Natural Born Readers (The Book Lovers 3)

by Victoria Connelly

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Book Lovers Series

  Natural Born Readers

  Victoria Connelly

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Victoria Connelly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Cover design by J D Smith.

  Published by Cuthland Press

  in association with Notting Hill Press.

  Copyright © 2017 Victoria Connelly

  All rights reserved.

  To Jan Cramer – my wonderful narrator and a natural born reader!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  The Book Lovers Series

  About the Author

  Also by Victoria Connelly

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Bryony Nightingale leaned into the bow window at the front of her children’s bookshop and replaced the titles which had enjoyed their time in the limelight. If only she could fit all the children’s books in the world into her little shop, she thought, not for the first time. There were so many delectable ones from the classics to the very latest chart-topping titles. It was a constant source of frustration that her limited shelving couldn’t accommodate everything.

  The bookshop, which was on Church Street in the small market town of Castle Clare, was Bryony’s pride and joy. Simply called ‘Nightingale’s’, it sat opposite her brother Sam’s shop with Josh’s next to that but, unlike their classic dark green painted woodwork, Bryony had chosen mustard yellow for her window and door. It was such a happy, jolly colour and had proved a magnet to the children of the town and its neighbouring villages. It looked, Bryony thought, like the kind of place a Beatrix Potter character would own.

  Indeed, Bryony looked as if she might have stepped right out of one of the colourful children’s books she sold. With her long, dark hair clipped back or up with an assortment of colourful bands or pins, her patchwork skirts in an array of bold fabrics, and her enormous silver belts teamed with biker boots, Bryony was a vision to behold and children adored her because she looked so unlike their parents and teachers. Bryony’s motto was ‘why wear one colour when you can wear seven?’

  Today, which was a cold April day, she was wearing one of her favourite skirts which was a swirl of blues, greens and silvers. Her hair was tied back with a lemon-yellow scarf, and enormous silver hoops dangled from her ears. Her sister Polly had popped in to the bookshop after dropping her son at school and had said that Bryony looked like a fortune teller who’d walked through a paint factory at the precise moment it had exploded. Bryony had laughed. Polly had always favoured a much quieter, more conservative palette.

  Bryony had been running the children’s bookshop full-time since graduating although she’d worked there part-time since she was fourteen, learning everything there was to learn from her mother, Eleanor.

  ‘This is your place now, Bryony,’ her mother had told her that summer and Bryony still remembered her sense of awe and excitement and the strange, potent silence that had filled the shop after her mother had left it and the little bell above the door had stopped ringing. She’d stood in the middle of the floor, her head spinning at the thought that this was her very own little world now and she was in charge of it. She’d immediately got to work, painting the shelves in primary colours, buying beanbags and colourful rugs so that her little customers could sit or sprawl in comfort as they perused the shelves and made their choices. The result was a little heaven and she loved it.

  She couldn’t imagine any other life and she was proud of what she’d achieved in the six years since she’d taken over the shop, including the children’s reading club she’d set up which was going from strength to strength. Twice a week, after school, parents would come into the shop with their children. Some would stay and some would take advantage of the safe environment and nip across the road for a quick cup of tea at The Golden Biscuit, leaving their children in Bryony’s care. She didn’t mind. She encouraged it, in fact. She found that she could be much more free and open in her readings if the parents weren’t around, often feeling self-conscious about her dramatic performances and sound effects if there was a po-faced parent staring at her.

  She thought back to when she’d started the reading club and it didn’t take her long to remember because it was in the summer six years ago when she’d taken over the bookshop. The same summer that Ben Stratton had left.

  Ben. The man she’d loved since primary school. Not that she loved him anymore, she told herself as she chose a few new titles to showcase in the window. Those feelings had been crushed the moment he’d walked out on her all those years ago. He’d wanted to travel, he’d said, to leave Castle Clare far behind him. Well, fine. If he didn’t want to stay with her, then it was better that he went. The fact that he’d begged her to go with him didn’t weigh much with Bryony. His departure had been a betrayal. He’d loved something else more than her and she could never forgive that. Nor forget it.

  The little bell tinkled above the door, breaking into Bryony’s thoughts. It was her eldest brother, Sam.

  ‘Hey!’ she said from the top of the small step ladder. She was shelving a new display of children's mystery books and was admiring each and every cover as she placed them carefully.

  ‘Hey,’ he said and she watched as he shuffled around the shop for a moment.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  ‘Quiet at yours?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Grandpa’s keeping an eye on things. He’s got the morning off as Mum’s taking Grandma to get her hair done. They’re getting manicures and pedicures too.’

  ‘Fancy!’

  ‘Although Mum said she didn’t know why she was bothering as her feet are always shoved into a pair of wellies and her hands will be ruined in no time in the potting shed. Dad’s roped her into sowing seeds.’

  Bryony laughed and continued with the job in hand, aware that Sam was still hovering.

  ‘Did you want a cup of tea?’ she asked him.

  ‘Er, no thanks.’

  She nodded, scrutinising him. He did
n’t look right. He looked decidedly uneasy like he had something on his mind.

  ‘What is it, Sam?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay.’ She turned back to her shelves, not quite believing him and that was when he cleared his throat.

  ‘Ben’s back,’ he said.

  Bryony’s right hand, which was holding a copy of a book about a group of Egyptian mummies on the run, stopped and stiffened, as if she’d been caught in the glare of the Medusa.

  ‘Right,’ she said at last, her voice devoid of colour and emotion.

  ‘Got back last night,’ Sam continued, kicking one of his boots against the other. ‘Gave me a call to let me know. I guess he knew I’d tell you.’

  Bryony only half-heard the words her brother was saying. Her mind was still stuck on the first two: Ben’s back.

  ‘Bry?’

  ‘What? What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Something angry? Something rude?’

  ‘Not going to happen.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Was that it, then? Was that what you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘Yes. I just thought you should know, that’s all.’ There was a pause full of awkwardness. ‘Okay. I’ll leave you to it, then.’

  Bryony heard the sound of the shop bell and waited before slowly climbing off the steps.

  So, Ben was back, was he? Well, that didn’t make any difference to her. She doubted very much that he’d dare to walk into the bookshop so, as long as she stayed within its safe confines, all would be well.

  She walked to the door and locked it, turning the sign round to ‘Closed’ even though lunchtime was a good couple of hours away, and then she went into the storeroom at the back of the shop and promptly burst into tears.

  The April evening was chilly and Callie Logan had lit the wood burner at Owl Cottage to brighten things up a bit. After a day writing in one of the tiny upstairs bedrooms she’d turned into a study since moving to Suffolk in September, she loved spending time in the living room with the curtains drawn and a fire blazing. She also loved spending time with Sam and it was a rare evening that they didn’t spend together these days either with him visiting Owl Cottage or her driving the short distance in to Castle Clare to his flat above the bookshop.

  ‘I got a call today,’ Sam called from the kitchen where he was cooking rice from a recipe in a book he’d pulled from one of the shop shelves just before leaving. He had a habit of doing that. Callie kept telling him not to bring any more books over but book lovers never heard commands like that, did they? Or Sam certainly didn’t. Telling him to stop bringing her books would be like telling him to stop breathing.

  ‘Who was your call from?’ Callie asked as she threw another log into the wood burner.

  ‘Ben.’

  Callie frowned. ‘Ben who?’

  ‘Ben Stratton,’ Sam said, coming into the living room and sitting in the chair by the fire.

  ‘Bryony’s Ben?’

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘What does Bryony think?’

  ‘She didn’t say anything when I told her. She went all quiet on me.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘I’m a bit worried about her to be honest.’

  ‘Isn’t she seeing Colin the baker?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘What do you mean, “kind of”?’

  ‘I think it’s a bit half-hearted on her side which is a shame as he’s a pretty decent bloke. I hope she’s not leading him on.’

  ‘She wouldn’t do that, would she?’

  ‘You’d be amazed what people do to stave off loneliness,’ he said.

  ‘But you didn’t do that when you were on your own, did you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘I knew you were on your way to me.’

  Callie smiled at him. ‘You always say exactly the right thing at the right time, don’t you?’

  ‘Comes from a lifetime of reading.’ He kneeled down on the floor and kissed her before returning to the rice in the kitchen. Ten minutes later and they were eating. The rice was very good indeed.

  ‘So tell me about Ben,’ Callie said.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Everything! I’ve only heard bits and pieces from your family and it’s kind of hard to put it all together in the right order,’ she said.

  ‘Well,’ Sam began, ‘Bryony and Ben were best friends growing up. They met at primary school and they did absolutely everything together, even making sure they went to the same college in Cambridge to study English. He was a good friend to me and Josh too, but he was always Bryony’s friend first and everyone just expected them to become a couple. There was never any talk of getting engaged or married or anything – it was just a given that they'd be together forever.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Callie asked.

  ‘Ben took off. Got this idea that he had to leave Castle Clare and go travelling. It was so sudden. Nobody had seen it coming.’

  Callie frowned. ‘And how did Bryony react?’

  ‘That was the odd thing,’ Sam said. ‘She didn't really react at all – not in any way you'd expect. There was no screaming or tears. She just kind of went quiet and threw herself into the bookshop and none of us were allowed to mention Ben ever again.’

  ‘And that was it? No news from Ben?’

  ‘He sent Bryony postcards from all over the world but, being Ben, he did something a bit different with them. Each postcard came inside a book.’ Sam smiled at the memory. ‘Whichever country he was in, he’d find some classic book in its language and send it to her.’

  ‘Really? Callie said, her eyes lighting up as she fell a little bit in love with the mysterious Ben herself.

  ‘But the books stopped arriving after about two years and we never heard from him again. Bryony moved on, started dating a line of hopeless cases and forgot about Ben.’

  ‘So you think,’ Callie said.

  ‘No, I’m sure she did.’

  ‘Sam, Ben was Bryony's first love. You don’t ever forget that!’

  Sam sighed. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘And now he’s back.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you think will happen?’

  Sam shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think Bryony will want to see him, but I’m sure my family will. He was like an honorary member.’

  ‘I’d like to meet him too.’

  ‘Then you shall,’ Sam said with a grin.

  Callie’s writer’s mind couldn’t help but find it all fascinating. ‘I wonder if she kept all the books and postcards he sent her,’ she said. ‘Do you know?’

  He shook his head. ‘She probably made a big bonfire of them all.’

  ‘No!’ Callie said aghast. ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘I think Ben is very much a part of Bryony’s past,’ Sam said, but Callie couldn’t help wondering if he was right.

  After sharing a small house with her cousin Megan for years, Bryony had recently moved into a place of her own – a tiny house in Springfield Terrace on the Great Tallington Road. She missed having the constant companionship of Megan, but there was something rather wonderful about closing your door at the end of a day’s work and having silence greet you. Plus, of course, her enormous book collection had demanded a larger premises. Megan ran Castle Clare’s library and, like the rest of the Nightingale family, had books in abundance. Their tiny place simply hadn’t been able to cope with two bibliophiles.

  Bryony drew the living room curtains. It had been dark for a few hours but she’d been lost in the pages of the latest Lucy Lamont novel. She was one of the most popular middle-grade authors around and Bryony could see why with her lovable characters and hilarious storylines in which adults were most definitely second-class citizens.

  She’d known what she’d been doing by picking up the novel: she’d been putting off the inevitable.
Ever since Sam had come into her shop with the news, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She’d managed to put it out of her mind whilst she was reading – that was the magic of books; they could whisk you away from your troubles for a few blissful hours – but you always had to return, didn’t you? And, for her, that meant going upstairs into the second bedroom. It was still full of boxes of books yet to be unpacked, but it wasn’t a box she was looking for – it was a battered old suitcase from her student days. It had belonged to her mother years ago and had been passed down to Polly and then Bryony university. Lara had escaped the old suitcase by being so much younger than her sisters and it had kind of attached itself to Bryony.

  She saw it as soon as she walked into the bedroom. Cracked and faded, it still held a kind of beauty and her hands reached for it now, pulling it out into a space on the carpet where she could kneel down before it and open it up.

  A silver and sea-green scarf greeted her eyes. It was one which a young Hardy, her parents’ pointer, had once got hold of and ripped right down the middle. Bryony hadn’t been able to part with it and so it lived in the suitcase as a protective layer over the treasure trove of books within. Books which Ben had sent her.

  She removed the scarf now and she saw the stacks of titles. There was A Room with a View in Italian, Romeo and Juliet in French, Madame Bovary in Spanish, Pride and Prejudice in... actually Bryony wasn’t too sure what that language was. All the great love stories of the world found by Ben on his travels and posted to her bookshop in Castle Clare.

  She held each one gently in her hands, knowing that Ben had touched every single one. And then she opened up the copy of A Room with a View, her hand hovering over the postcard that had been sleeping inside it for so long since she’d last read it. The first few lines were about his travels. He’d had his wallet stolen in Rome. He’d eaten far too much pizza than was good for a human being in Naples and he’d climbed Vesuvius. Her eyes read the words once again, rushing towards the final line which she knew was coming.