How to Find Love in a Bookshop

by Veronica Henry

  She got into her car. There was a packet of buttermints on the passenger seat she had meant to bring him. She unpeeled one and popped it in her mouth. It was the first thing she had eaten since breakfast the day before. She sucked on it until it scraped the roof of her mouth, and the discomfort took her mind off it all for a moment.

  She’d eaten half the packet by the time she turned into Peasebrook high street, and her teeth were furry with the sugar. The little town was wrapped in the pearl-gray of dawn. It looked bleak: its golden stone needed sunshine for it to glow. In the half-light it looked like a dreary wallflower, but in a couple of hours it would emerge like a dazzling debutante, charming everyone who set eyes upon it. It was quintessentially quaint and English, with its oak doorways and mullions and latticed windows, cobbled pavements and red letter boxes and the row of pollarded lime trees. There were no flat-roofed monstrosities, nothing to offend the eye, only charm.

  Next to the stone bridge straddling the brook was Nightingale Books, three stories high and double fronted, with two bay windows and a dark blue door. Emilia stood outside, the early morning breeze the only sign of movement in the sleeping town, and looked up at the building that was the only home she had ever known. Wherever she was in the world, whatever she was doing, her room above the shop was still here; most of her stuff was still here. Thirty-two years of clutter.

  She slipped in through the side entrance and stood for a moment on the tiled floor. In front of her was the door leading up to the flat. She remembered her father holding her hand when she was tiny and walking her down those stairs. It had taken hours, but she was determined, and he was patient.

  When she was at school, she had run down the stairs, taking them two at a time, her schoolbag on her back, an apple in one hand, always late. Years later, she had sneaked up the stairs in bare feet when she came in from a party. Not that Julius was strict or likely to shout; it was just what you did when you were sixteen and had drunk a little too much cider and it was two o’clock in the morning.

  To her left was the door that came out behind the shop counter. She pushed open the door and stepped into the shop. The early morning light ventured in through the windows, tentative. Emilia shivered a little as the air inside stirred. She felt a sense of expectation whenever she entered Nightingale Books, the same feeling of stepping back in time or into another place. She could be whenever and wherever she wanted. Only this time she couldn’t. She would give anything to go back to when everything was all right.

  She felt as if the books were asking for news. He’s gone, she wanted to tell them, but she didn’t, because she didn’t trust her voice. And because it was silly. Books told you things, everything you needed to know, but you didn’t talk back to them.

  As she stood in the middle of the shop, she gradually felt a sense of comfort settle upon her, a calmness that soothed her soul. For Julius was still here, amid the covers and the upright spines. He claimed to know every book in his shop. He may not have read each one from cover to cover, but he understood why they were there, what the author’s intent had been, and who might, therefore, like to read them, from the simplest children’s board book to the weightiest, most indecipherable tome. There was a rich red carpet, faded and worn now. Rows and rows of wooden shelves lined the walls, stretching right up to the ceiling—there was a ladder to reach the more unusual books on the very top shelves. Fiction was at the front of the shop, reference at the back, and tables in the middle displayed cookery and art and travel. Upstairs, on the mezzanine, there was a collection of first editions and secondhand rarities, behind locked glass cases. And Julius had reigned over it all from his place behind the wooden counter. Behind him were stacked the books that people had ordered, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. There was an old-fashioned ornate till that tinged when it opened, which he’d found in a junk shop and, although he didn’t use it anymore, he kept as decoration. And sometimes he kept sugar mice in the drawer to hand out to small children who had been especially patient and good.

  There would always be a half-full cup of coffee on the counter that he’d begun and never finished, because he would get into a conversation and forget about it and leave it to get cold. Because people dropped in to chat with Julius all the time. He was full of advice and knowledge and wisdom and, above all, kindness.

  As a result, the shop had become a mecca for all sections of society in and around Peasebrook. The townspeople were proud of their bookshop. It was a place of comfort and familiarity. And they had come to respect its owner. Adore him, even. For over thirty years he had fed their minds and their hearts, aided and abetted in recent years by his assistants; warm and bubbly Mel, who kept the place spick-and-span, and lanky Dave the Goth, who knew almost as much as Julius about books but rarely spoke—though once you got him going, it was impossible to stop him.

  Her father was still here, thought Emilia, in the thousands of pages. Millions—there must be so many millions—of words. All those words, and the pleasure they had provided for people over the years: escape, entertainment, education . . . He had changed minds. He had changed lives. It was up to her to carry on his work so he would live on, she swore to herself.

  Julius Nightingale would live forever.

  —

  Emilia left the shop and went upstairs to the flat. She was too tired to even make a cup of tea. She needed to lie down and gather her thoughts. She wasn’t feeling anything yet, neither shock nor grief, just a dull heavyheartedness that weighed her down. The worst had happened, the worst thing possible, but it seemed the world was still turning. The gradual lightening of the sky told her that. She heard birdsong, too, and frowned at their chirpy heralding of a new dawn. Surely the sun wouldn’t rise? Surely the world would be gray forever?

  All the rooms seemed drained of warmth. The kitchen, with its ancient pine table and battered old cabinets, was chilly and austere. The living room was sulking behind its half-drawn curtains. Emilia couldn’t look at the sofa in case it still held the imprint of Julius; she couldn’t count the number of hours the two of them had spent curled up on it with tea or cocoa or wine, leafing through their current read, while Brahms or Billie Holiday or Joni Mitchell circled on the record player. Julius had never taken to modern technology: he loved vinyl, and still treasured his Grundig Audiorama speakers. They had, however, been silent for a while now.

  Emilia made her way to her bedroom on the next floor, peeled back her duvet, and climbed into the high brass bed that had been hers since she could remember. She didn’t bother to undress. She’d been wearing the same pair of jeans and a soft fleecy sweatshirt for days now—every now and then she threw them in the washing machine and hung them on a radiator to dry. She didn’t want to think about clothes. She pulled a pillow from the pile and hugged it to her, for warmth as much as for comfort. She drew her knees up and waited to cry. There were no tears. She waited and waited, but her eyes were dry. She thought she must be a monster, not to be able to weep.

  She awoke sometime later to a gentle tapping on the flat door. She started awake, wondering why she was in bed fully dressed. The realization hit her in the chest, and she wanted nothing more than to slide back into the oblivion she had been in. But there were people to see, things to do, decisions to be made. And a door to answer. She ran downstairs in her socks and opened it gingerly.

  “Sweetheart.”

  June. Stalwart, redoubtable June, arguably Nightingale Books’ best customer since she had retired to Peasebrook three years before. She had stepped into Julius’s shoes when he went into the cottage hospital for what looked like the final time. June had run her own company for more than forty years and was only too willing to help by picking up the reins along with Mel and Dave. With her fine bone structure, thick dark hair, and armful of silver bangles, she looked at least ten years younger than her threescore years and ten. She had the energy of a twenty-year-old, the brain of a rocket scientist, and the heart of a l
ion. Emilia had at first thought there might be a romance between June and Julius—June was twice divorced—but their friendship had been purely platonic.

  Emilia supposed she should have phoned June as soon as it happened. But she hadn’t had the strength or the words or the heart. She didn’t have them now. She just stood there, and June wrapped her up in an embrace that was as soft and warm as the cashmere jumpers she draped herself in.

  “You poor baby,” she crooned, and it was only then Emilia found she could cry.

  “There’s no need to open the shop today,” June told Emilia later, when she’d sobbed her heart out and had finally agreed to make herself some breakfast. But Emilia was adamant it should stay open.

  “Everyone comes in on a Thursday. It’s market day,” she said.

  In the end, it turned out to be the best thing she could have done. Mel, usually loquacious, was mute with shock. Dave, usually monosyllabic, spoke for five minutes without drawing breath about how Julius had taught him everything he knew. Mel put Classic FM on the shop radio so they didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. Dave, who had many mysterious skills of which calligraphy was one, wrote a sign for the window:

  It is with great sadness that we have to tell you of the death of Julius Nightingale. Peacefully, after a short illness. A beloved father, friend, and bookseller.

  They opened a little late, but open they did. And a stream of customers trickled in throughout the day, to pay their respects and give Emilia their condolences. Some brought cards, others casseroles and a tin full of home-baked muffins; someone else left a bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet, her father’s favorite wine, on the counter.

  Emilia had needed no convincing that her father was a wonderful man, but by the end of the day she realized that everyone else who knew him thought that, too. Mel made countless cups of tea in the back office and carried them out on a tray.

  “Come for supper,” said June, when they finally flipped the sign to CLOSED long after they should have shut.

  “I’m not very hungry,” said Emilia, who couldn’t face the thought of food.

  June wouldn’t take no for an answer. She scooped Emilia up and took her back to her sprawling cottage on the outskirts of Peasebrook. June was the sort of person who always had a shepherd’s pie on standby. Emilia had to admit that she felt much stronger after two servings, and it gave her the fortitude to discuss the things she didn’t want to.

  “I can’t face a big funeral,” she said eventually.

  “Then don’t have one,” said June, scooping out some vanilla ice cream for pudding. “Have a small private funeral, and we can have a memorial service in a few weeks’ time. It’s much nicer that way round. And it will give you time to organize it properly.”

  A tear plopped onto Emilia’s ice cream. She wiped away the next one.

  “What are we going to do without him?”

  June handed her a jar of salted caramel sauce.

  “I don’t know,” June replied. “There are some people who leave a bigger hole than others, and your father is one of them.”

  June invited her to stay the night, but Emilia wanted to go home. It was always better to be sad in your own bed.

  She flicked on the lights in the living room. With its deep red walls and long tapestry curtains, there seemed to be more books here than there were in the bookshop. Bookcases covered two of the walls, and there were books piled high on every surface: on the windowsills, the mantelpiece, on top of the piano. Next to that was Julius’s precious cello, resting on its stand. She touched the smooth wood, realizing it was covered in dust. She would play it tomorrow. She was nothing like as good a player as her father, but she hated to think of his cello unplayed, and she knew he would hate the thought, too.

  Emilia went over to the bookcase that was designated as hers—though she had run out of space on it long ago. She ran her finger along the spines. She wanted a comfort read, something that took her back to her childhood. Not Laura Ingalls Wilder—she couldn’t bear to read about big, kind Pa at the moment. Nor Frances Hodgson Burnett—all her heroines seemed to be orphans, which Emilia realized she was now, too. She pulled out her very favorite, in its red cloth cover with the gold writing on the spine, warped with age, the pages yellowing. Little Women. She sat in the wing-backed chair by the fire, slinging her legs over the side and resting her cheek on a velvet cushion. Within moments, she was by the fire in Boston, with Jo March and her sisters and Marmee, hundreds of years ago and thousands of miles away . . .

  —

  By the end of the following week, Emilia felt hollowed out and exhausted. Everyone had been so kind and thoughtful and said such wonderful things about Julius, but it was emotionally draining.

  There had been a small private funeral service for Julius at the crematorium, with just his mother, Debra, who came down on the train from London; Andrea, Emilia’s best friend from school; and June.

  Before she left for the service, Emilia had looked at herself in the mirror. She wore her brown velvet coat and shining riding boots, her dark red hair loose over her shoulders. Her eyes were wide, defined by her thick brows and lashes. Her coloring, she knew from the photo kept on top of the piano, was her mother’s; her fine bone structure and generous mouth her father’s. With shaking fingers, she put in the earrings he had given her last Christmas and opened the gifted Chassagne-Montrachet, knocking back just one glass, before putting on a faux fox fur hat that exactly matched her hair. She wondered briefly if she looked too much like an extra from a costume drama but decided it didn’t matter.

  The next day, when they had put Julius’s mother back on the Paddington train—Debra didn’t like being away from London for too long—Andrea marched Emilia over the road to the Peasebrook Arms. It was a traditional inn, all flagstone floors and wood paneling and a dining room that served chicken Kiev and steak chasseur and had an old-fashioned dessert trolley. There was something comforting in the way it hadn’t been Farrow and Balled up to the rafters. It didn’t pretend to be something it wasn’t. It was warm and friendly, even if the coffee was awful.

  Emilia and Andrea curled up on a sofa in the lounge bar and ordered hot chocolate.

  “So,” said Andrea, ever practical. “What’s your plan?”

  “I gave my notice yesterday,” Emilia told her. She’d been teaching English at an international language school in Hong Kong. “It’s a relief in a way. I can’t just drift from country to country forever; it’s about time I sorted myself out. Look at us—I’m still living out of a backpack; you’re a powerhouse.”

  Andrea had gone from manning the phones for a financial adviser when she left school to studying for exams at night school to setting up her own business as an accountant. Now she did the accounts for many of the small businesses that had sprung up in Peasebrook over the past few years. She knew how much most people hated organizing their finances and so made it as painless as possible. She was hugely successful.

  “Never mind comparisons. What are you going to do with the shop?” Andrea wasn’t one to beat around the bush.

  Emilia looked surprised she’d even asked. “I haven’t got any choice. I promised Dad I’d keep it open.”

  Andrea didn’t speak for a moment. Her voice when she spoke was gentle and kind. “Emilia, deathbed promises don’t always need to be kept. Not if they aren’t practical. Of course you meant it at the time, but the shop was your father’s life. It doesn’t mean it has to be yours. He would understand. I know he would.”

  Emilia shook her head. “No way am I letting it go. I always saw myself as taking it over in the end. But I guess I thought it would be when I was Dad’s age. Not now. I thought he had another twenty years to go at least.” She could feel her eyes fill with tears. “But it’s my name over the door, too. Nightingale Books. It’s my legacy. I don’t have a choice.”

  She looked at Andrea, defying her to contradict. Andrea
knew her friend well enough not to. “Well, then tell me what I can do to help. Just say the word.”

  Emilia made a face. “I’ve started to look through the accounts, but it’s just a blur to me. Dad always used to say ‘I don’t do numbers.’ And I don’t either, really. It all seems to be a bit disorganized. I think he let things slip toward the end. There’re a couple of boxes full of receipts. And a horrible pile of unopened envelopes I haven’t been able to face yet.”

  “Trust me, it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” Andrea sighed. “I wish people wouldn’t go into denial when it comes to money. It makes it all so complicated and ends up costing them much more in the end.”

  “It would be great if you could have a look for me. But no mate’s rates.” Emilia pointed a finger at her. “I’m paying you properly.”

  “I’m very happy to help you out. Your dad was always very kind to me when we were growing up.”

  Emilia laughed. “Remember when we tried to set him up with your mum?”

  Andrea snorted into her wineglass. “That would have been a disaster.” Andrea’s mother was a bit of a hippie, all joss sticks and flowing skirts. Andrea had rebelled completely against her mother’s Woodstock attitude and was the most conventional, aspirational, by-the-book person Emilia knew. She’d even changed her name from Autumn when she started up in business, on the basis that no one would take an accountant called Autumn seriously.

  “They would never have got anything done.” Julius was very easygoing and laissez-faire, too. The thought of their respective parents together made the two girls helpless with laughter now, but at the age of twelve they had thought it was a brilliant idea.

  As they finished laughing, Emilia sighed. “Dad never did find anyone.”

  “Oh, come off it. Every woman in Peasebrook was in love with your father. He had them all running round after him.”