The Little Bookshop of Love Stories: A gorgeous feel good romance to escape with this summer!

by Jaimie Admans

  Dimitri yawns and stretches, the movement of his arms causing his burgundy shirt with foxes all over it to rise, showing a sliver of pale skin at the base of his back, and my breath catches at how much I want to run my fingers along it. I force myself to look away and shrug one strap of my bag off and start getting books out. I lean one against the corner of Once Upon A Page, leave one around the side next to the closed-off staircase up to the roof terrace, and tuck one behind a drainpipe on the other side in the little gap that separates the bookshop from the candle shop to the left. I snap a photo of each one ready to upload as a clue later.

  I stand one in the hanging basket swinging from the lamppost outside the shop, being careful not to damage any flowers, and then we cross the cobbled street to the fountain and town square. Dimitri leaves one on each bench, while I stand one under the lip of one of the steps in a hexagon around the fountain, and we both tuck one in next to the flower troughs on either end and partially obscure them with trailing aubretia and busy Lizzies.

  When we leave the fountain area, I’m happy to follow Dimitri’s lead about which way to go because I don’t know the village well enough yet, having spent most of my time in the bookshop since I arrived three weeks ago. There are other shopkeepers around, and I ask permission to hide a book at the edge of their buildings and peeking from the corners of their outside displays, and everyone is so supportive of the idea. I’m pleasantly surprised that no one seems to share Drake Farrer’s attitude.

  We leave books tucked into hanging baskets and sitting on windowsills as we pass the chocolate shop, the sweet shop, and the many handmade gift shops that make up Buntingorden High Street. We stop to inhale the smell of freshly roasted coffee outside the deli. When we get to the end of the street, we turn onto the grassy paths behind the buildings that lead down to the river, Dimitri swinging the shovel beside him as we walk. The grass is wet with morning dew and the longer edges are sparkling as they reflect the spring sunshine high above us. With the slight hills and dips in the uneven ground, he holds his arm out to me, and I shift both half-empty tote bags onto one shoulder so I can get closer to him. I’ve wanted to hug him since I walked down the stairs this morning and saw him reading his mum’s second message, and I settle for slotting my arm through his and sort of holding it against me.

  He squeezes my arm against his side, and it gives me the courage to suggest something that’s been floating around in my mind since the dinner at Nicole’s house the other night. ‘I don’t think the notes should stay hidden.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. You talking to my family the other night got me thinking. They got so involved and invested in the stories of Esme, and Vickie and Tommy, and Mindy and Brandon, and none of them have ever been interested in books. They haven’t been interested in me owning the shop or this new career I’ve got, but the stories of those notes got their attention. If they can draw in even non-readers, it would be brilliant to share them with people like us. People who love books and care about books and remember the days before Kindles when spines were flexed, page corners were turned down and paragraphs were run through with highlighter pens.’

  I can see the effort it takes for him to arrange his face into a frown. ‘If you ever mistreated books like that, you and me are going to have to have a serious conversation about where our relationship is going.’

  He probably feels the physical jolt of surprise that goes through me at those words. Where exactly is our relationship going? I mean, I’m sure he didn’t mean it in that way and it’s just a figure of speech, but it sends a simultaneous shot of butterflies straight into my belly at the thought he wants it to go in any direction.

  Eventually the false frown becomes too hard for someone so naturally smiley to maintain and he laughs, not seeming to notice the burst of butterflies swishing around inside me. I feel so fluttery that I’m certain he must be able to feel them through my fingertips on his warm forearm.

  ‘How?’ he asks gently, not immediately dismissing the idea.

  ‘I don’t know. Like the campaigns we’ve already put on social media to try to find the people mentioned in the notes, but we put them all in one place, photos of all the book covers and the notes inside, and form an online collection of all these lost love stories we’ve found. If we could get BuzzFeed or one of the other sites that shares viral news to mention it, ask for retweets and shares on our social media pages … Our Twitter account’s got a couple of hundred followers now, and only about half of them are creepy men who want me to send them money.’

  There’s a low hedge surrounding a garden at the back of the flower shop, and I stop and go over to slide a book under it. As I walk back, I lean another one against the carved stone base holding up a birdbath on the path edge. ‘It’s our unique thing and having the books all hidden away, lost in the shelves like they aren’t anything special seems wrong. I want to display them. I want to make them a reason to come and visit Once Upon A Page. I think there’s importance here. History. People might be interested in them. Other people might enjoy reading them as much as I do.’

  ‘Like an art installation?’

  ‘Exactly. We could have a big open day and invite people down to see it. I could ask local newspapers and tourism websites if they’re interested in reporting on it. I know we haven’t found all the notes yet and there’s still over half the stock left to go through, but we could add to it whenever we find new ones to keep it fresh, and we could make a real thing of finding the people in these notes. Like Vickie and Tommy. How amazing was that? That these two people reunited because of us – because we solved a years-old misunderstanding all because of that book. They could go on to fall madly in love and live happily ever after. They could be each other’s one, and they would never have known if it wasn’t for that book resurfacing. How many more are there like that?’

  ‘It’s brilliant. You’re brilliant. This will create such a buzz. The little bookshop of lost love stories. A unique selling point. Something that makes it stand out. Something that will make people remember it – and you want people to remember it when they’re next thinking of buying a book. This is you, Hal. You love those messages; you love thinking about whoever wrote them, whoever received them, whoever threw them away. This is what you’ve been saying all along – and this is a chance to find out.’ He nudges his elbow into my side. ‘Although I still think it’s all because you want to find Esme.’

  I grin because he can see right through me. ‘Hers is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Sylvester was so in love with her. I want to prove to myself that love is real and that men don’t write something like that if they don’t mean it … It was the start of a relationship. It has to have lasted. They have to have lived happily ever after, like Marius and Cosette.’

  ‘Who lived happily ever after because they were the only characters who didn’t die.’

  I smack his arm lightly where my fingers are still curled around it.

  ‘I think it’s a good idea.’ He talks slowly, obviously putting thought into every word.

  I can finish the sentence for him. ‘But the books have been thrown out, obviously no one cares about them, no one’s sentimental, et cetera?’

  He laughs. ‘Well, maybe there was a spate of burglaries where the burglar broke in and just took sentimental books from the shelves rather than all that cash and jewellery nonsense. It’s as viable an explanation as any for how they got here if they’re such valued, treasured books. All right, Vickie and Tommy was a misunderstanding and finding that book led to them reconnecting and who knows where else it will lead, but they have to be the exception, not the rule. If these books were wanted, they wouldn’t be on your shelves. Even Esme’s.’

  I let go of his arm to dodge across and lean a book against the trunk of a hawthorn tree that’s covered in white flowers, and the almond scent of May blossom fills the air around it.

  ‘What about your mum’s notes?’ I hook my arm back through his. ‘Do
you want to put them online too? See if we can find out who the mystery man is. If he died and his estate was sold off, his family might recognise the books and come forward …’

  He’s quiet as we walk, for so long that I think he’s not going to answer. ‘I’d like that. My father won’t be happy if he finds out, but I can feel how much she loved whoever she wrote those notes to. They’re special. Whoever he was obviously meant a lot to her. They shouldn’t just be forgotten.’

  ‘You never talk about your father.’

  ‘There isn’t much to talk about. He works a lot. He sits in his office judging people who diverted from the plan he had for them.’

  ‘People who switched their university courses from business studies to art?’ I ask carefully, squeezing his arm a bit tighter than necessary in an attempt to let him know that I’m not trying to pry. Well, not much anyway.

  ‘Pretty much. Like I said, he’s always been a fair-weather father. And my weather’s always been rainy.’

  It’s an odd metaphor, mainly because everything about him is so sunny, and I’m not really sure what to say in response because everything sounds overly sappy or inappropriate. ‘You’re the epitome of sunshine.’

  ‘Thank you.’ His voice breaks and he can’t hold back a smile at the same time, like when it’s bucketing down and somewhere on the horizon, there’s a burst of sunlight and a rainbow.

  ‘Have you got any inklings about your mum’s mystery man?’

  ‘None. But I wouldn’t know. I didn’t live here then. I hardly ever came back after boarding school. My relationship with my father had already broken down. I never forgave him for sending me there and not realising I wasn’t like my brother and I wouldn’t thrive in that environment. Coming back reminded me of how happy I’d been here and how I no longer fitted in with the friends I’d had here, so I stayed away. I only came back after Mum died. I wouldn’t have a clue who she spent time with.’

  I squeeze his arm so tight that he’ll probably need a plaster cast by the end of this walk. ‘Maybe it’s The Stropwomble of Bodmin Lane.’

  He laughs. ‘Trust me, it’s not The Stropwomble of Bodmin Lane.’

  The atmosphere suddenly feels charged between us and it would be so easy to pull him to a stop and reach up and hug him, and it feels like we both know it wouldn’t end at hugging.

  I extract my arm from his and go across to the bright green wild raspberry bushes that separate the public river walk from the edges of a farmer’s fenced-off field. They’re covered in white flowers that will become juicy red berries later in the season, and I have to say ‘excuse me’ to a bee and nestle a book in the top of a bush.

  We’ve reached the path along the edge of the river now, empty at half past eight in the morning apart from a flash of blue and orange as a kingfisher skims along the river and darts into the water.

  Dimitri stops and shrugs the tote bags off his shoulder and readjusts his fox shirt. ‘Right, Little Miss Non-Believer, you hide the rest of the books, I’ll find the treasure.’ He winks at me as he starts loading the last few books to hide into my bag, and folds his empty ones up gleefully. ‘Empty bags for all our loot. And at least we’re not far from the shop, so you can run back for more while I guard the vast amounts of treasure we’re going to dig up.’

  I can’t help grinning at the childlike joy on his face. There’s something so innocent about him, so uncomplicated, and his outlook on life is enviable. Don’t we all want to get excited over a child’s treasure map in a book, like we would have before growing up stripped us of wonder and saddled us with cynicism?

  I listen to the gentle lap of flowing water, low because we haven’t had much rain lately. A swan glides near us, checking to see if we’ve got any food before disappointedly sailing away again.

  ‘It’s going to be a murder weapon.’ I try not to think about how much I can’t resist Dimitri’s smile as he pulls Treasure Island from his pocket, practically vibrating on the spot as his index finger follows the lines of the biro-drawn map.

  ‘It’s going to be some sophisticated criminal who knew no one would ever look at a child’s map in a pirate book.’

  ‘It’ll be a map marking the location of a buried body.’

  ‘A million pounds!’ He thinks for a moment. ‘No – two. One each!’

  ‘Oh, maybe it is the body. We’re going to be knee-deep in skeletons any minute now.’

  We pass the oak tree and I go across to lean a book against its trunk, and then put my foot on the lower bough and reach to tuck one into a juncture of branches at eye level. My feet splash into dew-damp grass when I step back down.

  ‘Gold bars!’ He swings the shovel in one hand and holds open the copy of Treasure Island in the other, and I keep dashing off to tuck books into hidden spots along the walkway, leaving one on a picnic table, one on a bench, another on a large flat stone that birdwatchers use as a seat.

  ‘A gun.’

  ‘A time capsule!’

  ‘A genie’s lamp with an evil genie in it.’

  ‘A “Welcome to Earth” box for aliens!’

  ‘An actual alien. Cramped. Slightly murderous.’

  ‘A magic wand that actually works!’

  ‘The loot from a diamond heist being monitored by the FBI.’ Despite how difficult it is to think up outrageous suggestions to counteract his positivity, I’m giggling by the time we cross the wooden bridge over the river, a deep pool below us where people swim in the summer. I leave another book at the post on the corner.

  We pass the place where the swans used to nest and follow the bank on the opposite side to the crab apple tree at the edge of the water.

  Dimitri looks up at the huge, gnarly tree, its twisted branches laden down with pink-tinged blossom and the first spray of the green leaves that will cover it in summer. ‘This is it. X marks the spot.’ He holds the book out, his finger on the red X. ‘It’s this side.’

  He hands me his phone and the book as he taps his shovel against the grass a few times, trying to decide where to dig.

  ‘You’re not going to find anything,’ I say as he presses his foot on the top of the shovel and drives it down into the earth.

  ‘Oh, ye of little faith.’ He takes care to slice the top layer of grass off and set it aside so it can be put back afterwards with minimal damage, and then digs up a couple of shovelfuls of earth, being careful to avoid the tree roots.

  ‘It’s just a kid’s imagination while reading a book about treasure. Who wouldn’t make up their own—’

  His shovel makes a clang as it hits something that is definitely not mud or root, and he looks up at me with exhilaration on his face. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘It’s probably where someone’s buried their hamster.’

  He lies down on the wet grass and plunges his hand into the hole, using his fingers to knock away earth and move aside the tangle of tree roots. ‘It’s metal.’ His face screws up as he reaches for it, trying to get enough of a grip to pull it out. ‘Quite small. Not big enough to hold any gold bars.’

  He hasn’t stopped smiling since he pulled Treasure Island out, and even now, lying on the ground with dew soaking through his clothes and both arms up to their elbows in earth, he looks radiant. I don’t think he’s even remotely interested in finding wads of cash down there. I don’t think he’d care if it was a box of crayons. He’s just experiencing the joy of a treasure hunt.

  He makes a series of noises as his hand closes around whatever is hiding down there and he loses his grip a few times before finally easing it out one centimetre at a time.

  It’s a battered old tin with mostly rusted pictures of seed packets on the front and hinges that look like they’re barely hanging on.

  Dimitri’s so excited that when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a series of noises, and I can’t help grinning at him. Even if he is about to prove me wrong. Or find that it is somebody’s dead hamster.

  He lays it on the grass and kneels in front of it, and I crouch beside
him as he tries to open the corroded tin, fused together by rust. It creaks and scratches as he carefully works the lid from the tin and lifts it off like a precious artefact.

  The hinges are so rusty that they split with the first hint of movement and his fingers hover above it before he lifts something gently from the box. ‘It’s a car! Isn’t that amazing? Look at the age of this.’ He cradles the rusty, muddy thing in his palm – a little metal toy car, with a hint of red and blue scraps of paint peeking out from under the rust and mud that’s seeped inside the tin. ‘It’s got to be 1950s at least. This is the sort of thing we have to put online. Can you imagine being the little boy who buried this? To come across it again sixty-odd years later?’

  ‘I doubt he still wants it,’ I say, even though it is pretty impressive. I don’t know anything about the rust patterns of metal or old toy cars, but it certainly looks like it’s been down there for the best part of a few decades.

  He tucks the car back into the tin, handling it like it’s made of glass. ‘We should be getting back – it must be late.’

  The time! I’d totally forgotten about the time. I quickly check my phone – five to nine. It’ll take longer than that to walk back. Let’s hope there isn’t a queue of irate customers lining up for me to open the door. There’s a first time for everything.

  I notice the Twitter app on my phone has got a glowing red dot beside it, indicating a new direct message. I put Dimitri’s phone, the copy of Treasure Island, and the old tin down on the grass so I can read it while he carefully refills the hole and lays the turf of grass back where it came from.

  And then it’s my turn to squeal. ‘Brandon’s just direct messaged me! And he’s looking for Mindy too!’

  He cries out too and in the midst of the excitement, it flits across my mind how nice it is to have someone to share my excitement with, but the thought is quickly replaced by more excitement.