“I wonder if whoever donated this box knew this was in here. They might be sad to have lost it. Do you keep a record of donors?”
“We probably should, but no.”
Sophia cracked the spine of the notebook once again. Just because something wasn’t published didn’t mean that what she held in her hands didn’t have value. What a treasure. “Do you mind if I buy this from you?”
Ginny looked at her as if she’d gone mental. “Just keep it. And if you come across any other books that don’t meet our criteria for selling or donating, you’re welcome to those as well.”
“Really? Awesome. Thanks.” Sophia moved the notebook aside and created a new pile.
“I’d better get back up front. Thank you again for all your hard work. You haven’t even been here a week and you’re already making my life easier.”
Sophia picked up a new book and began examining the cover. “I’m happy to help.”
Ginny left the room, shutting Sophia in half-darkness again.
Dust kicked up from the door’s movement and Sophia sneezed. She refocused on the book in front of her, but her thoughts kept drifting to the notebook. Finally, when she couldn’t stand it a moment longer, she penciled a price into the book she held, set it in the sell pile, and picked up the notebook.
Sophia opened to the first page and began reading:
On the outside, I was a simple woman, with a simple life.
The words, the tone—something about the writing resonated with her. Perhaps Sophia could see a bit of herself in this unnamed author. How could anyone have given this away? And was it a work of fiction or truth?
Whatever it was, one thing was certain. The “simple woman” had a story worth telling.
Oh.
The truth smacked her between the eyes. Joy’s words flooded back to her: “Your story is worth telling, Soph.”
Sophia breathed in deep. This girl had a story worth telling—and so did Sophia.
It was worth telling.
It was.
Why did she have to try so hard to convince herself that her story was worth it, when she could so easily find worth in anyone else’s words, even this faceless somebody she’d discovered by accident?
Because she shouldn’t have had a story in the first place. It was her fault for letting it happen. For staying. She knew the signs, what they’d eventually lead to.
No, it wasn’t my fault.
Frustration clawed up her throat and came out as a groan. Even after months of therapy—even after being a therapist and knowing what she “should” feel—her insides were all mixed up.
Because some days, she missed David with a fierceness that surprised her. But then it was followed by relief. Then anger at herself. Then guilt. Then a tumult of other emotions.
But no matter what she felt, she knew deep down that her story did matter. She had to fight against the lie that it didn’t. And if she didn’t protect her own story or have the courage to write it down, no one else would.
No one else could.
Sophia set aside the notebook, dusted off her jeans, opened the door, headed up the stairs to her bedroom, and found the white journal and pen she’d brought all the way across the ocean. She curled up in the window seat, which overlooked the street below. For a moment, fear fought to overtake her. She heard David’s words: Not good enough. Not strong enough.
If she didn’t fight for herself, who would?
So with the slash of her pen across the page, she finally joined the battle.
9
EMILY
DECEMBER 1856
On the outside, I was a simple woman, with a simple life.
I did not, however, have simple dreams. And in that moment, as I imagined each breath might be my father’s last, they seemed most impossible.
The candle flickered on the table next to my father’s bed, the yellowish hue of his skin lessened in the dim lighting. I laid aside the book I’d been attempting to read and poured myself a glass of water from the pitcher on Father’s nightstand. I hardly felt the cool liquid slide down my throat.
It, like the rest of me, was numb.
Rain pattered on the house, bringing with it wind that rattled the windows and howled as if a specter roamed outside—appropriate weather for such a night as this.
I leaned over Father, trying to discern whether his chest still moved.
It did. But for how long?
I inhaled a sob, trying to hold it back tight inside, determined not to let it loose. For what good would that do? It wouldn’t bring back the father I had loved. He had been gone for two years, since the day Mama passed from this life to the next, and Father had traded his Bible for the bottle.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Who would be out in this weather?” I don’t know why I said it aloud. Father had been unconscious for days, and I had not left his side but for a few moments at a time.
The last words he’d said to me were forever etched in my memory, as I knew they could be his last. I’d thought he was sleeping, so I jumped when he latched onto my hand as I read. He’d inclined his head toward me, but had not seen me. Not really. “All we have in life are the choices we make. We must make choices we can live with—and die with, if it comes to that.”
Did that mean he believed his choices to be right? Or the only ones available to him?
Perhaps I might never know.
The knock came again, heavy against the door. “I will return shortly, Father. Someone is here. Perhaps the doctor again.”
I did not believe the words as they left my mouth. Dr. Walter Shelley had come but once, looked Father over, shaken his head, and muttered about what a shame this all was. Hardly helpful, but he required payment all the same. I had given him the last two farthings I possessed, hidden away in my apron so Father could not find them and use them for something unsavory.
I grabbed the candlestick and left the room that smelled of death and malcontent. The parsonage was not the smallest I had seen, but I was still able to cross from my father’s bedroom to the front door in a few steps. Before wrestling open the thick door, I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders. Since I had not been expecting visitors, especially at this hour, my hair fell in blond waves down my back instead of being pinned. At this point, it was of small concern to me what others might think.
I pulled open the door and peeked outside.
“Edward.” The word carried more weight than I meant it to, but the days of caring for Father alone had removed the careful guard on my feelings that I had placed there years before.
He stepped forward, the moonlight glinting down behind him, granting him the appearance of an angelic being. His brown hair was plastered across his forehead, his coat splattered with rain, and his chest heaved a bit, as if he had run all the way here from the main house like he had countless times when we were children. He towered over me, not because he was terribly tall for a male, but because I had inherited my mother’s slight stature.
“Louisa told me. I only just arrived home or I’d have been here sooner.”
I confess I had wondered at his absence, had begun to assume the worst—that he, like everyone else in this town, despised us.
But when my dearest friend stepped forward and took the candle from me, setting it aside and encircling me with his broad arms, resting his chin on the top of my head, my doubts slammed against one another and shattered. If I had not the sorrow regarding my father filling up my heart, this moment would have been the culmination of so much joy—finally being in the arms of this man I’d loved for years.
This man, whom I could never have as more than a friend, and for the last few days, had thought perhaps a distant memory.
“I’m sorry for getting your clothes damp.” Edward released me, and I suddenly felt the rush of cool air seeping in from the open door.
I hurried to close it. “Think nothing of it.”
“How is he?” Edward removed his overcoat and slung it over a cha
ir. Formality had never been a mark of our friendship, and it would not begin tonight.
“It’s only a matter of time.” The words I uttered were meant to be brave, but they only hung in the air heavy with loss. The sob I had been holding inside nearly escaped. The anger too.
“You don’t deserve this, Emily.” He took my small hand in his own and squeezed.
“What do any of us deserve, really?” I shrugged.
He stared at me. “You most certainly deserve better than to have a drunkard—”
“Edward. Please.” I glanced toward my father’s room. Though he seemed to lie unaware, perhaps some part of him could still hear us. I did not want his last moments to be filled with condemnation. “He was a good father to me, once upon a time. When he was able to be.”
I tried desperately to hold on to those memories, to not become consumed with thoughts of betrayal and abandonment. No, my father had not physically left me, but he had, in a way, chosen this desertion.
He simply could not live in a world without Mama.
And though I couldn’t understand it, I could not hate him for it either.
Edward sighed, pushed his hand through his hair, a gesture he had always made when feeling chagrined. “You are right. I was only thinking of you. You have endured too much already. It is not fair. Why must you also endure this descent into despair and poverty?”
Poverty did not concern me, so long as I had all the essentials. It was the impending loss of my father, my home, Edward, our tree . . . everything I loved. My throat tightened as I forced the sob back down. “You have always been a good friend. I will carry fond memories of our childhood capers with me wherever I go.”
“Go? Where are you going?”
The sharpness in his tone caused me to look up into his eyes, those eyes I knew so well—brown with flecks of gold, a strange assortment of colors to create the perfect combination of kindness, passion, and brilliance. “When . . . all of this is over, I must find another place to live. Your parents have already been too kind to allow us to remain here, despite the fact my father could no longer fulfill his duties as reverend.” Or would no longer, rather.
“Why would I want to praise the one who hurt me, Emily?”
The anguish in my father’s voice still haunted me because I did not know how to answer his query. My faith had never been as strong as his once was.
“But where?” Edward broke into my thoughts. “You don’t have any other family, do you?”
I winced at the reminder. “None that would assist me. I’ll find a job as a governess again.”
“You despise teaching.”
“What choice do I have?” I picked up the candle once more.
“You could marry.”
The candle nearly slipped from my grasp. A caustic laugh rumbled from my lips. “You know how I feel on the subject, Edward.” If I could not marry him, then I would have no one. Not that I’d told him that. He merely believed I preferred my independence. “And who would marry the daughter of the town’s fallen preacher?”
Certainly not Edward, who came from a fine family with connections and prospects. To him, I had only ever been like a younger sister who lived at the parsonage on his family’s estate, who could best him at tree climbing and every other rough-and-tumble thing it was not right for a “proper lady” to do.
“You are not fallen, but I do see your dilemma.” Edward’s lips pressed together. “All right, then what other skills do you possess?”
I looked away. I had never told him of the way I spent my evenings, pouring from my soul onto paper with a pen. No one knew, though I intended one day to tell the whole world. It would be my redemption, the only way to ever truly be free. But for now, I settled for a mild joke. “I can make up beds and sew with the best of them.”
Edward’s brow wrinkled but then flattened again. “Do be serious, Em. You could not stoop to becoming a common servant.”
In moments like this, I had to forgive Edward for his snobbery. He was born to it and perhaps could not hear how he sounded. “Hard work is never stooping. And I may not have much choice. Which is why I’ve settled on becoming a governess again.”
I turned toward the bedroom. “You came to see him, did you not?”
“I . . . well, of course I will see him, but it was my main purpose to check on you.”
“Come, then.” I led him to the bedroom. He followed me through the doorway, where once there had been laughter and love and now there was only a diseased man who had abandoned his faith and all his hope.
Though I had tried to be, I was not enough to bring the light back to his eyes.
“Father.” I took his cold hand in mine. The veins under his sallow skin resembled a spider’s web. “Edward is here to see you.”
No reaction.
Edward came closer and cleared his throat as if to speak. Then he paused. “Emily.” He reached his fingers to my father’s neck, then turned his brown-gold eyes toward mine. “He’s gone.”
“No.” My eyes flew to my father’s chest, the one that had risen slowly up and down before I had set foot from this room.
And the sob that had been lodged inside me forced its way upward from my chest, ripping my insides with violent strength.
10
GINNY
Ginny’s thumb hovered over the Send button. All she had to do was press down, and Garrett would know she was thinking of him.
But reason won out and she deleted the text, one character at a time.
He had asked for space. Others thought she was crazy to give it to him, but weren’t spouses supposed to give each other what the other needed?
She shoved her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, catching a glimpse at the time before it disappeared. Oh! Her appointment with Steven was in five minutes.
Ginny grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder. Of course, there was no one to usher out of the bookstore. In fact, she’d only had two customers the entire day. With a sigh, she walked to the bookstore’s front door and flipped the sign to indicate they’d be open again tomorrow morning.
Granted, tourist season would be in full swing soon, but if she didn’t do something to get more customers, she might be flipping that sign for the last time before it even began.
She exited the bookstore and locked up, then turned and started walking toward Steven’s place.
When Sophia had first mentioned improving Rosebud Books’ website last Saturday, Ginny had tried to look at it with fresh eyes. After a few minutes, she concluded that Sophia was right—it was difficult to navigate. The design, which had seemed so state-of-the-art five years ago, now felt outdated and clunky.
She’d tried to fiddle around with some of the design and figure out the best way to add her stock online—but the minutiae had soon given her a headache. As she rubbed her temples, something she’d heard her father say growing up came to her mind: “Hire someone else to do what you can’t do well.”
But that required money. In fact, a new website or even an update to one could get quite costly.
Of course, to make money, sometimes you had to spend money. But how did one know when the cost was worth it and would actually lead to more sales?
This was one of those times she wished she’d paid better attention in Harvard business school, a place she’d never wanted to be in the first place.
Her head had pounded all the more. And her fingers itched—to get into the kitchen and bake something, anything. Escape.
Think, Ginny. Think.
Steven.
Yes, Steven. Garrett’s old friend was exactly who she needed to see right now. He’d started a web design business a few years ago, and he probably wouldn’t charge her quite as much as a London firm. Besides, she’d much rather go with a company she trusted than some random one she found on the Internet.
So she’d called and made an appointment.
And now, she finally reached the tiny house where Steven lived near the docks. Ginny knocked.
> The door opened and Steven appeared. His red hair was slightly rumpled and he wore low-slung gym shorts and a white T-shirt. “Hey, Gin. How are you?”
Nearby, she heard the call of seagulls and the clanging of boat bells.
“We have a meeting, right?” She eyed his apparel. “Because it looks like you’re ready for a workout—or bed.” Steven had always been easy to talk to and tease. He and Garrett had been friends since Steven’s family moved to Port Willis in grade school.
Steven laughed. “Yeah, but I like to be comfortable while I work. Come on in.”
She followed him inside the obvious bachelor pad. Laundry sat piled in baskets and draped on the arms of the couch, half-folded and forgotten. An empty pizza box from Valero’s adorned the coffee table, and the television droned from its spot hanging on the opposite wall. His horrid putrid-green leather sofa was the worst eyesore, though it competed with a few abstract paintings that made her nauseated if she stared at them too long.
But while slightly messy, the house was not dirty. It didn’t smell bad either—more like fresh soap and spice mixed together.
She’d missed the smell of clean man in her own house.
Ginny swallowed a knot in her throat and sank onto Steven’s couch. “Thanks for squeezing me in. I know you’re busy.”
He sat next to her, angling his body toward her and leaning back against the arm of the sofa. “I told you I’m here if you ever need me.”
“I appreciate it. Like I said on the phone, we . . . well, I need to figure out some ways to bring in more customers. Sophia, my summer employee, recommended revamping our website.”
“Right. Did you take a look at some of the sample sites I’ve done?” He pulled his laptop from a bag at the foot of the sofa and opened it.
“Yes. I liked a few of the options. Specifically, the third option, I think. But . . .” Oh, this was awkward. “How much would something like that be?” If it was beyond her budget, she couldn’t accept his help, not without being certain she could pay him.
Steven waved a hand, dismissing her question, then pulled the site up onto the screen. “Don’t worry about that right now. What did you like about this design?”
The Secrets of Paper and Ink Page 6