The Secrets of Paper and Ink

by Lindsay Harrel

  With a quick pat, Sophia put Gigi down and explored the refrigerator: a half-full container of milk, one apple, and some lunch meat that may or may not be expired. She sighed. “Should have bought some dinner on my way home, shouldn’t I?”

  Her voice seemed to echo in the cavernous space. She closed the fridge and headed to her bedroom upstairs. Why had she and David purchased this monstrosity of a home? It was so different from the modest, two-bedroom house she’d grown up in. Two people and a cat didn’t need four thousand square feet. But David had said it was a home befitting a lawyer, and hadn’t he worked hard to make partner by the age of thirty-five? He deserved it.

  In some ways, she’d been attracted to his power suits and flashy cars. But she’d never quite fit in with his affluent crowd. And when he’d died and she’d inherited all of his money, she’d paid off the house and stuck the rest in her savings account and hadn’t touched it since.

  Sophia replaced her work clothes with yoga pants and a T-shirt. Gigi followed her and settled onto the quilt laid on the edge of the California king-sized bed—Sophia’s attempt to make the black-and-white designer room feel more . . . her.

  She plopped onto the bed and scratched Gigi’s head. Joy’s words from earlier this morning replayed in her brain on repeat. Should she give journaling a shot? Maybe the words would flow faster than she thought. Maybe she’d find the healing that seemed to elude her. Wasn’t it worth the risk?

  Her eyes swung to her nightstand, where the white leather journal Joy had given her sat buried under a few other books. Sophia leaned over and dug it out from the pile. It was gorgeous, with her name in pink threading across the front, along with a design of sunbursts and flowers.

  Every time she’d attempted to write in it, it had ended up tossed across the room. Yet somehow, the leather cover remained nearly pristine, with only a smudge on the lower right corner indicative of all it had been through.

  But perhaps she’d never been able to write in the journal because she hadn’t been ready. Maybe now she was.

  She licked her lips and grabbed a pen, poised it over the first page. Closed her eyes, visualized the words spilling from her.

  Nothing.

  Who was she kidding? She wasn’t a writer. Had never aspired to be. She just loved reading—seeing words come to life on a page. Would she ever be able to string them together for herself?

  As if sensing her need for companionship, Gigi moved to curl up next to her, rubbing her nose a few times against Sophia’s knee.

  Maybe this was a horrible idea. Sophia gripped the pen in her fingers, shuffling it back and forth against the upper part of her middle finger and the pad of her thumb. She studied her room: the overstuffed chair in the corner, the shutters, the floor vase filled with fake calla lilies, the large mirror over the vanity . . .

  And suddenly, violent images shuddered through her.

  Her head slamming against the edge of the vanity. Blood everywhere. She’d had to convince the carpet cleaners that she’d tripped over a pair of boots . . .

  No. Too much.

  She slammed the journal shut, repressing the urge to hurl it. Instead, she placed it firmly on her nightstand. “Come on, Gigi.” Sophia grabbed a Robert Appleton novel and headed out of the room and down the stairs, ready to sink onto the couch and pick up the story where she’d left off.

  Her phone jangled from her purse, which still sat lonely on the large kitchen island. She rummaged through her bag till she found it. “Hey, Mama.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t have anything for dinner?” Mom’s voice lit the line with humor.

  “You’d be correct. And your timing is impeccable.” She plopped onto the couch. It was old and floral-patterned, a Goodwill find from six months ago. She and Joy had been shopping for something “vintage” for Joy’s new apartment, and Sophia had grown weary, sitting on the couch as she waited for her friend to dig through a pile of clutter. The couch had been so comfortable, she’d sunk into it and nearly fallen asleep.

  Joy had joked that Sophia should just buy it. Pointed out how much David would have hated it.

  And now, here it was, her tiny act of rebellion. Too little too late, but it was something.

  “How about I come over with some pizza?”

  Sophia tucked her feet underneath her body. “Aren’t you busy with that really big wedding? I thought you had a meeting with the bride tonight.” Despite her meager beginnings as a secretary at an event planning corporation, Mom had really made something of herself after Sophia’s dad had decided that being a family man was no longer appealing. Now Sandy Barrett was a sought-after wedding planner with a busier schedule than her daughter. But she never complained about her late hours or long days because she saw it as her calling in life to help brides have the perfect Big Day and do anything she could to serve them.

  “She got sick and canceled, so my evening is wide open.”

  “Why don’t you go out on the town with your friends from Bible study? You’re all empty nesters now.” The group of women from Palmcroft Baptist Church had raised their kids together and supported one another through multiple crises. They’d even brought Sophia meals after David died. “I’m sure you have better things to do than come hang out here with your boring daughter.”

  “Sophia Lynn Barrett, don’t you ever say that. A mother’s greatest joy is being with her children. Especially when they are no longer throwing tantrums, clinging to her legs, or begging for the latest toy.”

  “I make no promises that I won’t do those things.”

  “I’ll risk it. Be over in an hour with your favorite sausage and pineapple pizza in hand.”

  “And you won’t even call me a weirdo like Joy does for liking that particular combination.” Sophia pulled at a loose thread on the couch.

  “Doesn’t mean I don’t think it.”

  “Ha-ha.” The thread unraveled a bit more. “Hey, Mom, speaking of Joy—did she call you?”

  “No. Why?” There was a hitch in her upbeat tone.

  “Never mind.” Mom just had a sixth sense about these things. Or maybe she knew that Sophia was always in need of her these days.

  “Thanks, Mom.” A sudden clog of emotion made her throat dry.

  Sophia knew Mom wanted to rescue her—goodness knew she understood how it felt to be mistreated by a man. Even though Sophia’s father had never spoken harshly to or hit Mom, his abandonment when Sophia was a child had dealt her mother a heavy blow that had taken years of recovery and healing.

  Still, no matter how many nights Mom spent letting Sophia cry on her shoulder, the next day always came, and here Sophia would be, alone in this big house.

  But it wasn’t Mom’s job to protect her. That had been Sophia’s job, and she’d failed.

  After all, from a young age Sophia had known the truth—that a woman had to learn to stand on her own two feet. Her mother had, and Sophia had put her all into doing the same. Until she met David.

  Then she’d melted into a puddle of weakness, and her resolve had become wisps in the wind, floating away at the first knee-trembling smile he’d turned her way.

  Pathetic.

  Her therapist, Cindy—and Joy too—would have a conniption if they knew how much self-loathing she still secretly harbored. In her brain, she knew it wasn’t healthy.

  But how was she supposed to let it go? All she could do was make sure it never happened again.

  She hung up with Mom and settled back into the book. Maybe she was escaping, but if she had to escape, then there was no better place than Cornwall. She closed her eyes, pictured herself walking where Julia and Martin walked, taking in the gorgeous sunsets off the bluffs, surfing in the probably very chilly ocean. She laughed at the absurdity. As if she could ever surf, despite the fact her father had been a surfer once upon a time. When she’d confided her desire to learn, David had scoffed, called her a city girl who had no business doing anything adventurous, said—

  “Enough.”

  She lo
oked up, startled. Had . . . had she said that? Had that word come from her mouth? That sentiment from her soul?

  Yes, it had.

  Because what was so absurd about her surfing in Cornwall? And what was so impossible about her lying in the tall grass, staring at the sky and dreaming of a better future?

  Maybe even . . .

  No.

  But perhaps . . . yes.

  And then a feeling overtook her, one that smacked of holiness, if she really believed in that sort of thing—like she used to. A moment that felt ordained. An idea. A way to move forward, when here she was basically stuck.

  But maybe in Cornwall she could get unstuck.

  Not as if there was anything magical about that place. Not really. It was just dirt and sun and sky and water like anywhere else. But for her, it was also the home of amazing authors like Robert Appleton, the place he’d been inspired to write, the place he’d described as “the most freeing, most alive realm in all the world—and I have the privilege of calling it mine.”

  Could it perhaps be Sophia’s too? At least for a time? Two weeks, maybe? Three? The whole summer?

  Could it inspire even the most frightened and hesitant of wannabe storytellers?

  Before she could talk herself out of the idea, she ran to the den that functioned as her office down the hall. She snapped on her computer, pointed her browser to Google, and, fingers trembling, typed in words that just might change her life forever.

  Vacation rentals in Cornwall, England.

  6

  SOPHIA

  It was even lovelier than in her dreams.

  Sophia climbed from her rental vehicle—somehow she’d survived driving on the opposite side of the road—and stared at the adorable town spreading out below her. She stood at the top of a hill in the large community parking lot, or “car park” as it was labeled. It sounded so . . . British. A thrill of excitement ran up her spine.

  Was she really here?

  The breeze brought a whiff of briny ocean and fish. It was an altogether different smell from the mingling of dirt and smog she was used to as a native Phoenician. Sophia stepped forward to glance below. She could make out the harbor with at least two dozen sailboats and other ships docked tightly near the pier.

  Despite the flurry of hurried prepping for her trip in a matter of days, she’d managed to do a bit of research on the town and had read that Port Willis survived largely on fishing, crabbing, and tourism, though it had suffered lower tourist numbers the last few years. Sophia’s eyes closed as she imagined the fishermen’s boats nestled against the coastline, waiting to bring in an exciting catch each day. Her mouth watered at the thought of tasting fresh-caught crab, a surprise given her pure lack of appetite over the last several months.

  Back home, she constantly felt hemmed in by the heat, the continuous rush of people and cars on the freeway, the houses crammed together in massive subdivisions that spanned the entire “Valley of the Sun.” But here, the water stretched beyond her sight, whispering freedom to her soul.

  “Would you mind moving a bit to the left, love?”

  Sophia’s eyes popped open, and she realized she was standing in the exit to the car park, where a man in a small car was attempting to leave. He’d leaned out the window to speak to her, and instead of the annoyance she would have expected, his eyes lit with humor, his lips with a smile—a very attractive one.

  “Oh my. I’m so sorry.” She moved out of his way in a flash, then looked back toward her car. How far had she walked without realizing it?

  “Not a problem. Are you lost?” This time his English accent caught her attention. The sincerity in his tone again surprised her. How sad, really, that kindness from a stranger should.

  “Just taking in the view.” Sophia spread her hand out, indicating the town. “I guess I got a little carried away.”

  “It’s easy to do.” The man smiled again, a dimple appearing in his right cheek. “Enjoy your time in Port Willis. It’s a lovely little town.”

  “I will, thanks.” As the man drove off, Sophia returned to her car and lugged her overstuffed suitcase from the trunk. When Joy heard she’d booked a trip to England, she was delighted. At first, she’d suggested that Sophia continue her therapy sessions with Cindy via Skype, but Sophia had decided a complete break from the therapy process was in order. She just needed to fully escape, press reset on life. She’d promised to resume sessions with Cindy in September when she returned, though.

  Mom had been a bit more concerned than Joy, especially when she’d heard how long Sophia would be gone. She’d even offered to come with her. But this was something Sophia had to do on her own, and Mom had understood.

  Of course, part of Sophia wondered if she was crazy, or if escaping for months really was healthy. She’d be away from everything and everyone she knew. But staying put in a place where David and her memories haunted every room hadn’t done much for her psyche either.

  And when she’d found a place with rent for next to nothing, plus the opportunity to work in a bookstore of all places, it had seemed like fate. She’d booked the rental through the end of August and decided to leave in less than a week—why stick around Phoenix when nothing was stopping her from going immediately? The thought had crossed her mind that the bookstore could be owned by complete psychopaths, but she hadn’t had to pay much of a deposit in advance, so she could always leave early if things felt shady.

  As Sophia wheeled her suitcase down the pavement toward the centuries-old village below, she felt, in a strange way, that she was coming home. Cornwall was the same as novels had always described it, though the sky was a brighter blue, the air saltier, and the breeze fresher than even words could bring to life.

  She passed strangers on the street, and each one tipped his head or waved her hand in greeting. It was a Saturday, so children played in huddles or ran in happy groups down the streets, which bustled with activity the closer to the town center she came. Sophia passed pub after pub, each advertising a special catch of the day. There was a Cornish pasty shop on the corner she promised herself she’d try right away. She stopped at the fudge shop and peeked in the window, amazed at the large variety of flavors she could see even from here. The enticing scent of chocolates, peanuts, and cinnamon drifted from inside as a man led his young daughter out the door, ice cream dripping from her cone.

  Her phone dinged inside her purse. Sophia dug it out and saw a text from Joy: Wanted to see if you’d made it okay. So excited to hear about all your adventures and praying you’re able to find and tell your story at last. XOXO

  Sophia fired off a reply: Just arrived. Walking to the bookstore now. It’s gorgeous here. I feel like I’ve stepped into a novel and I never want to leave.

  She pulled up the e-mail on her phone and looked once more at her B&B Today confirmation with the bookstore’s address. From what she could tell from the map, she was close. Sophia rounded the corner and there, tucked between two more modern-looking shops, sat Rosebud Books. The wooden sign’s paint was peeling around the edges, but in a quaint way, and it beckoned to her.

  Suddenly, her heart picked up speed. What would she find inside?

  “Books, silly.” She whispered the words under her breath. Books, the things that had always brought her comfort whether school was easy or difficult, whether she’d found the perfect job or not, whether her fiancé was alive or dead, a monster or her personal hero.

  Books had always been her escape. Here, she hoped they’d become her healing.

  Sophia took the handle of the door and swung it open. Immediately, she was surrounded by her favorite smell in the world—that of old pages and book spines, slightly musty but not in a stuffy way. No, this mustiness was an old friend, one that spoke of stories told and untold, of age and wisdom and love and passion and history and . . . everything.

  “Welcome to Rosebud Books.”

  Sophia’s head snapped toward the front counter, where a twenty-something woman wearing a faded Beatles T-shirt stood be
hind a computer. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail off her long neck, and though her dark eyes were friendly, Sophia sensed an exhaustion behind them. Despite that, her smile took up nearly half of her face, and her dimples made her more adorable than drop-dead gorgeous, which also put Sophia immediately at ease.

  And wait—she sounded American. “Thank you. Are you Ginny? I’m Sophia.”

  “Hi!” The woman made her way from behind the counter, revealing a casual pair of jeans and purple Chucks on her feet. “I’m so pleased to meet you. Nice to have someone else from the States here.” Yes, definitely American, with a Boston lilt.

  “I agree.” How had this woman landed here in this tiny English town? She must have an interesting story to tell.

  “Would you like to see your room now? I’m sure you must be tired from your travels.”

  “Sure. That’d be great.”

  “Follow me, then.” Ginny led her toward the back of the store, wringing her hands ever so slightly. “I’ll of course give you a proper tour later, but in case you’re curious, over there is our new book section. We specialize in older editions, but also sell modern books to keep up with the times. Back that way is our used section, and then you have our rare books all the way in the back.”

  Sophia took it all in while Ginny chattered on. If Port Willis felt like home, then this store would be her sanctuary. Yes, she could picture it.

  Ginny stopped at the base of a staircase and pointed up toward a door. “Your apartment is just above. As listed in the advertisement, it’s a study with bedroom furniture and a small kitchen and bathroom. Oh.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out a key. “You’ll need this. And if you need anything else, I live in the cottage behind the store and I’m usually up late. So don’t be afraid to text me, and I can be right over.”

  Sophia took the key. “Thanks so much. And when do I need to report for duty? I know part of the deal is working at the bookstore.”