The Secrets of Paper and Ink

by Lindsay Harrel

  “Anything.”

  “Do you want to buy LifeSong?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I know you never wanted to touch the rest of David’s life insurance money, but maybe this would be a worthy cause. You could keep helping women who need it. Kind of poetic, really. And there’s no one I’d trust more with my baby.”

  “Really? No one you’d trust more than the therapist who had a nervous breakdown and hid away reading books for three months?” Sophia’s attempt to bring levity to the moment fell flat.

  “You joke, but I’m serious. I trust the therapist who now knows from experience what healing entails.”

  She had to admit that she was better equipped now than she’d ever been to help women make it through their trying situations. Finally, Sophia understood that healing looked different for everyone—for her it had been a slow burn, the result of working in a bookstore, tracking down Emily Fairfax, befriending a lonely bookstore owner, meeting an amazing man, surfing, kissing.

  Living.

  But what would happen when she left England?

  35

  GINNY

  “Be prepared for the best popcorn you’ve ever tasted.”

  Ginny clutched two bowls of her white-and dark-chocolate-glazed kernels in one arm and pushed through her kitchen door to the living room with the other.

  Girls Night was officially under way. It was too bad Mary had to cancel at the last minute, but the time alone with Sophia would be refreshing.

  “If you made it, I’m sure it will be.” Sophia lounged on Ginny’s red couch in her pajama bottoms and spaghetti strap top, her hair twisted back with bobby pins, her feet propped on the coffee table. She flipped through a stack of DVDs, but there was something about the way she shoved one behind the other that seemed to lack focus.

  After setting the popcorn on the table, Ginny plopped next to Sophia. “Anything striking your fancy?”

  Sophia shrugged. “I don’t really care what we watch. I’m just glad we get to hang out. It’s been too long since we did much other than work together at the bookstore.”

  “If only someone wasn’t spending so much time with my brother-in-law.” Ginny winked, but the words she’d spoken socked her in the gut. William would soon be her ex-brother-in-law. Just another loss in the string of losses, thanks to Garrett’s betrayal.

  She snatched a handful of popcorn and shoved it in her mouth.

  Sophia finished perusing the DVDs. “Do you have a preference?”

  Ginny’s eyes quickly scanned the titles she’d hastily thrown into a stack before Sophia came over. Pride and Prejudice. While You Were Sleeping. Confessions of a Shopaholic. All movies she’d normally love—but then again, they all ended in happily-ever-afters, didn’t they? “Not really.”

  Where were all the movies about strong women who survived betrayal, had thriving businesses, and knew exactly what they wanted in life? That was what she wanted to watch.

  Ginny took another fistful of popcorn and stared at the coffee table—yet another thing Garrett had carved. His handiwork was everywhere. How was she ever going to get over him, get past this hurt?

  And yet, for a moment, with Steven . . .

  “Whoa, what did that popcorn ever do to you?”

  Sophia’s voice broke through Ginny’s thoughts. She looked at her fist to find broken pieces of popcorn spilling from between her fingers, chocolate melted against her skin. “Nothing. It was an innocent bystander.”

  Her phone buzzed next to her. Who would be calling on a Friday night? She wiped her hand on a napkin, picked up the phone, groaned, and pressed Ignore.

  “You can get that if you want.”

  “I don’t. It’s Garrett’s attorney.” What more did he need? She’d formally acknowledged the petition for divorce he’d sent over weeks ago. She still had to secure her own attorney so she didn’t get walked all over with the proceedings, but she couldn’t figure out how she’d afford it. Mother had offered the services of the family attorney, but that was sure to come with strings attached. Ginny would rather eat a burned coffee cake. “I have no stomach to discuss anything with him right now.”

  “Want to talk about it with me?” Sophia curled her feet up underneath her, angling her body to face Ginny, leaning against the back of the couch.

  Did she? “I know I’m delaying the inevitable, but I still can’t believe I’m getting a divorce. It’s not what I pictured for myself, you know? Garrett has been such a part of my life—this house, the bookstore, everything—that I don’t know how I’m supposed to move forward without him in it.”

  Sophia took a moment before she spoke. “It was like that for me when David died. That’s one reason I had to get out of that house and come here.” A piece of her hair fell from its pin into her eyes. “In fact, I’ve been thinking that I might sell it. It’s gone up in value since we bought it, and the money could give me even more freedom to buy Joy’s practice.”

  When Sophia had found out about her friend’s change in plans earlier this week, she’d seemed off-kilter. Now there was a quiet resignation in her eyes.

  “So you’ve decided to purchase it? Move back?”

  Sophia’s eyes lit in surprise. “Of course I’m moving back. I never actually moved here. The plan was only ever to stay for the summer.”

  “Yeah, but William . . .” Ginny tilted her head. “I guess I thought maybe you might not want to leave because of him.”

  “I am sorely tempted to stay.” A small smile twitched at the corners of Sophia’s lips. In an instant, it was gone. “But he was never part of the plan. I can’t make my decisions based on him. I feel like I did that with David. I can’t do it again.”

  Maybe that was where it had all gone wrong with Garrett. “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “I . . . It’s just, what you said. I think I built my whole life around my husband. And now he’s being removed from the equation.” No wonder it felt like life was crashing down around her, even with the bookstore thriving.

  “You’re not the first to do it. I’m guilty too. Of course, I allowed David to have complete control over my life. It seems like you and Garrett were partners.”

  “Until we weren’t.” Ginny pulled a green pillow to her chest. “Other than my grandparents, he was the only one who ever really got me, you know? He saw the real me—or I thought he did. Maybe I only showed him what I thought he wanted to see.” After all, she’d still ended up here, running a bookstore she never would have dreamed up on her own. But spouses were supposed to support each other’s dreams, weren’t they?

  Yes. She’d supported his dream.

  Had he ever supported hers?

  Then again, had she ever really expressed to him how much she’d wanted to become a pastry chef? Or had she allowed the thrill of being out from under her parents’ thumb to be good enough? She thought she’d found contentment in her life with Garrett.

  Perhaps it had only been a temporary salve for the deeper aches she hadn’t been willing to address.

  As Ginny chewed her lip, she caught sight of My Fair Lady peeking from beneath the other DVDs. She leaned forward and plucked it from the stash. She’d always bemoaned the utterly unromantic ending, but right about now, it was the only movie in her collection she’d be able to stand.

  “How about this one?” Before Sophia had a chance to respond, Ginny got up and loaded the disc into the DVD player.

  “Sure.”

  The TV whirred to life and soon the room was filled with music. Both Sophia and Ginny directed their attention to the screen. Sophia munched on popcorn, but Ginny felt her friend’s eyes on her every few seconds it seemed.

  Finally, Ginny turned. “Everything okay?”

  Snatching the remote, Sophia lowered the volume. She seemed to consider her words before speaking. “I saw a brochure on your kitchen table when I first got here.”

  Ugh. Ginny hadn’t touched it since Steven had left it behind on the table two weekends ago. S
he couldn’t bring herself to open it or toss it. “Steven gave it to me. He thought I’d want to apply to culinary school.”

  “And do you?”

  “No.” On the one hand, part of her held out hope that Garrett would realize the error of his ways and come racing back to her. On the other, she longed to leave everything behind. But she’d already lived that way once. “He was trying to help, but I’ve kind of given him the cold shoulder since then.” In fact, they hadn’t even spoken.

  “He seems like a good friend who wants you to be happy.” Sophia speared her with a look. “Maybe even more than a friend?”

  “He is a good friend. Just a friend.” And she’d treated him so poorly.

  Sophia pursed her lips like she didn’t believe her—though given Ginny and Steven’s near kiss the last time they were alone together, she was totally justified in her assessment of the situation. “I’ll let that one go. For now. So . . . do you think culinary school would make you happy?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I have the bookstore now.”

  “What if you didn’t?”

  Dare she open herself to that dream again? To who she was when she had her own dreams?

  In the background, Eliza Doolittle sang about dancing—how she could have danced all night if given the chance. How it wouldn’t have been enough even then. Her heart craved more.

  Ginny’s own heart gave a little bump, as if trying to leap, but something held it back. She sighed. “There’s no point in pretending I don’t. This may not be the dream I started with, but I’m making it into a place I can be happy.”

  Sophia squeezed Ginny’s knee. “I think you will succeed at whatever you do, Gin. But you should still do something that makes you come alive. Don’t settle for someone else’s dream. Go after your own.”

  Steven had basically said the same thing.

  She believed it for others. Why was it so hard for Ginny to accept that truth for herself? Maybe it was possible to make her own way.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  36

  EMILY

  FEBRUARY 1860

  I made the final mark with my pen and placed it on my desk. There. My manuscript was finished at last.

  Sitting back against my chair, I turned and stared out the window. A streetlamp stood guard, lighting up the darkness beyond. Snow fluttered from the sky, gathering in clumps on the ground. I longed to put on my cloak and run outdoors to spin in the falling fluff, but now that we had gone to London for Louisa’s third season, neighbors were much closer than in the country.

  And of course, I kept to my room as much as possible. Nearly a year after the wedding, it still hurt whenever I saw Edward and Rosamond together. Living under the same roof as him again—as them—had forced me back to my writing. That and the fact Mr. Davis had been true to his word. He had read my first manuscript and given me a detailed critique within a fortnight. I had spent all of my spare time considering and implementing his suggested changes—many of which had asked me to go deeper, to show even more of my heart.

  And now those changes were complete, ready to be submitted once more. He had even promised to recommend my work to his own publisher.

  I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

  But perhaps it had not been fortune at all.

  Standing, I walked to the window, placing my hand on the pane. My fingertips became cold. For a long time, I had felt that way on the inside too. But now, with my story told, I was finally coming in from the chill to the warmth of the hearth. Each step was a tender one that I had fought to take. Facing the resistance had made me stronger.

  My story had given me such a sense of self. Though it must be midnight at the earliest, I was far too stimulated to sleep.

  I pulled my dressing gown on over my nightdress and walked down the hallway toward the library, my candle in hand guiding the way. The door creaked as I pushed it open. Moonlight spilled from the window, creating shadows in the room. A sofa sat against one wall, thick rugs covered the parquet floors, and a solid table and chairs stood in the middle of the room, ready for the next day’s learning. While we resided in London, the library functioned as a schoolroom, my domain. However, it felt different during the night. Its broad, unbroken walls remained the same, as did the open-shelved bookcases filled with familiar and unfamiliar stories alike. But something about the quiet made the stories held within the books speak louder to me. I could almost hear their whispers shouting, begging for release.

  I reached out to skim my fingers along the book spines, breathing in the scent of varnish and pipe smoke that always pervaded the library.

  My hand stopped on a random book and I took it from the shelf.

  “Emily?”

  I dropped the volume, turning at the sound of the voice that invaded my thoughts every time my eyes closed at night.

  Edward lay on the sofa and sat up at my perusal. Even from my spot across the room, I could see that his hair was in disarray and he wore no tie, jacket, or vest—simply trousers and a shirt. He ran his hands over his cheeks and eyes, through his hair, then he straightened once more. “What are you doing here?” He spoke as though he were ill—his voice hoarse, his nose stuffed.

  “I could not sleep, so I thought I might read.” As proof, I crouched to pick up the book I had dropped.

  “Ah.” He stared at me, expressionless.

  I cocked my head. Though my heart told me not to approach him—remembering what had occurred the last time we were alone together—my feet moved of their own accord. “Edward, are you well?” I placed the candle on the table and sat on the opposite end of the sofa, my legs angled toward him. Upon closer inspection, I saw his eyes were rimmed with red, as if he had taken one too many glasses of brandy. “Were you sleeping in here?”

  “Attempting to sleep is more like it.” He leaned forward on his elbows, his face cradled in his hands. “You were right about Rosamond.” His voice was muffled as he talked through his hands, but I still perceived its jagged timbre.

  “What happened?”

  “I . . .” He straightened. “I discovered a letter from a man who apparently was . . . is . . . her lover.” He spat the words out.

  My whole body twisted toward him and my hand found his. “I’m so sorry.”

  He offered a sardonic smile. “Why are you sorry? You tried to warn me. And I, in my self-righteous arrogance, ignored you.” Edward sighed. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Of course it matters. She has wronged you greatly.” The feeling of his hand in mine, the darkness of the room, the sound of only a ticking clock and the two of us breathing—all of it was an overwhelming mixture. “Did you confront her?”

  “I did.” The words seemed to strangle him as they left his lips.

  “And?” I scolded myself for the hope that once again soared in my chest. I had no place wishing that Edward would divorce Rosamond and run to me. And yet . . .

  His eyes watched me. Slowly, he picked up my hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed my wrist, where he must have felt my pulse racing in time to my heart.

  “Edward?” I could not utter another word. My mind buzzed like a thousand bees. Every breath in my being leaned into this moment.

  He scooted closer to me on the sofa. “Emily. How I have missed you.” His eyes searched mine, his fingers pushing a stray hair back from my face. Untying my nightcap, he tossed it aside, and when my hair fell around my shoulders, Edward moved his fingers through it. “I cannot tell you how long I have wanted to . . .”

  All I could do was sit and wait, my body thrumming.

  An inner voice screamed at me, but I did not have the strength—the desire—to listen.

  “How did I allow you to slip away from me?” He drew closer, his face inches from my own, his breath warm on my cheeks. “I had everything in you. I should have found a way to save my family and have you as well. How could I have been so blind?”

  When Edward’s mouth met mine, I exploded in a mass of nerves and light. This wa
s what a candle must feel like, flickering its brilliance against the darkness, allowing itself to finally be what it was created to be, fully unfurling its flame for all to see.

  But every candle eventually burns out.

  As this man whom I had loved for years explored my neck with his lips, the loud voice of my conscience finally returned me to reality.

  “Wait.” I gasped the word and twisted from him. “Edward.”

  His breath came heavy, and he ran both hands through his hair—hands that had just been where they should not have been. On me. Not on his wife. It did not matter that he was mine first—in friendship, if not in more.

  He was hers now.

  Unable to withstand the torture in his gaze, I closed my eyes. “What did she say when you confronted her?”

  He didn’t answer me.

  I opened my eyes again. “Tell me.”

  “Emily . . .” The word, thus spoken, begged me to allow him to forget, to seek comfort where we could here in the darkness. But in the morning, he would still be married.

  And I would be ruined—in every sense of the word.

  “Tell me.” This time, I forced my voice to be firm.

  “She told me it was true, that she has been unfaithful.” He sighed. “And that she is pregnant.”

  My hands trembled as I pulled them into my lap. “By him?”

  A pause. “She claims by me.”

  “And is that a possibility?”

  He knew what I was asking him. “Yes.”

  I nodded once, my cheeks burning. Before he could say another word, I stood, searching for my nightcap. When I found it, I wound my hair and attempted to yank it onto my head. My hands shook too much to tie it properly.

  Edward joined me. He took the strings of the cap and looped them for me, never taking his eyes from mine. “I’m sorry, Emily. I never should have . . .” He looked away, but not before I saw a tear slip from his eye.

  There was only one other time I had seen Edward cry—when his grandfather died.

  Instantly, I moved back into his arms, my instinct to comfort my friend outweighing everything else.