Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm (32 page)

There was a muffled voice and the sound of phones ringing. Ridge mumbled to someone before saying, “About tomorrow…” He petered out, regret in each word.

I closed my eyes. “You’re not coming, are you?” I tried not to sigh, but it spilled out regardless. The lure of a bigger, better story was too much for him to resist, and lately, the gaps between our visits grew wider. I understood his work was important, but selfishly, I wanted him all to myself. A permanent fixture in the small town I lived in.

He tutted. “I’m sorry, baby. There’s a story breaking in Indonesia, and I have to go. It’ll only be for a week or two, and then I’ll take some time off.”

Outside, leaves fluttered slowly from the oak tree, swaying softly, until they fell to the ground. I didn’t want to be the nagging girlfriend, but Ridge had said the very same thing the last three times he’d canceled a visit. But inevitably someone would call, and ask Ridge to head to the next location, and his time off would be cut short.

“I understand,” I said, trying to keep my voice bright. Sometimes I felt like I played a never-ending waiting game. Would it always be like this? “Just so you know, I have a very hot date this afternoon.”

He gasped. “You better be talking about a fictional date.” His tone was playful, but underneath there was a touch of jealousy to it. Maybe it was just as hard on him, being apart.

“One
very
hot book boyfriend…though, not as delectable as my real boyfriend—but a stand-in, until he returns.”

“Well, he better not keep you up half the night, or he’ll have me to answer to,” he faux threatened, and then said more seriously, “Things will slow down, Sarah. I want to be with you so much my soul hurts. But right now, while I’m freelance, I have to take whatever comes my way.”

“I know. I just feel so despondent sometimes. Like someone’s hit pause, and I’m frozen on the spot.” I bit my lip, trying to work out how to explain it. “It’s not just missing you—I do understand about your job—it’s…everything. The bookshop sales dwindling, the rent jacked up, everyone going on about their business, while I’m still the same old Sarah.” I’d been at this very crossroad when I’d met Ridge, and he’d swept me off my feet, like the ultimate romance hero. For a while that had been enough. After all, wasn’t love always the answer?

“You’ve had a rough few weeks. That’s all. I’ll be back soon, and I’m sure there’s something I can do to make you forget everything…”

My belly flip-flopped at the thought. He
would
make me forget everything that was outside that bedroom door, but then he’d leave and it would all tumble back.

What exactly was I searching for? My friends were getting married and having babies. Buying houses and redecorating. My life had stalled. I was an introvert, happiest hiding behind the covers of my books, reading romances to while the day away, between serving the odd customer or two, yet, lately it hadn’t been enough. I’d tried to pretend that everything was normal, and I was just in a rut…but it wasn’t working.

It was too hazy a notion of what I was trying to say, even to me. Instead of lumping Ridge with it, I changed tack. “I hope you know, you’re not leaving the house when you get home. Phones will be switched to silent, computers forgotten, and the only time we’re getting out of bed is when I need sustenance.”

“How about I sort out the sustenance?” he said, his voice heavy with desire. “And then we’ll never have to leave.”

“Promises, promises,” I said, my breath hitching. I hoped this flash of longing, this heady desire, would never wane.

“I have to go, baby. I’ll call you tonight…or tomorrow.”

“Tonight! Otherwise, I can’t guarantee the book boyfriend won’t steal your girlfriend. He’s pretty hot, I’ll have you know.”

“Why am I jealous of a fictional character?” He laughed, a low, sexy sound. “OK, tonight, but it’ll be late. Love you.” He rang off, leaving me dazed and sad that I wouldn’t see him the next day as planned.

I tried to shake the image of Ridge from my mind. If anyone walked in, they’d see my flushed face, and know exactly what I was thinking. Damn the man for being so attractive, and so effortlessly sexy. Ridge was like a model, and I was more of a shy wallflower type. How we’d ended up together was a mystery I still mulled over, every now and then.

Shortly, the sleepy town of Ashford would wake. Roller shutters would retreat upward, locals would amble down the road, some would step into the bookshop and out of the cold, and while some time away cupping a mug of steaming hot tea, and reading in any one of the cozy nooks around the labyrinth-like shop.

I loved having a place for customers to languish. Comfort was key, and if you had a good book and a hot drink, what else could you possibly need to make your day any brighter?

Wandering around the shop, feather duster in hand, I tickled it over covers, waking them from slumber. I’m sure as soon as my back was turned, the books stretched, and winked at one another.

Imagine if I had to close up for good, like so many others had in recent times. It pained me to think people were missing out on the real-life bookshop experience. Wasn’t it infinitely better when you could step into a dimly lit space, and eke your way around searching for the right novel? You could run a fingertip along the spines, smell that glorious old book scent, flick them open, and unbend a dog-eared page. Read someone else’s notes in the margin, or a highlighted passage, and see why that sentence or metaphor had dazzled the previous owner.

Second-hand books had so much
life
in them. They’d lived, sometimes in many homes, or maybe just one. They’d been on airplanes, traveled to sunny beaches, or crowded into a backpack, and taken high up a mountain where the air thinned.

Some had been held aloft tepid rose-scented baths, and thickened and warped with moisture. Others had child-like scrawls on the acknowledgement page, little fingers looking for a blank space to leave their mark.

I loved them all.

And I found it hard to part with them. Though years of book selling had steeled me. I had to let them go, and each time made a fervent wish they’d be read well, and often.

Missy, my best friend, said I was completely cuckoo, and that I spent too much time alone in my shadowy shop, because I believed my books communicated with me. A soft sigh here, as they stretched their bindings when dawn broke, or a hum, as they anticipated a customer hovering close who might run a hand along their cover, tempting them to flutter their pages hello. Books were fussy when it came to their owners, and gave off a type of sound, an almost imperceptible whirr, when the right person was near. Most people weren’t aware that books chose us, at the time when we needed them most.

Outside the breeze picked up, gathering the leaves in a swirl and blowing them down the street like waves. Rubbing my hands for warmth, I trundled into the reading room, and added some wood to the fire, barely managing to resist the urge to flop into a high-back chair, and pull one of the books from the shelves in the small, warm room.

The double-stacked books in the reading room weren’t for sale, but could be thumbed and enjoyed by anyone who wished. They were my favorites, the ones I couldn’t part with. I’d been gifted a huge range from a man whose wife had passed on, a woman who was so like me with her bookish foibles, that it was almost like she was still here. Her collection—an essential part of her life—lived on, long after she’d gone. I’d treasure them always.

Wandering back to the front of the shop, the street was coming alive. Owners milled in front of shops, chatting to early-bird customers, or lugging out A-frame signs, advertising their wares. Lil, my friend from the Gingerbread Café, waved over at me. Her heavily pregnant belly made me smile. I pulled open the front door, a gust of wind blowing my hair back, and fluttering the pages of the books.

“You take it easy!” I shouted. Lil was due any day now, but insisted on working. Times were tough for all of us, so Lil had to work, but claimed instead she wanted to spruce things up before she left. Nesting, her best friend and only employee CeeCee called it.

Lil tossed her long blonde curls back from her face. “If I take it any easier, I’ll be asleep! Besides, how are you going to survive without your chocolate fix?” The wind carried her words to me in a happy jumble.

“True,” I agreed. “I’ll be there as soon as my tummy rumbles.” It was torture, working across the road from the café, the scent of tempered chocolate or the yeasty smell of freshly baked bread melding its way to my shop. I’d find myself crossing the street and demanding to be fed, flopping lazily on their sofa, while they flitted around making all my food dreams come true. The girls from the café were great friends, and often gave me a metaphorical shove in the back when they thought I should step from the shadows of my shop and try something new, like love, for example. They’d practically set me up with Ridge, knowing I wouldn’t take the leap myself. Their hearts were in the right place, and I thanked my lucky stars I had such good friends.

Lil’s boisterous laughter brought me back to the moment. “See you soon. I’ll have a chocolate soufflé with your name on it.”

“You’d tempt the devil himself!” I joked and gave her a wave before stepping back into the warmth of the bookshop.

My email pinged and I dashed over to see who it was from.

Sales@littlebookshop.

Sophie, a dear friend. She owned Once Upon a Time, a famous bookshop by the bank of the Seine. We’d become confidantes since connecting on the blog a while back, and shared our joys and sorrows about bookshop life. She was charming and sweet, and adored books as much as me, believing them to be portable magic, and a tonic for all that ails.

I clicked open the email and read.

Ma Chérie,

I cannot stay one more day in Paris. You see, Manu has not so much broken my heart, rather pulled it out of my chest and stomped on it. The days are interminable and I can’t catch my breath. He walks past the bookshop, as though nothing is amiss. I have a proposal for you. Please call me as soon as you can.

Love,

Sophie

Poor Sophie. I’d heard all about her grand love affair with a dashing twenty-something man, who frequented her bookshop, and quoted famous poets. It’d been a whirlwind romance, but she often worried he cast an appraising eye over other women. Even when she clutched his hand, and walked along the cobbled streets of Paris, he’d dart an admiring glance at any woman swishing past.

I shot off a quick reply, telling her to Skype me now, if she was able. Within seconds my computer flashed with an incoming call.

Her face appeared on the screen, her chestnut-colored hair in an elegant chignon, her lips dusted rosy pink. If she was in the throes of heartache, you’d never know it by looking at her. The French had a way of always looking poised and together, no matter what was happening in their complex lives.

“Darling,” she said, giving me a nod. “He’s a lothario, a Casanova, a…” She grappled for another moniker as her voice broke. “He’s dating the girl who owns the shop next door!” Her eyes smoldered, but her face remained stoic.

I gasped, “Which girl? The one from the florist?”

Sophie shook her head. “The other side, the girl from the fromagerie.” She grimaced. I’d heard so much about the people in and around Sophie’s life that it was easy to call her neighbors to mind. “Giselle?” I said incredulous. “Wasn’t she engaged—I thought the wedding was any day now?”

Sophie’s eyes widened. “She’s broken off her engagement, and has announced to the world that
my
Manu has proposed and now they are about to set up house and to try immediately for children—”

My hand flew to my mouth. “Children! He wouldn’t do that, surely!” Sophie was mid-forties, and had gently broached the subject of having a baby with Manu, but he’d said simply: absolutely not, he didn’t want children.

The doorbell of her shop jingled, Sophie’s face pinched and she leaned closer to the screen, lowering her voice. “A customer…” She forced a bright smile, turned her head and spoke in rapid-fire French to whoever stood just off screen. “So,” she continued quietly. “The entire neighborhood are whispering behind their hands about the love triangle, and unfortunately for me, I’m the laughing stock. The older woman, who was deceived by a younger man.”

I wished I could lean through the monitor and hug her. While she was an expert at keeping her features neutral, she couldn’t stop the glassiness of her eyes when tears threatened. My heart broke that Manu would treat her so callously. She’d trusted him, and loved him unreservedly. “No one is laughing at you, I promise,” I said. “They’ll be talking about Manu, if anyone, and saying how he’s made a huge mistake.”

“No, no.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “I look like a fool. I simply cannot handle when he cavorts through the streets with her, darting glances in my bookshop, like they hope I’ll see them. It’s too cruel.” Sophie held up a hand, and turned to a voice. She said au revoir to the customer and spun to face me, but within a second or two, the bell jingled again. “I have a proposal for you, and I want you to
really
consider it.” She raised her eyebrows. “Or at least hear me out before you say no.” Her gaze burned into mine as I racked my brain with what it could be, and came up short. Sophie waved to customers, and pivoted her screen further away.

“Well?” I said with a nervous giggle. “What exactly are you proposing?”

She blew out a breath, and then smiled. “A bookshop exchange. You come and run Once Upon a Time, and I’ll take over the Bookshop on the Corner.”

My jaw dropped, and I gasped.

Sophie continued, her calm belied by the slight quake in her hand as she gesticulated. “You’ve always said how much you yearned to visit the city of love—here’s your chance, my dear friend. After our language lessons, you’re more than capable of speaking enough French to get by.” Sophie’s words spilled out in a desperate rush, her earlier calm vanishing. “You’d save me so much heartache. I want to be in a place where no one knows me, and there’s no chance for love,
ever
again.”