft brown curls were nowhere in sight.
“Sorry Eliot,” Mr. Crawford apologized when he inquired in the back office. “That portrait was on loan from the artist’s personal collection. It was just meant to showcase her work, since she does paintings by commission most of the time.”
“What about contact information?” Eliot asked. “I’d still like to talk with her. Soon, if possible.”
The man offered a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid that’s not likely. When her assistant picked up the painting, she mentioned Mrs. Norris is visiting out-of-state family. It’s Christmas, after all.”
“Right.” Eliot suppressed a sigh, realizing his disappointment must seem a little odd to those who didn’t know his story. “Thanks, anyway, Mr. Crawford.”
“I can’t believe it’s gone,” Bella moaned as they drove back through the town. “Now how are we going to find the mystery woman’s identity?”
“Never mind,” he told her. “We’ll find out when we’re meant to. Maybe someone will respond to my ad in the paper, for instance.” He could hear Bella’s sigh of frustration as she slumped in her seat, frowning at the dashboard.
“Cheer up, Bella-girl,” he said. “How about that cinnamon pretzel? At Cinnamunchies, your favorite spot in the courtyard,” he enticed, hoping to chase away the disappointment about the gallery’s now-vanished painting.
As he spoke, his gaze flickered in the direction of the Starry Night Bistro, imagining Julia taking orders inside for coffee and pie, her strawberry-red hair tucked beneath a faded do-rag. He wondered if there was really a need to chase phantoms when real life had so much to offer.
****
Julia hung the milky white crepe dress on the back of the bedroom door. Her fingers reached to smooth the satin trim with its rows of elegant beading. Opera gloves, a pearl hair comb, and ballet style slippers completed the ensemble for Miss Austen’s appearance at the Steventon House’s final December open house, the Christmas Eve benefit. Tickets were already sold out according to Miss Gardener, the president of Delaford’s historical society. The tourists and local residents apparently wanted to spend their holiday eve watching actors in Regency costume celebrate in the traditional style.
Would it be her last time to play the romantic author? No more excuses to wear floor-length gowns or carry ornamental fans, something her family believed woul
d be a relief to her. Something even a few of her artist friends would argue was a good thing, since her eccentric hobby cut into the time she spent at local art shows and galleries.
A faint ding from her computer’s speakers informed her that a new email had arrived in her inbox. Clicking it open, she found a message from an online seller she’d contacted the week before, who had listed a collection of rare Austen volumes for sale.
One look at the attached photo told her the elusive first edition with its floral design wasn’t among the stack of faded hardbacks on the vendor’s shelves.
She sighed, her eyes wandering to the Van Gogh wall calendar pinned above her dresser. Five more days until Christmas. The day after which, Anne would return home to Delaford, only to discover her beloved Austen set was now short a volume.
If only she hadn’t fallen asleep in the old Steventon house that night and rushed home through the park in the darkness. But then you wouldn’t have met Eliot.
Propping her chin on her hands, she pictured the book historian’s green eyes and five o’clock shadow. A pleasant jolt of electricity rippled through her as she recalled his vow to track down the Austen book no matter what. The passion in his voice might have seemed silly to some, but not to her. As if he understood just how important this find was, without being told the reason behind it.
On her desk lay a check sheet of all the places they had visited, as well as the ones Eliot placed phone calls to about the book. Almost thirty businesses and private sellers had been contacted at this point, with no success.
There must be some place we haven’t looked yet. Her fingers tapped over the keyboard, bringing up search results for book sellers in the area. On page three, she spotted something promising—an advertisement for a store called J. S. Pratts’s Antiquarian Shop. Open Monday through Friday, it boasted an impressive collection of rare books in all genres.
Did Eliot know about this place? A quick glance told her it wasn’t on his list—surprising, since it was only a few miles outside Delaford. But maybe it was newly opened.
She scribbled the address on a receipt from the bistro and stuck it in her backpack, vowing she would find time to squeeze in a visit before her morning shift. And who knew—maybe a certain book historian would like to come along.
