This shop carried with it the history of her family, and she’d promised herself she’d take care of it. With Robbie at the helm of some of the renovations, Clara had been freed up to work out the finances and marketing. Until now. Now everything came to a stop in order to save the bookshop from something much worse than a leaky roof.
With a final look at her work and a few adjustments of the white Christmas lights nearby, she scanned the empty bookshop, the quiet hum of the closing day only interrupted by Robbie’s whistling from the second floor. She’d never been so grateful to have him in her life as now, with the uncertainty of Blackwell’s existence. He’d offered his usual humor and calm, assuring her they’d search the entire place until they found the missing deed. With a quick prayer of gratitude and a hope Robbie’s optimism proved true, she turned off the lamp lighting her corner of the shop and followed the sound of his whistle up the stairs.
The sight of a fully assembled Lego Star Wars’ Millennium Falcon atop the sci-fi bookshelf brought her to a stop. “You finished it?”
Robbie’s whistling ceased and he stood from his crouched position by the thriller section, arms filled with hardbacks. His lips took an easy stretch into a grin. “You’ve known my Lego fetish this long and you’re surprised?”
“But this?” Clara took a few steps closer to the intricate creation, examining his handiwork. “I mean, how long did it take you?”
“A few days.” He shrugged a shoulder and narrowed his gaze at her. “Isn’t this your night off ? You’re allowed to take one, you know?”
She squeezed her eyes closed, stifling a whimper. “I have to venture into the dreaded attic to begin my frantic search to save Blackwell’s from possible destruction.”
“Ah, the daughter of a fantasy writer is coming through with exaggerative detail.”
The wry tint in his words spurred Clara’s smile. “It’s coming in particularly handy right now.”
He put his books down and stepped closer, his gaze searching hers. “You’re not in this alone, Clara. I love this place as much as you do.” His palm covered her shoulder, confirming their comradery. “I’m here to help.”
Tears stung her eyes and she covered his hand with hers. “It’s just right now, with all the uncertainty and the rainy weather and the smell of pine on the breeze—”
“You miss him.”
Robbie’s simple understanding—the ache she felt for her dad— pooled a warming comfort through her. “He loved rainy days.”
“And Christmas.” Robbie nodded, his gentle expression melting into a mischievous grin as he gestured with his chin toward a door in the corner of the room. “Then I think we need to get started on this attic search.”
Clara narrowed her eyes at him in mock annoyance, but he knew her too well. There were times to dwell on her father and the loss of his colorful personality, and then…there were times to take a deep breath and turn her mind to something else. “We?”
He wiggled his auburn brows. “You don’t think I’d let you face the clowns alone, do you?”
Her stomach squeezed at the mention of her childhood attic fear. She followed his gaze to the locked door and, almost without thinking, slid her hand into her pocket, which held the store keys. How long had it been since she’d ventured there? And never had she plumbed the depths of the rubbish-lined room with a century of knickknacks and papers.
“Besides, the sooner we put this behind us, the sooner you can redesign the store website like you’ve wanted to do for six months, but…” He waved a hand toward the shelves of books. “Books happened.”
“I’m really not afraid of clowns anymore.” She tipped her chin a little to add credence to her declaration.
“Riiight…and dog-earing pages is your favorite bookmark.”
She snatched a pillow from the nearby reading chair and chucked it at him.
“I’m glad that wasn’t a hardback Dostoyevsky!” His grin widened to show almost all his front teeth and he returned the pillow to its chair.
“I’d never throw Dostoyevsky.” Her smile pressed for release. “I wouldn’t want to damage the book on your hard head.”
“Ah, I see that as a yes on the attic question.” He gave his brows a shimmy. “You may not know this, but I’m a great sidekick for dark, attic-y spaces.”
“Attic-y?” She pulled the keys from her pocket.
“What can I say, I’m better at reading words than using them.”
She chuckled, releasing her anxiety and replacing it with purpose. “Sounds like you’re the perfect person for the job. Hard head. Big heart. And doesn’t mind clutter-y, dark places.”
“Or adventure,” he offered, his index finger pointed high as if he’d transformed into a detective with a brilliant idea.
“Okay, Chief Inspector, I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t think an adventure waits on the other side of this door.” She unlocked the old-fashioned brass handle and pushed the door open with a dramatic squeak.
“Well, that noise sounds exactly like the start of an adventure.” His comment followed her across the threshold as she flipped a switch to illuminate the stairs.
“Or the proclamation that the hinges need oil.”
“You really should stop being so practical right now, Clara.” The stairs creaked beneath his feet behind her. “As I recall, you were actually the one who invented all of our adventures as kids. The magical places. The dangerous escapades. You were the mastermind behind them and I…well, I was like your faithful dwarf or something. The Gimli to your Eowyn.”
She’d been that way once. Spurred on by her father and his massive imagination. And then, her mother’s health started changing, followed unexpectedly by her father’s. Somehow, the magic of those memories dimmed with the barrage of medical appointments and dim prognoses, and she’d not only tucked away her own stories, but the very dreams she’d once nurtured like breath.
