“I suppose I deserve it.”
I walked forward, grasping the lapels of his jacket. “What? Of course you don’t.”
“Perhaps she felt slighted because I had been harboring feelings for . . .” He couldn’t even say it—that he loved me, not her. The Edward I loved was not a coward. What had happened to him?
How could he be defending her actions? “She’s vile, Edward. She—”
“Don’t talk that way about her, Emily.” His voice was gentle but firm. “Whatever she is, she is my fiancée. And I am trying to do the right thing.”
The word slapped me in the face. “The right thing for whom?” I imagined placing my heart in a box, closing it, throwing away the key.
“Em, if it were up to me . . .”
My cheeks were aflame. “Then what?”
“You must know.”
“Say it anyway.”
“I cannot.”
“And I cannot stay here and watch you throw your life away.” I released his jacket and strode back toward the house. Soon I was running, past the gardens and down the hallway to my room, where I threw myself onto my bed and screamed into my pillow.
But I could not hold on to my anger for long. Edward had always been loyal. I could not blame him for continuing to be the thing I loved most about him.
I only wished I had not fallen so completely apart in front of him. What must he think of me now?
The next morning dawned beautiful and bright—perfect for a wedding. I claimed a headache and clung to my bed all day long.
And as the church bells rang in the distance at midmorning, I discovered who the real coward between us truly was.
30
GINNY
Today, another victory would be had.
Ginny shifted from one foot to the other as she waited at Steven’s door, a platter of chocolate chip cookies in one hand.
He opened the door. “Come on in.”
“Thanks. Sorry I couldn’t come right away. And sorry it’s so late.” He’d texted around six thirty—Sophia had closed tonight—and it was nearly nine now. “I was in the middle of a baking sesh when you texted. But I come bearing gifts, so hopefully it was worth the wait.”
A huge grin lit his face. “What have you got there?”
As she moved through the doorway, Ginny handed him the cookies. “Just a thank-you for getting the website done so quickly. I love it.”
He closed the door behind her and headed toward the kitchen, pulling the cellophane from the platter and snatching a cookie from beneath. “I’m glad you like it.” When he took a bite of the cookie, his eyes closed briefly. “Mmm. These are way better than the treats Mum makes. Just don’t tell her I said so.”
Ginny laughed and stepped into the small kitchen, which smelled like cooked onions. The sink held several dirty dishes and inside the fruit basket rested a few spotted bananas. “My lips are sealed.” Then she reached into her purse and drew out an envelope, slipping it under the basket with what she hoped was nonchalance.
But Steven caught her. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
Frowning, he set the platter of cookies down, grabbed the envelope, and opened it with his index finger, then pulled a stack of bills from inside. “Ginny Rose, what is this?”
“Payment.” Not even close to what Steven and his work were worth, but all she’d managed to scrape together. “I can’t let you do this for free.”
Without blinking, he pushed the cash back inside the envelope and stuck it in Ginny’s purse. “You’re not letting me do anything. I offered.” Before she could protest, he took her elbow. “Now let’s go launch your website.”
She set down her purse and sighed. “Fine.”
He led her to his couch and they plopped down. The piece of furniture was so worn they both sank toward the middle, their legs touching. Ginny moved ever so slightly to the right, but the cushion beneath her just tilted her back toward Steven.
Steven rested his computer on his lap and navigated to the admin page where he’d been building her site. She’d looked everything over last night, offering only a few minor suggestions for improvement. “Ready?”
Ginny gripped her knees. “Ready.”
Steven clicked something on the screen. “And you’re live.”
“Wow.” Ginny felt a mixture of emotion, everything from relief to hope to sadness. She had updated the About section, and in it, she’d named herself as sole proprietor. Though Garrett technically owned half of the store, he was not here to claim it. He hadn’t mentioned it in their handful of conversations—even the one where she’d called to tell him to back off on contacting her parents. He’d claimed that was his attorney’s doing, not his, and that he had no desire to turn this divorce into something nasty.
Despite all he’d done to her, she believed him.
So now, all she could do was take the next step forward. Updating the website and putting their collection of rare books online was a start. “We should celebrate.”
Steven closed the laptop and set it on the coffee table. “What do you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t want to . . .” She was going to say “be alone.” How pitiful did that sound? “I’d like to escape my normal life for a little bit.”
He seemed to consider her, then hopped up and offered his hand. “I’ve got the perfect thing.”
She let him help her stand.
He pulled on a lightweight coat and they walked out his door together. The sun had just lowered in the sky, light still hovering on the horizon, and with the harbor not thirty feet away, the sound of water lapping against boats permeated the air. A few townspeople sauntered down the sidewalks, but most people around here were tucked into bed by ten, even on a Friday.
Ginny zipped up her black jacket and shoved her hands into the pockets as they walked. “So where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
They zigged and zagged up various small streets, finally stopping in front of a run-down diner. She’d been living in this town for five years and didn’t remember ever being in this particular spot.
Steven opened the diner door, and jazz music spilled out. As they entered the dimly lit space, Ginny smelled hamburgers and . . . Was that sushi?
Steven watched her reaction and laughed. “The owner has quite eclectic taste.”
“Clearly.” As was also evidenced by the paraphernalia on the wall, showcasing everything from a framed marching band costume to guitars, bugles, and those cheesy motivational posters that littered the corporate world. The rest of the diner looked fairly normal, and a surprising number of the red vinyl booths were filled with customers.
A few people called out greetings to Steven. He waved and walked with purpose to the bar. While he ordered something to go, she caught a glimpse of the harbor from the window. The moon reflected off the ocean and several fishing boats bobbed in the water.
“Ginny!”
She turned toward the voice where Mary and Blake Patrick sat at a table with several of their family members. Mary slid from her seat and walked toward Ginny. She cocked her head to the side. “Haven’t seen you back at the pub for a while.”
“Yeah, life’s just been super busy. What are you doing here? I wouldn’t expect you or your parents to frequent another restaurant. Especially one so . . .”
“Strange?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, we love this place. The food is amazing. Our own menu gets tiresome after a while. And when we go out, we don’t have to cook or clean.”
“Makes sense.”
“How are things?”
Ginny stuffed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Things are . . . good. Okay. You?”
Mary smiled softly, placed a hand on her stomach. “Blake and I just told our family we’re expecting.”
How many times had she and Mary talked about raising their kids together? Though the thought sent a pang through her heart, Ginny was able to smile too.
“Mary, that’s so great. Congratulations.” She threw her arms around her friend, who readily hugged her in return.
“I’ve missed you, Gin. We should get together sometime.”
“We really should.” First Steven, now Mary . . . proof that this wasn’t just Garrett’s town anymore. It was hers. His friends may have been his first, but they were also hers—with or without him in the picture.
She nearly jumped when Steven approached them holding two Styrofoam cups with lids. “Hey, you two.”
Mary glanced between Steven and Ginny, a question in her eyes. “Hello, Steven. What do you have there?”
“Only the best hot chocolate in the world.” He held one out to Ginny.
She closed her hand around the cup and the warmth penetrated her fingers.
“It was so good to see you, Gin, but I should get back to my family. I’m going to hold you to our date.”
“You got it, Mary. Good to see you too. And congrats again.”
Mary grabbed her hand and squeezed it, then headed back to her table.
Ginny turned back to Steven. “I can’t wait to taste this hot chocolate. Cheers.” She took a sip and nearly swooned at the gorgeous melding of sweet creaminess.
“Good, right?”
“Really good.” Ginny lifted the lid and inspected the liquid. “I need to get this recipe.”
Steven sipped his drink. “I’m sure yours is equally delightful. You’re quite a good cook. I’ve heard your baked goods are flying off the shelf at the bookstore.”
“Thanks.” Her cheeks reddened with the praise. “I definitely enjoy baking. I even considered going to culinary school once upon a time . . .” Oh, there was no use in talking about that. “So, do you want to sit down somewhere?”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
“Lead on.”
So he did, all the way to the harbor. A few of the larger boats were illuminated, light laughter lilting from them across the water. The sand shifted beneath her feet as she walked, the feeling so familiar. She’d practically grown up on the beach, especially during summers at their Nantucket home. Memories of bonfires and roasting s’mores rushed her mind. Her parents had always been too busy to join them, but she and her siblings had gotten along once upon a time.
Until they’d done what was expected of them. And Ginny had not.
Now she was far, far away, struggling to save a bookstore that hadn’t even been hers in the first place.
But while some might call it futile—or even call her a failure—something like pride warmed her even more than the hot drink in her hand. Because she was doing it. No, it wasn’t perfect progress. More like imperfect. And she still might have to close the bookstore’s doors if all her efforts didn’t work.
But she’d stayed and she’d tried. Was there really failure to be had in that, no matter what the ending?
Maybe she needed to cut herself a little more slack.
Steven stopped at a small houseboat and climbed aboard. “Care to join me?” He put his drink down on a small table situated on the deck in front of the entrance.
“Whose boat is this?”
“Mine, actually. My grandfather left it to me when he passed.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She let him help her over the lip of the boat, which rocked gently under her feet.
“Don’t be. I have many fond memories of days at sea on this beauty.” He lowered himself into one of the chairs flanking the table, and she did likewise.
They faced Port Willis, a town she’d never seen from this angle, down at the lowest end of Main Street looking upward. The hills surrounded the village and a few large homes dotted the ridges. Here there was such a sense of calm, the air so pure, the quiet so stirring. She could almost sense God in this moment.
That thought surprised her. After all, religion in the Bentley household had been all about what God could do for you. When Father had concluded a successful business deal, God was good and heaping blessings on their heads. When something fell through, God was unkind and unfair.
Ironic that she’d spent the last several years spurning her parents’ ways, yet had still unintentionally absorbed so many of their beliefs.
“You look extremely serious right now. Not exactly in celebratory mode.” Steven’s words startled her back to reality.
“Sorry. I’m just . . . thinking.”
He let it be, staying silent for several minutes. Then, “So what’s next? You’ve got your website up. Any other projects going? Or are you planning to settle into your new normal and see how things turn out?”
“I’m not sure I have that option. I need to constantly be trying to improve my situation at the store.”
“There’s always an option.” He picked up his cup and tapped his index finger against the lid. “I know you said you feel like you’d be quitting if you gave up the bookstore. But is there more to it than that? There has to be a reason you’re fighting so hard to save it.”
Ever since talking to her mother last weekend, she’d thought long about this. Would he understand? But perhaps for him to really get her, she had to go further back. “I’ve told you a little bit about what it was like growing up in my family. The pressure was intense. I always felt like I was one step away from failure, especially living in the shadow of two perfect older siblings who were everything my parents wanted in children. I was the misfit who would rather be baking than studying.”
Her throat clogged, but she pushed her emotions down with a swig of the now-tepid liquid chocolate. “When it came time for college decisions, my parents had Harvard all picked out for me. But I had something else in mind. I prepared a fancy dinner for the whole family, complete with a beautiful cake. I spent weeks perfecting that cake recipe. It had to be just right because, after dinner, I planned to tell my parents I’d decided to go to culinary school. The cake was supposed to be for the celebration afterward, and was going to serve as the proof that I could be successful as a chef.”
“I take it that conversation did not go well.”
Ginny shook her head. “First, my father said he couldn’t eat the cake because he had recently been declared a diabetic—no one had even bothered to tell me. I’d never felt like such a stranger in my own home before. That of course made me nervous when I was talking about my reasons for wanting to be a pastry chef. Mother let me get about two sentences out before she flew off the handle and told me that I was a disgrace to the Bentley name, that I needed to shape up and get my head out of the clouds, and that I’d never amount to anything or belong in our family if I didn’t stop daydreaming and start getting serious about things.” She couldn’t stop the tear that rolled down her cheek. Even eight years later, her mother’s words had the power to wound her fragile heart all over again.
“That must have been hard.” Steven shifted forward in his seat, his brow furrowed.
She nodded. “The bookstore is the first place I felt like I really belonged. Like I had a purpose. Does that make any sense?”
“Of course it does. But . . .” He trailed off, moving his gaze from her to the sky. The stars made a canopy of lights above them.
“But what?” The anticipation of what he would say built within her.
When had this man become such a close friend that she would hang on his words in this way?
“I guess I don’t think of ‘belonging’ being about a physical place. It’s not even about family. It’s more about embracing who we are. Identity and how we view ourselves is a large part of feeling ‘at home’ somewhere. It doesn’t change no matter where we are or who we’re with.”
The truth of what he’d said settled into her spirit, but an ache came with it.
Because how would she ever truly belong anywhere when she hadn’t the foggiest notion who she really was? She’d been George and Mariah Bentley’s daughter first, then Garrett Rose’s wife.
Now?
She was a daughter disowned, a wife soon to be divorced.
She was Virginia “Ginn
y” Bentley Rose—and she had no idea what that really meant.
31
SOPHIA
“My head hurts.” Sophia groaned after checking her e-mail for the millionth time. She lay her forehead against the cool wood of William’s kitchen table. “I don’t think Mr. Bryant is ever going to e-mail us.” And calling him again would probably border on harassment.
William stretched. He sat in the chair next to her, laptop open in front of him. It was early on a Friday morning. She had the day off from working in the bookstore, and William’s class didn’t start until noon. “We’re making good progress without him.”
After they’d received Hugh Bryant’s name from Claudia at Elliott Manor two and a half weeks ago, William and Sophia had headed to the local village pub and asked around about him. They’d heard many things—none of them good—and finally got an address, with a warning to keep away from the miserly hermit. Sophia had remained hopeful, sure that this couldn’t be a dead end. But knocking and waiting and knocking again had done nothing. Neither had leaving a note asking Mr. Bryant to contact them via e-mail or phone.
“I know, but it’s already the beginning of August.” And she was leaving at the end of the month—a thought that churned her stomach. The idea of leaving him behind, right when they’d started something, didn’t sit well.
And then there was the question in the back of her mind, the one that had come unbidden more times than she wanted to admit—did she really want to go back to being a therapist? Yes, she was working toward her own healing, and that would probably be helpful in her pursuit to help other women. But the idea of being stuck in a room one-on-one, hearing grievance after grievance, remembering her own . . . Well, after working in the bookstore and interacting with people in their everyday lives, finding ways to bring smiles to their faces through a common love of literature, her chosen profession just did not seem as palatable as it once had been. Which was crazy, considering how many years of training she’d put into becoming a therapist.
The Secrets of Paper and Ink Page 20