A Valentine Proposal

by Viv Royce

  “I know how desperately you want to keep the shop.” Eleanor looked her over with a smug little smile. “You’ve been practically begging for money all over town. Now you’re throwing yourself at this guy in exchange for a place in his father’s chain?”

  A chill breathed across Cleo’s arms. Did other people think so, too? Was her behavior around Mark interpreted as an attempt to wrap him around her little finger and have things her way? I could just melt into a puddle.

  Eleanor pulled back her shoulders. “I only wanted to warn you not to fall for his charms while he’s engaged to be married. But I see you don’t need it. After all, if you only want his money, it won’t matter whether he’s tied up or not. Perhaps it’s even for the better that he is. No complications after the fact.”

  Shut up. Don’t destroy everything with your evil insinuations.

  “Is something the matter?” Mark stood beside them.

  Did he overhear? Cleo’s stomach clenched. Please no. She rushed to say, in a cheerful tone, “Just a practical thing. All taken care of.”

  Mark held her gaze a moment then lowered the glass he was still holding. “I’d better be going. I’ve got a full day tomorrow.”

  Assessing other shops, maybe liking them better? Maybe that’s for the best. I can’t be around him anymore without thinking of what Eleanor said.

  “I’ll walk with you.” Cleo followed Mark, well aware of Eleanor’s eyes boring into her back.

  In the lobby, she struggled for something to say to recapture the easygoing atmosphere of earlier in the night. Out of reach. If she now put her hand on Mark’s arm, Eleanor’s nasty assumptions would go through her mind and make her flush deep red as if she was really doing something low and despicable.

  “Thanks for a great evening.”

  “No problem. So many people helped to set it up.”

  He leaned over. “I hope me bagging the book didn’t completely ruin it for you.”

  Cleo shook her head, avoiding his gaze.

  Mark cleared his throat. “Oh, well, good night, then. See you later.”

  “Yes, drive safely.”

  As he moved away from her, she almost wanted to run after him, grab his arm, and say something different, more heartfelt and true. But what if Mark thought she was flirting with him to save her shop?

  Cleo stood motionless, raising her arms to wrap them around her shoulders. The piano still played in the background, but she didn’t feel like dancing anymore. She’d have to steel herself against Mark’s charm. Better for all parties involved.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, Cleo awoke to her phone ringing on the nightstand. Half groggy, she felt for it, her fingers first hitting on her watch then the glass with water. Don’t knock it over. Where’s that phone? Oh, there.

  Blinded by the screen’s bright light, she blinked to discern the name the screen displayed. Mom.

  Mom?

  At this hour?

  She never calls early.

  Suddenly wide awake, Cleo took the call, pushing herself up on an elbow in bed. Her heart beat fast. “Mom?”

  “Hello, darling.” Her voice was brisk like it always was, whatever the hour of the day. When she was involved in important court cases, she worked until two in the morning, grabbed a bit of sleep, and at six she was at her desk again, going through paperwork and making notes. Cleo had sometimes watched her from the door, peeking in through a crack to see how she worked, how she gave all her attention to those stacks of papers and to the keyboard on which she tapped away at high speed, never taking her eyes off the computer screen.

  “How’s life in Wood Creek?” her mother asked. “Any news about the shop?”

  Cleo clenched her jaw. Can’t wait until it closes and I’ll come to my senses?

  Not going to happen, Mom. She took a deep breath. “Yes, actually, there is some news.”

  “Oh?” Tension quivered in the one syllable.

  “There’s a takeover candidate. A serious one. So with a little luck, the shop will stay open and I’ll keep my job.”

  “You mean like a local person wanting to put some money into it? Darling, that might take you into summer, but it’s not a real solution and you know it.” Her mother sounded like she had when it had been winter and Cleo had wanted to wear a summer dress to school. Mom expected everyone to act with common sense.

  “No, I mean, the shop will become part of a chain, and its survival will be guaranteed.”

  Dead silence.

  Cleo glanced at her watch to count the seconds her mother was struggling for a reply. As someone trained in verbal sparring to the point of perfection, she could dig up a retort in no time. Twelve seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.

  “It’s nothing for you to join a chain. Follow rules and regulations about how the shop has to look, what books to offer, what clothes to wear.”

  “Clothes to wear?” Cleo echoed.

  “Yes, in big chains, the employees all wear the same outfits. You’ll have to dress up in a horrible green blouse or beige polo shirt, which will make you look like a cardboard cutout.”

  Lifeless, unoriginal. “Nonsense. Employees could wear a badge to be recognizable as staff so customers know whom to turn to with questions.” Cleo propped herself up against the pillow, better to engage in the discussion. “You know nothing about how bookshops are run.”

  “I’m warning you not to be too happy yet. It might be the worst thing that could happen to you. You love your freedom. I know you want to keep working there, but really, Cleo, if you’d have to follow a dozen rules, you would chafe at the bit. Everything you love now would be ruined. Leave while it’s fun.”

  “Mom, I’m not leaving just like that.”

  “We’re not talking about ‘just like that.’” Her mother’s voice changed a bit, and Cleo could picture how she was leaning on her desk and using her most winning expression. “You could come here, work in the firm. Help your father. He’s buried in cases.”

  “He always is.”

  “Not going to his squash club anymore. His blood pressure is way too high. Late nights, too much coffee. I’m worried he will get a heart attack if he doesn’t take it easier.”

  Nothing new, either. For as long as Cleo could remember, her father had been ignoring his health in favor of his work. He even believed it had to be that way. All or nothing. That was how he lived. “Then tell him so.”

  “I do, but he doesn’t listen. He says he can’t leave the work to anyone else.”

  “Right. He wouldn’t leave it to me, either.”

  “Not to a stranger maybe, a law graduate, but you, his own daughter… He’s always been so proud of you.”

  Been, in the past, before the shop and Wood Creek and her “inexplicable choices,” as Dad had phrased it. To him, it had been a whim. He had never wanted to acknowledge that the need to be creative had been a part of her.

  Cleo clenched the phone. Dad getting sick was her worst nightmare. Despite their differences, the idea of losing him was unbearable. But she couldn’t change him. Just jump into the boat beside him and go down with him?

  “Mom, I understand you’re worried about Dad, but I can’t solve that.”

  “He wants to work with you. Come home and join the firm, now, while he’s still in good shape. If he does…develop heart trouble, it’ll be too late.”

  Cleo stared at the rug in front of her bed. What if her father died and she knew she had let him down because she hadn’t come to work in his firm? How could she ever be happy again?

  On the other hand, her joining the firm wouldn’t stop his destructive behavior. I don’t believe he will work less hours with me by his side. He’s a workaholic, and he’ll press me to become one, too. It has to stop somewhere. She took a deep breath. “I’m not passionate about it, like you are. It’s not my everything. I can’t devote ever
y waking moment to it. I’d sit in the office and stare out the window and wish I was elsewhere. Dad would notice. We’d argue like we did before. That’s not good for his blood pressure, either.”

  Mom sighed. A long, deep sigh that rustled down the line. “You were an A student, honey. Of course you were passionate about it.” Her mother’s voice turned shriller. “It’s a total waste of your talents to work in a bookshop.”

  “I like it. Each to his own, Mom. We’ve had this discussion before. Can we…”

  “You really don’t care at all, do you? That your father and I worked long hours to pay for your education, give you a chance to have a shining career.”

  I would rather have had time together playing board games. “Mom, I do appreciate all you did. I went to study law because I wanted to show you I was grateful. But I can’t spend my entire life…” working off some debt because you wanted me to become someone I am not.

  “I’m not talking about your entire life, Cleo. Come home now. For a little while. To help out your father. Two, three years. That’s all I ask.”

  No, Mom, please don’t do this me. Cleo closed her eyes. It didn’t sound like much. Just two, three years, right? But she knew what it would be like. How three years would turn into five and ten and… Dad would get older, become more dependent on her help. And coming into the firm, even temporarily, would strengthen their hopes for her, that she’d follow in their footsteps.

  “I can’t do it. Why don’t you hire an assistant for Dad? Someone to do the fact checking and all. Chores that take time and aren’t super important. Things he needn’t do himself so he can go to his squash club again, exercise, unwind.”

  “He doesn’t want an assistant, Cleo. He wants you. Don’t you understand that he’s working like crazy only to forget how…” Her mother’s voice cracked.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” Cleo clenched the phone. “But I can’t change that.”

  “Yes, you can. And you will. That bookshop is closing, and you’re coming home.”

  “It is not closing, and even if it was, I’m not coming home.”

  “Don’t be stubborn for the sake of being stubborn.”

  Cleo threw off the duvet. “Mom, I have to get going, or I will be late for work.”

  “It’s not even eight in the morning. Don’t try to—”

  “Thanks for calling, Mom. Talk to you later.” She disconnected and sat on the edge of her bed, breathing hard, as if she had run a marathon. Tears burned behind her eyes, and at the same time, her hands itched to bash something. How could Mom do this to her, play the health card to get her to come back home? It was Dad’s own decision to work so many hours, to lead a sedentary life, to…

  But please don’t let him die. She lowered her head and closed her burning eyes. Please don’t let him die because I would never forgive myself. I know it’s not my fault, and I can’t make him change his ways, but… Tears leaked from her eyes onto her bare knees. Then she got up with a determined jerk and put on her running gear. She needed an extra-long workout this morning to get all the frustration out of her system.

  …

  At the hotel, Mark emptied his coffee cup and got to his feet. He was early, and he could have sat a little longer reading the newspaper—not the headlines in his news app but a real physical paper with pages that rustled as he turned them with the smell of printing ink. A slow start to the day was exactly what he needed. Last night, after he’d come back from the charity auction, he hadn’t been able to sleep at all. Hotel guests had kept trickling in, laughing in the corridor outside his room.

  Even after their voices had died down and everything had become soothingly quiet, he had lain on his back, staring into the darkness, feeling wide awake. Not wide awake as in worried about a problem in the company or after an argument with Dad. No, wide awake with a sort of excitement, like on the last night before a family vacation when he so wanted to hit the road. Excitement over new things to see and explore.

  Images of Cleo, her expression, her dazzling eyes, had played on an endless loop in his mind. He had caught himself smiling like an idiot because he had spent time with her. With a potential partner for the chain. Keep business things business like.

  There was no way he could strike up a friendship with her, let alone entertain a thought of more. It would be impractical. She lived here. He was based hundreds of miles away near the company’s headquarters. Long-distance relationship? Not for me.

  Any kind of relationship was not for him. He liked to keep his distance, engage only on a superficial level. Working together on friendly terms, fine. Having a good time squashing or boating, why not? But anything deep and meaningful? Nah. He couldn’t remember having had a serious talk with a friend of his for ages. In college, yes, they had speculated about life: what it could be, how it should be, about right and wrong and why people were on this planet anyway. To help others, do meaningful things, be useful. Earn your place. Fire had burned inside of him to make a change, somehow. But such idealistic thoughts had evaporated once he’d entered the tough corporate world. Yes, he tried to do what was right, but there were so many conflicting interests. He couldn’t keep every bookshop open, no matter how much the owners begged him. He couldn’t let sad stories about a suddenly deceased husband or a financial setback cloud his judgment. He had to make sure that the shops added to the Stephens chain would be assets, not risks or even potential disasters. Else he would put all his father had worked for in danger.

  Yeah, that was his excuse for staying aloof and seeing business opportunities…not people. But he realized that this excuse—no matter how valid, as his father had worked very hard for the company—was a way to keep himself out of the equation. What he felt, what he thought was the right thing to do. While the right thing might be the only thing that mattered—like for Cleo, to save her dreams.

  Mark got into his car and started to drive. He had no idea where to. Doesn’t matter. His head was so full of thoughts, he needed to create some kind of order before he started his day. He was somehow…not perfectly rational, and that would influence his judgment. He might just listen to a sad story and cave. For once.

  Mark clenched the leather wheel. What on earth was he doing with his life? It all looked nice on the outside: a steady job in a growing, family-owned business, money in the bank. But the close family bond was gone. Tamela’s relationship with James had blown that sky high. And with those cracks appearing, it seemed like the whole facade that was his life was crumbling. Was this really what he wanted to do? Had dreamed of in college? It seemed so long ago. He desperately wanted to go back to the mindset he’d had but a few weeks before, to the feeling of being in control that had been so reassuring and natural. He was always like that. But not anymore. Uneasiness scratched at the back of his mind; plans unfolded that were definitely not risk-free. Stupid impulses like the urge to throw his phone against the wall? Something I’ll regret?

  Or much more? Something that can change my life.

  Ahead of him, a figure in gray sweatpants and a pink hoodie moved slowly along the road. Dressed like a jogger, but not jogging. Dragging her feet, with her head down.

  Maybe it was so cold the jogger was in trouble? Undercooled? Dehydrated? Not able to complete the run and get back to town?

  He glanced at his glove compartment where he had a bottle of water. Offer it. Lend a hand. He carefully steered the car around the jogger and leaned over to roll down the passenger’s seat window. As she turned her head to him, recognition punched his gut. That face was familiar. But he had never seen it like this. Worn, tear stained.

  Cleo. What on earth happened to you?

  He braked hard and almost tore off the seatbelt trying to unbuckle it fast. He jumped out of the car, rounded it, and grabbed her by the shoulders. “What are you doing here? It’s freezing. Are you hurt?” His eyes roamed her expression to see inside her head, find out what was bothering her
, driving her out into the cold morning.

  “It’s not freezing.” She tried to smile. “It’s a winter morning, and I always jog to clear my mind.”

  Sorry. Mark let go of her. He could point out that she had obviously been crying, but that would be humiliating for her. Whatever it was that had made her cry she didn’t want to talk about. Certainly not with me.

  He held his hands behind his back so they couldn’t do anything stupid like reach out and brush her face to put some warmth into her pale cheeks. She was obviously capable of taking care of herself and felt uncomfortable with his presence. He hated his own silly impulse to scoop her up into his arms and hug her, hold her, comfort her. What would that be like?

  But those hopeful fantasies about getting close to her weren’t real. Reality was the cold wind playing around them, the distance between them, and the clear implication of her response—that she didn’t like or need his help.

  “Of course you can manage. But you’re a long way from the store. Want to hop in, so I can drive you back?” Whether she wanted his interference or not, he wasn’t going to leave her here. He wouldn’t have a moment’s peace.

  She hesitated.

  “Come on,” he urged, gesturing at the car. “I do believe you can run for miles if you want to, but do it some other time, huh? Hop in and let me take you home so you can have a hot cocoa.”

  “I’ll cave for the cocoa.” Cleo accompanied him to the car, and he opened the passenger door for her. She got in and buckled up. As he slipped into his own seat, her shuddering breathing filled the space. He wanted to take her hands in his and rub them until she wasn’t shivering anymore, but he wouldn’t. She had only accepted a ride because he had bribed her with the prospect of hot chocolate.

  Why was she crying? Can I help somehow? Questions were a no go. Confronting someone in an emotional state was painful, and work in the company had taught him to avoid painful situations at all costs. Rather fake it than ask someone if they were really okay and cause embarrassment. “A scene,” as his father always called it in a tone of utter disgust.