Why did she feel she’d lived through this scene before? Except with Tom Hanks? Aha, You’ve Got Mail ! Though Clara still didn’t know what “going to the mattresses” really meant when fighting against a big chain mogul, and she had no real desire to find out. Sorry, Joe Fox.
“We’ll take our chances on the future of Blackwell’s. She’s survived so much already.” Her words squeezed through a quickly closing space in her throat as she held his gaze. She snatched up one of the homemade flower pens for sale, provided by a local artist, and offered it to Mr. Kemper. “Have a great day.”
He grimaced down at the bright yellow papier mâché sunflower and, with an ungentlemanly grunt, turned and left the store.
Blackwell’s had made it through the Great Depression.Two World Wars. A fire in the 1950s. Time. Age. Fluctuating economy. Would it survive a lost deed and a mega bookstore?
“Okay, okay, I have a design idea for the new website. How do you feel about a dragon—” Robbie slid to a stop at the counter and lowered the paper in his hands. “Whoa, are you okay? You look pale as a ghost.”
Clara glanced around the storefront, noting a few people just beyond earshot by the classics section. “Duncan sent one of his men by again.” She lowered her voice. “Same spiel as last time.”
“Determined, I’ll give them that.” Robbie shrugged. “Are you worried?”
“I don’t know. Besides this stuff with the deed…” She sighed and leaned a hip against the counter. “Business is staying consistent, but it’s an old building. We don’t have a lot in savings to cover if something big breaks and, well, sometimes—”
His face softened into a gentle smile. “Sometimes you get tired of it all?”
She cringed. “Does that sound awful? I mean, my dad loved this place. It was his heartbeat. Granny’s too. And I do love it, but recently, I’ve just realized…” She pulled a breath in through her teeth, trying to place her feelings into words he might understand. “This has been my life. I went to school nearby, graduated college nearby, and have every significant memory of my life somehow associated with this shop. What if I’m supposed to do something else?”
His grin didn’t match the crash of loyalties in her chest. “What do you want, Clara? It sounds like that’s what you need to figure out. Not what you think your parents would have wanted. But you. And it’s okay for your dreams to be different than what you thought they were going to be.” He winked. “That’s called growing up.”
“You’re hilarious.” She swatted at him with a copy of Adelise Newsome’s newest mystery. “Now what’s this about the website design?”
He raised the paper and showed her some of his ideas to modernize the defunct page in hopes of moving her parents’ dream into the twenty-first century. Despite the fact that he’d not been encapsulated in the life of Blackwell’s as a child, once he joined the team, he’d joined from the soul out, and the bookshop seemed to ignite his creativity in the most amazing ways. Displays. Designs. Marketing. The old building with the creaky steps didn’t bother him at all.
And, most days, it didn’t bother Clara either.
But her father’s death had ignited buried questions in her heart, and Sadie’s unfinished story fueled the flame. Something in Clara’s life felt unfinished…like only reading half of a book and then placing it on the shelf. Had she shelved the part in her own story where she was supposed to do something with her life?
Her gaze dropped back to her notes from her phone call with Mrs. Pinkerton. Granny Sadie had started a bookshop while being a single mom. Had she taken hold of her own story or been thrust into it by circumstances?
The idea haunted her throughout the day, dogging her steps as she reshelved a collection of hardback fairy tales, updated some of the bookkeeping, finished decorating the shop Christmas tree, and added twinkle lights to the display window in the front of the store. Her gaze caught on a couple walking hand in hand down the cobblestone street, iconic in historic Biltmore Village. Warmth branched up her neck into her face and nearly pricked at a surprising rush of tears. Taking care of her parents and the bookshop had been her life, but was the bookshop what she wanted for her future? The answer dangled on a brink onto which she didn’t dare step, because she wasn’t sure if she’d be brave enough to jump…and then have to live with the “almost.” If those dreams of happily-ever-after fell apart, or worse, never came.
“Clara, I found something in the papers you brought down from the attic.” Her mother’s voice drew her from the window, the wintery view, and the twinkle lights. “I waited until we closed to show you, but I think it’s a clue.”
Mama’s eyes sparkled as she waved a small piece of yellowed paper in the air, all those rewatched Miss Marple Mysteries gleaming in her massive smile. Clara’s grin responded, her thoughts righting themselves on the present. She had things to do now. She didn’t have time for “almost.” “I think we’re in front of the wrong bookshelf for this revelation, Mom.” Clara gestured toward the little sign to her right. “Mystery would be more appropriate than aquatic animals.”
Mom paused and glanced to the bookshelf sign as if trying to sort out Clara’s joke before shaking her head. “I found this postcard and a key.”
Clara took the proffered card and small silver key. One corner of the postcard bent inward, another had been nearly torn off, but the black ink displayed a clear, though short, message from an almost calligraphic hand. In the top right corner, a faded insignia of Biltmore’s name and logo marked the origin of the note.
Brontë is excellent, but I prefer Austen. Humor is a key to life. And who doesn’t want to read a good
