The Weeping Books of Blinney Lane

by Drea Damara

  Sarah watched Franci’s look of concern morph into one of anguish as the woman glanced at Sarah’s other wrist, which was covered up by the long sleeve of her blouse. Franci’s hand then went to the high collar of her black dress and rubbed at her neck, a far-off look in her eyes. Sarah filled with guilt instantly. She’d made the woman remember a lifetime of awful sensations. She pulled Franci’s hand away. “I’m sorry, Franci.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s not like I could forget they’re there anyways.” She patted Sarah’s hand and smiled. “I’d better go before Mom reorganizes the entire inventory.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll let you know what Mary comes up with,” Franci said as she started toward the door.

  “Thanks, Franci. And thanks for the coffee.” She picked up the cup and fanned herself with one hand in a swooning manner. Franci chuckled, but her lightheartedness was clearly gone for the time being. Probably because her damned charms had rattled again when she’d faked the swoon to cheer Franci up. Could she be a lousier friend?

  As soon as the door closed, Sarah let out a long breath. She rotated the bracelet around her wrist. Had she only imagined the twinge of pain she felt in the scars she had hidden under the thick leather band every day since the summer she had turned eighteen?

  NEW YORK CITY

  RICHARD ALLISTER paced back to the suitcase on his bed with a stack of undershirts in his hand. He tucked them into the remaining space and stared blankly at the contents as he fidgeted with his tie. He had everything he needed for his trip. He’d packed and repacked his suitcase three times already. He was just avoiding the obvious. Sarah was going to hate him.

  He couldn’t turn down this trip. It was supposed to promote new investors. He was the lead financial manager of the company. New high-dollar international clients were critical to taking his firm from the multimillion dollar to the multibillion-dollar level.

  Glancing in the mirror, he saw that it was too cruel to lie to him. The worry on his face was evident. He hadn’t slept well since the verdict on Ricky’s grand theft auto joyride. There were dark circles under his eyes. His black five-o’clock shadow, which matched the thick hair on his head, made his corporate appearance seem disheveled. Damn, Alison. Why couldn’t she have been more of a mother? Everything about his reflection said haggard, overworked single father. Maybe if he’d chosen a better spouse, one less materialistic, his life might not have ended up the way it had. Maybe then he wouldn’t have had to bombard his little sister with the sneaky way he’d duped her into doing him a favor.

  Richard dropped onto the bed and looked around his obscenely impersonal penthouse bedroom. His perusal halted on the awful monstrosity of a large, red, steel blob-like structure on the wall opposite his bed. Alison had insisted that it helped “balance the lines in the room.” It still made no sense to him. He should take that damned thing down once and for all. He didn’t even feel comfortable in his own home, not that he was ever there much. How had that happened?

  Sarah still lived in the apartment above the bookstore where they had grown up. He used to feel guilty that she was the one who was stuck there. As the years had passed, however, he had grown to envy the coziness, the quaintness, and the history of Blinney Lane in that sleepy little corner of Salem. He shoved off the bed. Okay, maybe not all of the history.

  He hadn’t forgotten everything about the peculiar place where he had grown up. He hadn’t forgotten how nearly every word and every action seemed to have a repercussion, especially for his sister. It made her so tense and worrisome, but things had never been so severe for him on Blinney Lane. No. He had made the right decision about Ricky.

  No one, in the time he could remember before he left home, had ever fully figured out all of the quirks of Agatha Blinney’s curse. He was certain, though, that once it took hold of one family member of each of the shops on Blinney Lane, it left the rest of the family free to leave. The only time the curse claimed more than one family member was when someone was getting on in age. It’s as though it sensed a replacement would be needed soon. Sarah was still young and healthy. The curse had chosen her to replace their father. Unlike his sister, he’d been free to leave. The curse wouldn’t want Ricky. It already had an Allister. Curses. Good God. If his colleagues or another living soul ever heard him mention curses. He hadn’t thought about it in such a long time. Sarah. Sarah probably hadn’t been able to forget so easily.

  It was easy to tell whom the curse claimed—it caused the scars of Agatha Blinney to appear on the chosen ones. Sarah got marks around her wrists when they were just teenagers. He had assumed that she had read too many of the cursed books in their shop or said the name of Agatha Blinney too many times. The elder shop owners had always warned them that when they approached the age of eighteen they might get the scars of Agatha Blinney. He hadn’t believed it when his eighteenth birthday came and went, his skin unmarked.

  He barely noticed the red blob on the wall now as he stared at it and thought of the summer that Sarah got her marks. Their mother had been so upset, not wanting to see any of her children bound to the shop as their father had been. She questioned Sarah repeatedly about what she might have done to make the scars appear. Sarah had cried and sworn she’d followed all of the ridiculous Blinney Lane rules. When it became apparent that Sarah’s scars were there to stay, he’d simultaneously felt guilt and relief.

  He’d been so self-centered back then, not wanting to be the one stuck on that niche tourist strip only ten shops long on a dead-end street. He didn’t even like books. It had been a relief to no longer worry about disappointing his father by not taking over the family business. There had been no need once Sarah was chosen to stay. He had wanted to see the world and meet normal people. He had wanted to live a life without fear of the unnatural things that occurred on that street.

  “You never believed all that hogwash,” he chided himself, as he tore his gaze away from the wall. What’s eating at you?

  If he was honest, he’d had to force himself to forget all the abnormalities he had witnessed on his home street. He’d done a good job of doing so over the years, except for the occasional dream. That’s what he always told himself the memories were. Sitting in his room, which so deeply contrasted the place where he grew up, he could no longer deny it. There was one memory he recalled with perfect clarity: Deronda. There was no fancying her a dream. As unreal as she had been, Deronda had been very real.

  Neither his sister nor he ever mentioned Deronda’s name when they spoke on the phone every few months. Sarah could never come to New York City; the curse wouldn’t let her. The few times he’d visited over the years, after he moved away for college and to start his new life, they hadn’t brought it up then either. Maybe the fact that he was sending his only child back there made the memories resurface. There was no denying it, as much as he’d fooled himself over the years. The time he’d spent with Deronda hadn’t been a dream. No. He was terrified to remember it, or he would have gone mad. The gnawing sensation inside of him now—he knew exactly what it was. What he did remember, as he reflected for the first time with such clarity about the place where he grew up, was that his little sister had saved his life and sacrificed so much for him. God, he hated himself.

  Richard groaned and pressed his fingers to his eyes. He rubbed away the sting of tears. He hadn’t avoided Blinney Lane or Sarah because he was afraid of the hocus-pocus that went on there. He’d avoided them because there was nothing he could do to help Sarah. And this is how he was repaying her?

  “I’m such an asshole.”

  The word reminded him of his dear teenage son who was supposed to be packing for Salem in the next room—the son who’d called him that when he’d told him he was sending him there for the summer. Richard walked down the hallway, and the rock music from Ricky’s room grew louder as he approached.

  There was a bright yellow hazardous sign on the door and several New York Giants stickers. He felt himself smile, thinking how they sure m
essed up the lines of the plain white walls of the penthouse. With a heavy breath he knocked on the door, prepared to do battle.

  “Ricky?”

  A squealing guitar solo and chainsaw bass sound emanated through the door, but no sound of Ricky’s acknowledgement. He pounded harder. “Ricky!”

  The door jerked open and his shirtless, ripple-chested teenage son glared up the three inches that he still held on him. How much more difficult would parenting the troublesome boy be when Ricky surpassed him in height? He took in the last look that he would get of his son for a few months.

  They had the same thick black hair, but Ricky’s was spiked stupidly upward and canted to the side. The same light gray eyes glared into his. How could he look so much like him and hate him so much? He’s a teenager; he hates everything.

  “What?” Ricky snapped in a tone that warned his time and privacy were being invaded.

  “Are you packed?”

  Ricky turned his back and retreated further into his hovel of a room. “Yeah.”

  “We went over this, Mr. Gone in Sixty Seconds! This is your own fault. I’m not happy with the situation either, but I’m not carting you all over Europe and Asia with my bosses. You want to go stay with your mother?” Maybe the threat would bring him down a peg.

  Ricky spun back around. “Why? If we knew where she was do you think she’d actually want me there?”

  “All right. Easy, Earnhardt.” Ricky scowled and turned his back on him again. “Look, don’t give your aunt any grief. You hear me? Turn that crap down!” Ricky hit the volume button on his stereo and stared out the window, hands on his hips. “She’s got a business to run. It’s a quiet little place not used to teenagers.”

  “More like a retirement home,” Ricky muttered.

  “What?”

  Ricky shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah. I got it.”

  Richard ran his hand through his hair. Maybe Sarah would have better luck with him than he had.

  “Just try to help her out as much as you can, will you? Keep your nose clean and don’t cause her any problems. She’s doing both of us a favor with this. Ricky, are you listening to me?”

  “Yeah, I heard you. Play nice with Aunt Sarah. Smile at the old ladies. Read a book. I got it.”

  Richard started to close the door. Staring at his defiant son, he realized it was the first time he was grateful that Ricky didn’t like to read. “No one expects you to read any books, son. Just do what you’re told.”

  SARAH BUSIED herself, making a list of things Ricky might need. She had never had guests stay so long in her apartment above the shop, nor had her parents from what she could remember. Ricky had visited only four or five times since he was born. He and Richard always stayed at hotels during their visits to keep Ricky safe from Blinney Lane.

  She had enough linens for him, though she’d have to add to her weekly grocery order. Would he question why she didn’t go to the grocery store or any place not on Blinney Lane for that matter? She hated lying, but a lot of lying was probably in her near future.

  Focus on the positive, Sarah. It would be nice to have someone else to cook for. She always ate alone. Richard had been a terrible cook, and he probably didn’t make many home-cooked meals for his son. Maybe Ricky would prefer to go out in town for junk food. At least that would get him away from the bookshop for a while. How was she going to keep him entertained when he was at the store?

  She couldn’t let him wander around the city by himself, especially after what Richard had said he’d done to get into trouble. Was he no longer the sweet little boy who used to love listening to her stories?

  Locks. Maybe she should get some more padlocks. She wrote the word down and then let her head rest in the palm of her hand.

  The scraping sound of slow footsteps against the wood floor approached. Sarah heard the phlegmy garbled voice of Mr. Wexton, one of her obnoxious regulars. She rubbed her temples to avoid eye contact. Mr. Wexton showed up at least three times a week to peruse her out-of-print section.

  His emphatic breath of exasperation was not to be missed as he called: “Nothing new. Let me know if you get anything new in Sarah.”

  The bell on the door jingled and she knew she was almost home free. Without looking up, she said, “Will do, Mr. Wexton.” When the door slammed shut, she let out a long breath. The shop appeared to be empty and she yelled, “What did I do to deserve this?”

  “It’s Monday,” said a deep, wholesome voice she would know anywhere, causing the tiny hairs on the back of her neck to stand up.

  She peered through her fingers and saw a black leather belt on gray uniform slacks. Slowly lifting her flushed face, she saw a green polo shirt stretched across a wide chiseled chest. Her eyes did the rest of the work as she sat dumbly in her stool, taking in the Adam’s apple on the center of a tanned muscular neck, then a firm square jaw, and the supple lower lip of the most handsome smile she’d ever seen. She locked eyes with Henry Teager’s light green ones.

  With his relaxed high and tight haircut, Henry had that all-American-boy look. She loved that he never used gel—he looked naturally perfect. He smiled down at her, the corner of his mouth higher on one side in the shape of a happy, innocent smirk. It made her want to melt into a puddle and hide under the counter at the same time. Say something, stupid!

  “Hello, Henry.” She cleared her throat after her voice came out, sounding like a little girl’s.

  “Rough day already? It’s only eleven.”

  “Ha, tell me about it.”

  Henry lifted a clipboard off the top box on his hand truck and set it on the counter for her to sign. She looked around for her pen as though it required all of her attention. “How are you today?”

  “I’m great. Beautiful weather out there. Not too hot yet.”

  Easy for him to say; he didn’t have Franci’s coffee! She scribbled her name on the invoice, having to pause for a second to remember it.

  “And I’m on my favorite street on my route, so I can’t complain.”

  That got her to laugh and forget to avoid his dangerously sexy eyes. “What did we do to receive that honor?”

  Crap! Why was he still looking at her? He leaned on his hand truck, propping one of his brawny legs on the footrest. It didn’t look like he was leaving anytime soon. The way her nerves were jumbled today, she might not be able to handle a dose of Henry. He seemed to like lingering in her shop.

  “I love Blinney Lane. You know that. The people are so friendly, some of the best you’ll ever meet,” Henry said with a smile and glanced out the window. It warmed her heart to hear her home and friends complimented. “I get the most unique orders from the specialty shops here. It sure breaks up the monotony of my day after all the office deliveries I make. Heck, the distributor I work for sells stuff I wouldn’t even know existed if it weren’t for the Blinney shops. I don’t know. I think I just love how nothing seems to change here. You can always count on Blinney Lane, even though the rest of the world moves on around it.”

  Sarah held back her private opinions on why Blinney Lane couldn’t change. Henry was an outsider. What did he know? It was actually one of the things she liked about him. He was her dream of the joy of the outside world—the one book she had never read.

  “Well, change is coming tomorrow, whether we’re ready for it or not.”

  “What? Barnes & Noble moving in?”

  “No. Worse, I think. My teenage nephew is coming to stay with me for the summer.”

  “Richard’s boy?”

  “Yeah. Little Ricky. Well, I guess he’s not that little any more. Gosh, I haven’t seen him in four years. He’s seventeen now.”

  “Seventeen? Yeah, that could be worse.” Henry pretended to wince. “I can’t imagine being seventeen and spending my summer in a bookstore.”

  “Hey, what happened to loving this place?” She would have given him a playful slap on the arm if it didn’t require touching him.

  His face turned red and h
e fidgeted. A man who blushes. How could someone so rugged-looking be so sensitive?

  “Oh, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I just meant I spent my summers outside playing ball and swimming. Heck, if I hadn’t been so busy trying to be a pro-athlete I probably would have been hanging around in here throwing glances at Richard’s little sister,” he said with a wink. She looked back to the clipboard and made an unintelligible sound that was meant to be a laugh. “I guess I didn’t do anything very productive…is what I meant to say,” Henry added and cleared his throat.

  He grabbed the clipboard from her after what seemed like an eternity and wheeled his hand truck to the end of the counter. She watched him slip the boxes off with ease in a place that would leave her enough room to get by, as he did every week. Thoughtful. Everything about him had always been thoughtful. He looked at her. She thought he would say something, but it turned out to be another awkward silence.

  “Well, uh, you need me to order anything for Ricky?”

  “Yes, actually.” She grabbed her list.

  “Some Playboys and Def Leppard albums?” Henry smirked and reached for the note in her hand.

  “Def Leppard? What do kids even listen to now? God, I think you just made us sound old.”

  His fingers grazed hers as he took her note. “We’re not that old, Sarah.”

  The softness in his voice in combination with his good looks was simply cruel. He shouldn’t be allowed around women. Her breath caught in her throat. She never knew what to say or do when he said something flattering. She was far too plain, boring, and bookish for him to be interested in her, no matter what Franci said. Franci’s encouragement aside, she blamed any awkwardness between them on herself. What woman wouldn’t react the way she did to Henry? The harder she tried to not behave like a ninny when he was around, the more she failed. Still, it was difficult to deny that the compliments he threw out were specifically intended to remind her that she was a woman and he was a man. Maybe it was wishful thinking. The shop bell chimed like a savior.