The Secrets of Paper and Ink

by Lindsay Harrel

Right. The very opposite of what she’d learned in six years of school for counseling and countless practicum hours. “I know all of that. But going to therapy with Cindy was just the thing I needed to get past it all. I’m better now.”

  Well, she would be, once she relearned how to stand on her own two feet.

  And part of that meant facing the world again. “I need this.” Sophia gestured around the room. “To return to something familiar. To keep busy.” To help other people. Mom always said that was the best way to get out of your own head—and Sophia was so tired of being in hers.

  Joy rubbed her forehead. Clearly she wasn’t finished, despite all the protests she’d already laid in the weeks leading up to today. “I’m just afraid that being here will trigger—”

  “I do appreciate your concern, Joy. I do. But please. Just trust me.” Sophia stood and straightened her shoulders. “Now, it looks like my client will be here at nine, so I need to get to my office and prep.” She walked toward the door and turned. “Goodness knows I wouldn’t have survived without you. But I’m ready. I can do this.”

  Joy’s smile appeared forced. “Okay.”

  Sophia stepped across the hall and rummaged through her bag for her keys. She unlocked the door and flicked on the fluorescent lights. The air smelled stale, tinged with disuse and the remnants in her apple-and-spice diffuser. Someone had cleared her desktop of any paper. Sophia slid into her chair and fired up her computer for the first time in months.

  Her eyes roamed the office as she waited for her e-mail program to load. In the corner sat the most comfortable couch she’d ever had. Pride pricked her chest as she studied her master’s degree and the certification that named her Sophia Barrett, Licensed Professional Counselor in the state of Arizona. No matter what happened, no one could take that away from her.

  Finally, Sophia reached across her desk and snatched the photo frame that had sat there ever since she’d started working here half a decade ago. At first, the picture inside the frame was a family photo—just her and Mom. Then a few years ago, she’d traded it for an engagement photo—only four months after she’d met David.

  The picture in the frame showed Sophia on his back, her long, black hair flowing down her shoulders, pale blue eyes trusting and full of love, her arms wrapped around his neck with his grasped under her knees, a tangle of love and obsession that had grown since that first time she’d seen him at the coffee shop and he’d actually noticed her somehow.

  His brown eyes stared at her from the photo. They’d always called to her as if he were a Siren and she Odysseus. His easy smile and thick hair had given him a Patrick Dempsey air, and his impeccable taste in clothing had spoken of the wealth he’d grown up knowing.

  She’d fallen head over black Payless flats. Plain-Jane Sophia Barrett had landed a prince, a man all the women wanted.

  A prince on the outside, anyway. The inside was another matter entirely.

  Sophia opened a desk drawer and stuffed the photo inside. There. Progress.

  She worked through a slew of e-mails until Kristin buzzed her office, informing Sophia of her client’s arrival.

  Ugh, she hated the first-day jitters that flew through her whole being. But surely they’d go away once she set aside her own emotions and focused on someone else.

  With a deep breath, Sophia rose and headed to the waiting room. “Patty Smith?”

  A mousy woman who looked to be in her late thirties stood, her shoulders stooped and brown hair hanging limp in her face. “Here.” Her voice squeaked.

  Sophia extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Sophia Barrett.”

  The woman avoided her gaze, but shook her hand and murmured a return greeting.

  Sophia led her back to her office and gestured to the couch. “Please, have a seat.”

  Patty did as she asked, sitting on the very edge of the couch. Her build was difficult to determine thanks to the oversized sweater she wore. In Phoenix. In late May. Her sneakered feet tapped against the carpeted floor in quick succession.

  Sophia’s heart squeezed. “Patty, I like to record my sessions so I can take fewer notes when I’m with you.” She made sure her voice was soft, as if soothing a child, but without patronization. “Would that be all right?”

  Patty’s eyes darted upward. “I don’t want anyone knowing I was here.”

  The way she said “anyone” sent a chill up Sophia’s spine. And suddenly, her behavior made sense. Why she was here made sense.

  Had Joy known when she’d given Sophia this client? Her friend wasn’t that cruel, was she? But perhaps she was testing Sophia, making sure she was really as ready as she’d claimed.

  “No one but me will ever listen to these tapes. I promise.” The words stuck in her throat.

  Patty tugged at one of her long sleeves. “I guess so.”

  “Great.” Sophia clicked Record on her device. “Now, why don’t we start by simply getting to know each other? I’m Sophia and I’ve been a licensed professional counselor for eight years, working here at LifeSong for the last five. I have a cat named Gigi, I love taking walks in the park when it’s not a thousand degrees outside, and I simply adore British literature. How about you?”

  The woman blew out a breath. A series of emotions flew across her features, finally settling on determination. “I’m Patty. I’ve been married to Jack for eleven years. We have two young children, Turner and Sabrina. I stay home with the kids, and Jack works construction.”

  “And what do you like to do for fun?”

  “Fun?” Patty looked completely bewildered, as if nobody had ever asked her that. “I . . .” She stifled a sob. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. This is a safe space.” Sophia snatched a tissue from a box next to her chair, leaning to hand it to Patty.

  “Safe. What does that mean, really?” Patty wiped underneath her eyes and blew her nose. “I lied about why I made this appointment. I told your secretary I was here for anxiety.”

  The chill returned to Sophia’s spine. “Oh?” It was the only word she could manage.

  “I’m here because . . .” Patty’s hand trembled. She rolled up her sleeve, revealing at least a dozen bruises, all in different stages of healing. “This.”

  Nausea rolled through Sophia’s stomach. “Who—” She cleared her throat. “Who did that to you, Patty?”

  “I don’t think he means to.” Patty let her sleeve fall back into place. “He just gets so angry when he drinks.”

  I’m sorry, baby. That wasn’t me. Not the real me. It was the scotch talking.

  No. His voice was not welcome here. Not now. Sophia reached deep inside, pulling from the strength she’d gained in the last few months. She gripped her pen tighter. “Your husband?”

  A slight nod. “He’s a good father. And a good husband. Most of the time. I just make him mad sometimes. I try not to, but maybe I’m just not grateful enough for what I have, you know?”

  I’ve done nothing but love you, you ungrateful—

  “That’s called victim blaming, Patty. Tell me, do you believe those things?”

  The words burned her tongue. How could she ask that?

  After all, she’d let David sweet-talk her into loving him—preying on her vulnerability and the fact that she’d been too focused on school and then work to date much and experience real love—then stayed with him even when he began putting her down, a little at a time, then all the time, until her self-confidence was zilch and her emotions frayed.

  And though he’d only hit her once, right before he died, how could Sophia sit here and ask this woman if she believed the lies her husband told her?

  Because she had believed them, despite everything her textbooks had ever taught her.

  Hypocrite.

  Patty shrugged with one shoulder. She leaned forward. “All I know is, I can’t live like this anymore. The other day, I actually had the thought—” Another sob wrenched from her throat.

  “What thought,
Patty?” The words came out tense, strung together of desperation. A physical aching filled Sophia’s bones.

  “I wished . . . I wished he was dead.”

  A flood of memories rushed in, David’s voice at the forefront of them all. Pointing fingers, flying fists, nasty words—all aimed her direction.

  The strength she’d imagined holding her in this chair left her body.

  She couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t help this woman. She couldn’t even help herself.

  “I’m sorry, Patty. I have . . . I have to leave.”

  Sophia rose from her seat and raced out the door.

  2

  GINNY

  So much of her future hinged on the twitch of an eye.

  Ginny Rose folded her hands and placed them in her lap. The small office where she sat across from Reginald Brown felt stuffy despite the cool May temperatures outside. A droplet of sweat ran down the side of her face. Perhaps she should have worn her long, brown hair up in a bun like Mother would have. But these days, she tried to avoid doing anything like Mariah Bentley.

  Not that it mattered how professional and grown-up she looked. Though the people of Port Willis had embraced her as one of their own five years ago when she’d trailed Garrett Rose from America to Cornwall, England, it was a small town. Mr. Brown knew her situation, no matter how she’d tried to put a positive spin on it.

  He cleared his throat as he studied her application for a loan. “I apologize I didn’t have a chance to review this before now. My secretary squeezed you in last minute as a courtesy.”

  “Oh, I completely understand. And thank you. Again.”

  His long, bony fingers tapped the edge of the multipage document in front of him. Mr. Brown adjusted his spectacles, and a slight frown overtook the corners of his droopy lips.

  Just as long as his eye didn’t twitch. According to her brother-in-law William—who had grown up in this town and had known Mr. Brown all his life—if that happened, she was done for.

  And she couldn’t bear to consider the possibility of that happening. How would Rosebud Books ever survive without this loan?

  The better question was, how much of this was her fault—and how much was Garrett’s? He’d always been in charge of the money side of things, despite the three years of business courses Ginny had taken before dropping out of Harvard. Numbers had never really been her passion, so she’d been more than happy to let him handle the bookstore’s finances. Perhaps that had been a mistake. Or maybe she’d simply spent too much during the six months since he’d been gone.

  How embarrassed her parents would be if they knew. Not that she could really do much to “humiliate” them further, according to her mom. She’d already chosen to do things far differently from her older siblings Sarah and Benjamin, who had followed in their parents’ footsteps—she a high-powered attorney, he a vice president in a subsidiary of their father’s company.

  Ginny’s knee began an up-and-down motion of its own accord. Her attention moved to the picture window behind Mr. Brown. From here, she could glimpse High Street, where the 9:00 a.m. bustle had taken over the previously quiet main road. Next door, the bakery’s quaint wooden sign banged against the whitewashed siding. The wind must be blowing down from the bluffs again. She imagined she could hear it whistling through the narrow streets.

  But she couldn’t. In here, there was nothing but Mr. Brown’s clock ticking away Ginny’s fate.

  The silence became as stifling as the humidity in the office.

  “Mr. Trengrouse was baking something new today.” Ginny couldn’t keep the words in. They tumbled out as if pulled from her throat by some invisible force. “A sort of fancy raisin croissant with frosting. I can run next door and snatch one for you if you’d like.”

  Her outburst was met with the raise of one bushy eyebrow. But no twitching of that right eye. Yet. “No, thank you, Mrs. Rose. I’m quite all right.” Mr. Brown moved his eyes back to her application.

  The document sat there, stark white and vulnerable against the deep brown of his desk, which she recognized as a Huntington. Her father had one in his own study in Boston. Business at the bank must be booming with the recent economic recession of Port Willis and many other villages along the northern Cornish coast. She couldn’t be the only business owner desperate for a loan.

  But maybe she was the only one foolish enough to not quit when all signs said she should.

  Ginny smoothed the edge of her polyester business suit skirt, a gift from her mom that had somehow ended up in the suitcase she’d packed when she’d followed Garrett to this tiny town. A wrinkle in the deep-green fabric remained, despite three attempts at ironing. Mother would have never left the house in such “disarray.”

  She bounced her knee faster, banging it against the desk’s overhang and stifling a moan.

  Mr. Brown glanced at her. “Are you all right, Mrs. Rose?”

  She had a feeling he wasn’t just asking about her knee.

  “Yes. Perfectly.” Ginny flashed a grin that likely resembled more of a grimace. “Just anxious to hear your verdict.”

  “I’m hardly a judge.”

  Oh, but didn’t he realize that he was? His yea or nay affected more than just Ginny. After all, it was Garrett’s bookstore too—their dream together. Well, more his, but she’d thrown all she had into it and it had become their baby together, a blessing since they hadn’t yet been able to have actual children of their own.

  If she gave up on the bookstore, then what did it say about the state of their marriage? Garrett may have needed some space to think, but once he returned from London, ready to embrace her once again, he would not be happy if she’d let their dream die.

  Of course, it would have helped if he hadn’t drained half of their accounts before he left.

  But he’d see the error of his ways. He had to. Mother couldn’t have been right about him.

  “Hmm.” The deep-throated mumbling in Mr. Brown’s throat grated against the silence that hung in the office.

  At long last, he removed his spectacles and sighed. “Mrs. Rose, how do you suppose this loan would help you? Yes, in the short term it can help pay some of your costs, but what is your long-term plan for overhauling your business? I know you’ve submitted the paper here, but I’d like to hear it from your lips.”

  “I’ve been brainstorming ways to bring in extra revenue and build some momentum for future success.” She outlined her ideas, and unfortunately, it didn’t take long. “I just need a leg up right now. A little wiggle room to get through the slump the economy has brought to us all. I’ve run the numbers and am confident that the extra revenue brought in by these changes will allow us to pay back this loan in record time.”

  She almost believed herself.

  Mr. Brown folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. His chair squeaked with the movement. “I’m not sure what numbers you’ve run to come to that conclusion, but I have to look at the facts in front of me.”

  His right eye—was that a twitch? Ginny held in a groan.

  “According to the documents you’ve submitted here, profits at Rosebud Books have dwindled drastically in the last six months. I understand that part of that is the normal ebb and flow that comes with the lower tourist interest Port Willis has pulled in recently, but . . .”

  Oh, that was most definitely an eye twitch.

  Ginny slumped in her seat. “But what?”

  “Well, my dear, it also accounts for the time you have been running the store . . . on your own.”

  The groan moved into her chest, threatening to escape. “He’ll be back.”

  Had she really just said those words aloud? If only she could hide under the table, sink through a hole in the floor, disappear with a wriggle of her nose. Anything. “That is, I was a bit . . . taken aback by the circumstances I found myself in. But I know that a loan could be just the blessing I need to keep going.”

  Holy cow, she sounded desperate. This man had no reason to help her. Despite her five y
ears of living in this town, some people held her at arm’s length now that Garrett had moved to London temporarily. After all, he was the town’s golden boy, and naturally some people made assumptions that she’d been the one to chase him away. Perhaps Mr. Brown was one of those people.

  “Look.” Mr. Brown’s gray eyebrows bunched together and his lips puckered, as much a sympathetic expression as he could muster. “I know it can’t be easy with everything you have going on. But I’m running a business here and can’t hand out money. I’m afraid I can’t offer you this loan.”

  The groan flew out of Ginny’s mouth, deep and pathetic and embarrassing. “What can I say to change your mind?”

  Mr. Brown’s eye twitching picked up speed. In fact, wait . . . Was his left eye twitching too? That was bad. Very bad.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rose. My mind is made up. Perhaps you should give up and go home where you belong.”

  3

  SOPHIA

  “Can I help you find something?”

  Sophia dragged her gaze from the rows of books in front of her to face a teenage girl in a red shirt. The girl wore an employee badge that read, “My name is Lauren, and my favorite author is Rae Carson.” Her face was apple shaped and innocent, and she looked at Sophia with a mixture of curiosity and dismay.

  And no wonder. Sophia’s eyes stung from the litany of tears she’d cried. They probably looked atrociously red and smeared with mascara. “No, I’m just browsing. Thank you.”

  The girl quirked an eyebrow and nodded. “Just let someone know if you need help finding a particular book.” She wheeled her restocking cart around the aisle of the bookstore and disappeared.

  Sophia had the sudden urge to run after the girl and make her promise to be careful out there, to not give herself away to the first guy with a cute smile she met, to—

  Oh brother. Snap out of it, Sophia.

  She turned back toward the selection of Robert Appleton novels, running her fingertips over the spines of her favorites: Moonbeams on the Moor, Whisper Across the Bluffs, A Path Unwinding. Though she owned copies at home, their pages stiffened from the oils on her fingers, she loved to come here and experience them afresh. There was just something about the way they spoke to her, instilling hope through the strong heroines who faced great odds to find love and happiness. She snagged Moonbeams, then headed for the circle of overstuffed leather chairs at the front of the bookstore.