The Bookshop on the Corner (A Gingerbread Cafe story)

by Rebecca Raisin

  My eyebrows shot up. “Well, I’m glad you clarified that for me.”

  His smile slipped. “I came to tell you I’m going away again. Soon.”

  My heart dropped. Would this be how it always was? Just when I was excited to get more time with Ridge, he’d jet away, to somewhere exciting. How long before the shine wore off the girl from the bookshop? I shook the thought away.

  “Where to this time?”

  “The Philippines. I’m doing a report about the effects of the typhoon and how the towns are coping now.”

  I couldn’t understand how he could go from a fluffy piece about Ashford to such a serious story about the ravaged state of the Philippines.

  “You sure cover a lot of topics. When will you be back?”

  “A week, maybe two?” He smiled, baring those lovely white teeth of his. “You wouldn’t consider coming, would you?”

  I dropped my gaze to our clasped hands. “Not this time, Ridge. But keep asking.”

  As time wore on, maybe I would consider it. One week away, I could probably do. So the bookshop would stay closed. I was sure the books could talk amongst themselves for seven days without incident.

  “So there’s hope,” he said. “But in the meantime can I take you out for dinner tonight?”

  “As long as you order something I like in case I want to switch.”

  “Deal.”

  We did that super-sweet new-couple thing where you just smile goofily and stare into each other’s eyes.

  ***

  Ridge stayed in the Philippines for three weeks. He sent me flowers by way of Missy’s garden; she was only too happy to chop off her gorgeous roses when Ridge asked.

  “He is missing you fiercely,” Missy said, handing me a bunch of scarlet roses.

  “Oh, Missy, thank you. I know how you hate cutting them.”

  “What’s a girl to do when a man like that is pining for his love? He emailed me when he realized there was no florist in Ashford. How you holding up?” she asked, settling herself on a stool at the counter. Her belly had a slight swell that never failed to make me smile. I itched to run my hand across it. I’d felt the baby kick for the first time last week. It was such an intense feeling — Missy and I had bawled like babies ourselves.

  I couldn’t fight the urge any longer, so I perched on the stool next to Missy and ran my hand across her bump. “Yoo hoo, baby, it’s your adopted aunty here.”

  Missy put her hands on her hips and jutted her belly out. “Get him to wake up, will you? Then he might not kick me all night when I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Oh, he’s keeping you up?” I asked and then gasped. “Wait…he?”

  Tears filled her eyes and she pulled a tissue from her sleeve. “We found out this morning. We’re expecting a little boy.”

  “Missy!” I choked back another sob; seemed this hormonal baby crying was contagious. “Congratulations again!”

  “Tommy has gone into overdrive. He’s repainting the nursery. On one wall he’s sketching a huge mural of a steam train. I think secretly he’d hoped it was going to be a boy, though I’m sure he would have been just as happy with a little girl.”

  “What about names? Are you up to that stage yet?”

  She swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “We like the name William. Or Jaxson. Maybe William Jaxson, or Jaxson William. What do you think?”

  “I think they’re great names. Strong. They’d suit a boy of yours perfectly.”

  “They just stuck. So that must be a sign, right?”

  “Right. And flip a coin to see which order you choose.”

  She stood up quickly. “Oh, you’re a genius! That’s exactly what we’ll do!”

  I filled up our cups with decaf coffee, only stocked since Missy had fallen pregnant.

  She continued: “So you didn’t answer my question — how are you holding up with Ridge away all the time? He sounded like a lovesick teenager in his email. It must be hard.”

  I shrugged half-heartedly. “It’s hard, but I guess it’s the way it is, and I knew that. It’s kind of nice falling in love slowly. No matter how fast our feelings have developed, the assignments put the brakes on it, and make those brief reunions all the sweeter.”

  Missy pulled out another tissue. “Don’t mind me,” she said in a high-pitched voice. “You should be used to this emotional see-saw from me now, but that is the loveliest description I’ve ever heard. You know, you really are living out a romance worthy of the books.”

  I rubbed her arm. “It does seem like it, doesn’t it?”

  Chapter Twelve

  A few weeks later CeeCee ran into the bookshop, startling me by knocking a pile of books from the window sill straight into my lap. She waved around a newspaper. “What are you doin’?” She stopped abruptly, taking in the spreadsheets on my lap.

  “I’m seeing if there is any viable way I can pay for an employee at the bookshop, and still afford to give myself a wage.”

  CeeCee guffawed. “An employee? Do you mean to say you’re considerin’ goin’ on a jaunt with Ridge some time?”

  I tried not to look coy, but it was damn hard. “Maybe. It’d be a huge step for me to leave my book babies.”

  “Oh, you should do it!” she said. “Surely we can all pull together for a week or so and help you out.”

  I waved her away. “CeeCee, if you and Lil help any more people out you’ll have to close the café. It’s OK, I think I can find a way.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ we can’t manage. The offer is there. Anyway, lookie, it’s here!” She handed me the newspaper. “None of us have read it yet — we wanted you to read it first.”

  I sat upright. “Is it the article, already?”

  “It surely is.” Out of breath, she plonked down on the chaise beside me and said, “There’s a picture of the Gingerbread Café! Wait, I need my glasses.”

  Placing her glasses on the bridge of her nose, she began reading aloud. “‘The town time forgot. Ashford, a small town in Connecticut, is a place where people don’t change much. In fact, they still use colloquialisms like color me surprised, and glory be…’ Oh, that’s me, I say glory be!” CeeCee said.

  I stiffened, thinking back to the first time Ridge walked into the bookshop. What had he said?

  “Have you got any Keats?”

  “A poetry man, color me surprised.”

  CeeCee was still reading. My heartbeat raced as I heard more of the article.

  “‘—The town itself looks like it’s been stuck in a time warp dating back to the early nineteen hundreds. There’s a tiny bookshop where everything is stacked in disorderly piles on the floor, where a girl with a simple name and an eager smile will banter with you about what kind of book suits you—‘”

  “Stop, CeeCee.” I couldn’t believe it. The article was focused on me, after I explicitly asked Ridge not to be included.

  She looked over her glasses at me. “What is it?”

  I exhaled, anger making my hands quake. “What kind of article is this? He’s belittling the town, Cee. Making a mockery of us. The town time forgot? Stuck in a time warp? You don’t see it?” I asked. I crossed my arms over my chest. How could he do that? I knew it was too good to be true, a man like Ridge loving me. All the while he was memorizing things I said and using them for his own gain.

  CeeCee mumbled to herself as she kept reading. “No,” she said softly as if she was trying to convince herself of something. “Maybe I’m reading it wrong. Yes, that’s it. Maybe he’s saying it’s quaint, it’s cute. We haven’t moved with the times ’cause we don’t want to!”

  I shook my head, and stood up, pacing back and forth in the small space.

  She read the rest of the article silently, and then turned to face me. “I just don’t understand it, I don’t. You want to read it?” she asked, holding out the paper to me. She looked shocked; her face had paled.

  “No. I don’t need to read any more about what kind of hicks we are in Ashford. I told Ridge I didn’t want to
be in the article, and yet he used direct quotes that came from me, and ones that make me look silly.”

  CeeCee frowned. “He goes on to say a whole lot more about all of us. Maybe I’ll show Lil, and see what she makes of it.”

  I was so upset my shoulders shook as great big chest heaves racked my body. The one time I’d allowed a man to truly know the real me, and he abused the privilege, for what, one article, when he travelled the world reporting on bigger, better things anyway? It didn’t make sense, and made me wonder if Ridge was play-acting the whole time. I was mortified that my friends would know he was a phony.

  “Sugar plum, I’m goin’ to show Lil, and see what she thinks. There must be some explanation.”

  I watched her amble off, shaking her head all the while.

  ***

  Later that day the phone rang, but I knew it would be Ridge. It rang out, and the answering machine picked it up. I glared at the answering machine when I heard his deep voice croon lies into the recording.

  I shut the shop early because I couldn’t face any customers. I’d been played for a fool and everyone would know it.

  Slamming the cash register shut after counting the takings, I heard the familiar click clack of Missy’s high heels. The back door squeaked open and in she strutted.

  “Are you OK?” she asked, squinting at me.

  “No, not really. Why, Missy? Why would he be so hurtful? You can’t tell me Ashford is newsworthy enough to spend all that time with me just to write an article? It doesn’t make sense when he gets paid to go from one exotic location to the next. I’m hurt. I can’t believe I trusted a man like that.”

  “There must be something else going on. Maybe it’s…” She stopped when she saw the fury in my eyes.

  I scoffed. “What else could it be? Missy, please. The title was The Town Time Forgot. If that’s not an insult I don’t know what is!”

  She sat down on the chaise, and spoke gently. “I know it reads badly, but no one, especially not someone as good and true as Ridge, would do that. We know him, we do, Sarah,” she said, beseeching. “I agree, the sentiments in the article are not nice. But please let him explain before you push him away for ever.”

  I sat next to her, and closed my eyes. “There’s no disputing the fact I asked him not to mention me. I wanted him to focus on the café, and Walt’s furniture shop, for their sakes. Instead there’s a great big picture of the Gingerbread Café, and nothing about Walt’s shop, and then he’s pulled the mickey out of all of us. Wait, do people still say ‘pulled the mickey’ or would he use that against us too? I should have known better, Missy. Men like him do not come to backwater towns like this for no reason.”

  Missy put an arm around me. “You’re the one calling Ashford a backwater now? Honey, let me tell you this straight, because I know you better than anyone. I think you’re looking for something to use as an excuse so you can run back to your book cave and hide. You can’t bookmark your life, Sarah. As much as it’s easier to live in a fictional world, you can’t live there for ever! You finally stepped outside your comfort zone, and it scared you. But, please, just ask him, just do that one thing for me.”

  “Missy, don’t you see? Ridge is a walking cliché. I trusted him, I did. And look what happened.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got a shop full of clients with bleach burning their hair, so I have to go. But I’ll let you think a while. We sat with him over dinner — he’s not that kind of man. He’s not.” She hugged me and walked away without another word.

  There was no way I was going to talk to Ridge and listen to another pack of lies. Instead, I found my favorite book, one that I’d read so many times, the pages were loose, and started from the beginning. At least books could never let you down. They’d been my refuge, my go-to place in times of need, and nothing had changed. This particular book felt familiar, like an old friend. The characters drew me into their world, and I blocked out mine for the rest of the afternoon.

  ***

  It was after dark when I made my home. The town was empty, the shops shut as I drove past. Arriving home, I was suddenly ravenous; trust my good old appetite to return once the love buzz had diminished. I pulled out a frozen dinner, and shoved it in the microwave. I found my old stuffed teddy bears and threw them back on the couch with various threadbare rugs I’d hidden away. There. It looked more like me again.

  The microwave beeped and I flicked the TV on hoping for a soppy chick flick I could watch while I ate. Just as I was opening the microwave there was a pounding on the front door.

  “It’s me, Sarah. Open up.”

  Ridge.

  I faltered for a second; I hadn’t expected him to drive here.

  Squaring my shoulders, and taking a deep breath, I moved to the closed door. “What do you want this time, Ridge? Another off-the-record quote?”

  “Sarah…”

  I closed my eyes against the sound of his voice.

  “Let me explain…”

  “Was that your plan all along, Ridge?” My voice cracked and I hated myself for it. “String a girl along so you could make fun of the way she speaks, and the small town she’s from? And even worse, her friends who trusted you.”

  He sighed. “I wasn’t making fun of you, Sarah, or your friends. Not at all. Can you let me in so we can discuss this?”

  I rested my head against the door. I wanted to pretend the article had never happened. His voice, his presence did something to me, but I stood firm.

  “No, Ridge. I trusted you and you used me for a stupid article.”

  “You know we’re living out the story-book misunderstanding here, don’t you?”

  I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn’t see me. “Don’t try to charm me with book talk.”

  His Ridge laugh rattled through the door.

  “Do you think this is funny?” I huffed.

  He dropped his voice. “Rosaleen’s out front, so unless you want the whole town to hear you’d better open the door.”

  That woman! I did a little angry dance, and shook off the rage before flinging the door open. And there he was. Why did he have to be so downright good-looking? He stepped over the threshold, forcing me to move backwards. His dark hair shone under the moonlight and, like the textbook Harlequin caricature he was, he ran a hand through it. I narrowed my eyes at him. I bet he’d been studying romance books his whole life to make women swoon.

  I yelled over his shoulder, “Rosaleen, it’s dark out — you shouldn’t be walking around town alone.”

  “I heard a commotion, that’s all,” she said, not moving from my driveway.

  I shook my head, and shut the door.

  Ridge, the man mountain, stood before me, his eyes shining with that God-damn sparkle that no one else seemed to have. He probably used twinkle-eye drops or something for that effect.

  “Did I interrupt dinner?” Ridge said, glancing at my microwave meal that had dried to resemble cardboard.

  “What is it you want? Because I have other obligations tonight, Ridge.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what what?” I said, slightly forgetful because of the way he smelled. I was really going to miss that.

  “What are your obligations?”

  “I’m up to book three in a five-part series, and once I commit, I commit, you see. Not like some people.” I raised my eyebrows as high as they could go, and nodded to him.

  “You think I don’t commit, when I commit?”

  “Can you please stop repeating me? It’s a very archetypal reporter defense, and, this time, I can see straight through it.”

  He moved to the couch, and picked up a teddy bear before sitting down. “Cute.”

  I snatched the droopy-armed teddy away. “So?”

  He stretched his arm across the back of the couch and said, “You didn’t answer my phone calls.”

  “Yes, I didn’t want to end up in another article I didn’t give you permission for.” I crossed my arms, and then uncrossed them. I didn�
�t quite know where to put myself.

  “I can explain. And I hope you’ll listen. That wasn’t the article I wrote. My editor changed it last minute. He couldn’t get hold of me — I was out of range covering another story, as you well know — so he used my notes and, as he said, ‘jazzed it up’.”

  “Jazzed it up?”

  Ridge sighed. “His words.”

  I stood up and paced in front of the lounge. “Hang on…he used your notes…so you did write all those nasty lines about us hicks in Ashford?” I would pay to see his notebook; scratch that, I would probably hide for the rest of my life if I read any more of his vengeful insults.

  Ridge pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, he used my notes. But he spun them into something they were not. He took them out of context for the sake of the story. And it’s unforgivable.”

  I stopped pacing and sat on a recliner opposite Ridge. “I specifically asked not to be in the article so why did you write notes about me, anyway?”

  He looked down, and toyed with the tassel on a cushion before responding. “Because I didn’t want to forget the things you said. I was spellbound, still am. When I’m away I flick back in my notebook and read those passages, and conjure up the memory. What you were wearing, what you did. Those fluttery hands of yours…”

  I wanted to believe him but it was all too neat. Like something out of a movie. For once, I wanted real life. Non-fiction.

  He gazed at me, his look a mix between remorse and resignation. “Sarah, I’d never chase a girl for a story. I have more integrity than that. I want you to believe me. Your friends who invited me into their home have been hurt by the article, you’re devastated, I’m at a loss what to do, and I want you to know I would never do that, ever.”

  He continued: “My version of the article said how in this huge world of ours you can stumble on a little town where nothing changes, and the people are happy with their lot. Time forgot Ashford because Ashford forgot time. No one hurries here. Every moment is savored, from having a twenty-minute conversation when you buy a loaf of bread, to shutting up shop two hours late because you got to talking. Don’t you see? I was saying we could all use some of that old-fashioned goodness in our lives. You’re right about New York: it’s a race against time to get everything done. Most of us don’t even see a real person when we go through the checkout at a supermarket — we use an automated machine and scan our groceries ourselves.” Ridge stopped and pulled out his phone. “I can show you the attachment I sent to my editor with my article. It has the date and time so you know how I originally intended it to be.” He stood up and handed me the phone.