Mistletoe on Main Street (series t/k)

by Olivia Miles

  Grace frowned, staring at her sister’s profile. “Is everything okay?” she asked as she pulled off her gloves.

  Jane smiled tightly but kept her eyes fixed on the road. “Of course. Why would you ask?”

  The vagueness of her tone proved what Grace had suspected. Everything was not okay. Grace pinched her lips, considering her youngest sister’s behavior last night at dinner, Adam’s strange absence, the general way she avoided discussing him. Something was up, and she intended to get to the bottom of it.

  With Sophie in earshot, she decided not to press the topic. They were coming up on town, and in the light of day, it looked even more offensive in its lavish décor.

  Storefronts were edged with twinkling lights and donned with wreaths and holly, lampposts were wrapped in pine garland, secured with cheerful red bows, and portly Santas were parked at various street corners, waving bells, collecting for charity. Children climbed the snowbanks that rolled between the sidewalks and roads, squealing with joy.

  “You sure you don’t want to come shopping with me?” Jane asked, as they turned onto Main Street.

  Grace shook her head and stared out onto the town square. The town’s tree stood tall in the center, decorated with oversized bulbs. Skaters glided over the ice of a frozen pond. The gazebo was ornately wrapped with red ribbon, so each post looked like a giant candy cane.

  Grace tutted under her breath. She supposed she should feel happy she was being spared this sort of festive cheer back at home, but for some reason, it only made her feel more distressed that her mother was choosing to sit this Christmas out. Kathleen was Christmas. It was her thing. Her holiday. Her passion. If she couldn’t muster up the energy for the holidays, what hope was there for her, or any of them, for that matter?

  At the corner just ahead was Hastings, the local diner owned by Luke’s cousin, Mark. She had seen Mark briefly at her father’s funeral, standing near the back of the room, his unruly brown hair flopping over his forehead, his eyes set deep, like Luke’s. He had nodded to her from across the room, and she had given him a small smile in response. It was all she could do under the circumstances, and speaking to him would have only brought more pain to the surface, more than she could handle in one day. She’d missed his easygoing manner and friendly banter, but the sight of him had shaken her, causing her to sweep her eyes over the rest of the room with a pounding of her heart.

  When she realized that Luke was not with him—not there at all—she had felt both relieved and hurt. His absence was conscious, of course. Deliberate. And for the life of her she couldn’t decide on the thought process that had led him to stay away. After how close Luke and her father had been, did he really not care to be there? Or did he just not want to see her?

  She had told Luke he had been right to stay away, even if her heart said different.

  Hastings was alive and buzzing from what she could see, proving that some things stood the test of time. The windows had been decorated in a winter scene, making it difficult to see through to the inside. She’d like to go in and say hello to Mark—he was an old friend, after all. She’d spent many summer afternoons in the back of his old convertible—the one he’d restored himself—with Luke’s arm around her as Mark drove them all out to the lake, laughing and singing to whatever tune was playing on the radio, the sun warming their skin, the wind whipping her hair. She smiled now at the memory, but her heart started to ache with sadness.

  “Just drop me off at the bookstore,” she told Jane. She frowned, realizing something. “Who’s running the store now? Did Mom hire someone to help?”

  Beside her, Jane was thin-lipped, her eyes focused on the road. Her brow was knit, and alarm quickened Grace’s pulse. “Jane?” she demanded, as fear sent a wave of ice over her stomach. “What is it?”

  With a sigh, Jane slumped her shoulders. “The store isn’t how you remember it, Grace.”

  “What are you talking about? I was there last night!”

  Jane’s eyes widened. “You didn’t go inside, did you?”

  “No. I couldn’t find a key.” Grace narrowed her gaze. “What are you trying to tell me?” She stared at her sister, her breath turning ragged with concern. That shop was all she had left in Briar Creek. Her last truly happy memory. If something happened to it…

  “You have to understand that a lot has changed, Grace. Since Dad died…” Jane trailed off, a heavy silence finishing her thought. “Well, you’ll see.”

  “Jane,” Grace said impatiently, “I was there last night. There’s nothing to see.” She motioned to the brick storefront with the wide, white-trimmed windows and cheerful red center door, relief sinking in as Jane pulled the car to a stop. “God, by the way you’re talking, you would think it was closed or something!”

  “It is closed, Grace.”

  “What?” She darted her eyes to the shop, now directly in front of them. The CLOSED sign was turned in the glass window of the door. Beyond the bay windows that housed a selection of children’s books, the room was dark and unwelcoming. “I can’t believe it,” she gasped, her jaw slackening at the sight. “I don’t understand.”

  She turned to Jane, searching her face in confusion, looking for some answer that would shed light on the chain of events that had led to this. Main Street Books was her father’s pride and joy. He’d left his English-teaching job to buy it—it had been his lifelong dream, and she was the one standing by his side when he opened it.

  She bit her lip, willing herself not to burst into tears right then and there.

  Jane let out a long breath. She glanced to the backseat to check on Sophie. “I don’t really know what to say, Grace,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “Mom hasn’t been up to running it, and she couldn’t afford to bring someone in to do the job for her. She’s turned down countless jobs. She can’t even handle her own workload,” she said, referring to Kathleen’s work as an interior design consultant. She used to say that there wasn’t a house in all of Briar Creek she hadn’t been invited to improve.

  Sensing her lack of conviction, Jane continued, “It’s not only about paying someone to man the counter. There’s the bookkeeping, the upkeep, the inventory, the bills… the rent.”

  Grace frowned, realizing her sister had a point. She glanced blearily out the window, grimacing at the state of the quaint shop. She remembered it looking charming and literary in an authentic type of way. Now it just looked dusty and sad.

  “When did it close?” she asked quietly.

  “Pretty much right when he died,” Jane admitted. “Mom implied it wasn’t doing well long before that… Let’s just say he was lucky to sell a book a week.”

  “He didn’t do it for the money,” Grace said.

  “I know.”

  Grace closed her eyes. “So what now, then?” she asked.

  “The lease is good through the end of the year,” Jane said. “After that…” She didn’t finish the statement, and Grace was grateful for that.

  “And Mom?” she asked. Jane tipped her head in confusion. “Mom’s okay with it shutting down?”

  “Oh, you know Mom. She never loved this place like Dad did. She loved it because he did, and I know she feels sad about it closing, but it’s a reality, and I think she’s accepted it.” Jane paused, lowering her eyes. “I should have told you sooner, Grace. I just… I didn’t know how. None of us did.”

  “Yes, you should have told me,” she said, setting her jaw. Surprise flickered in Jane’s bright eyes, quickly shadowed by disappointment. “You should have at least told me before driving me over here.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jane said, deflating against the back of her seat. She looked weary and drawn, Grace noticed with a ripple of shame. “You’re right. I guess I was hoping that Anna or Mom would.” She slid her a rueful glance. “They’re not good for much these days.”

  Grace managed a small smile. “No,” she agreed. “They certainly aren’t.”

  She leaned back against her own headrest, staring impassively at t
he bookstore, trying to summon a clearer image of what it had looked like when her father was still alive. Had the paint always been peeling? Had the windows always needed a wash?

  “I still have the keys,” Jane said, and Grace perked up. “I thought you’d want to go in.” While you still can, came the unspoken words, and Grace felt her throat lock up. So much had changed. So much was gone.

  “I’d like that,” she said, accepting the small metal keychain with the engraved image of an open book. It was the one her father always carried in his pocket. When Grace was younger, she would examine it until her eyes strained, trying to decipher which book it was—she never had figured it out. She rubbed her fingers over the key. “Thank you.”

  “You sure you don’t want to come shopping with us, instead? It could be fun.” Jane’s eyes were pleading, her mouth curved with forced encouragement.

  “Not today,” Grace sighed. “It’s not easy being back. When I was back for Dad’s—” She cleared her throat. “When I came here in the spring, I felt like everyone was staring at me.”

  Jane shrugged. “Everyone here is your friend, Grace. Besides, you’re sort of a famous person to everyone now.”

  Grace felt her lip curl. “Oh, please don’t.”

  “The one about the girl who meets the artist in Spain was my favorite, although—”

  “Jane, can we please talk about something else?” Grace rubbed her forehead, suddenly feeling weary.

  “What? Why shouldn’t I take some pride in my oldest sister’s success?” Jane asked.

  “Because I’m not much of a success anymore, that’s why,” Grace muttered.

  Jane clucked her tongue. “Oh, silliness. So you had a few bad reviews.”

  “Scathing,” Grace corrected her. She locked her sister’s eyes. “Scathing reviews, Jane.”

  Jane sloughed it off. “So? You’ll write another one. Win ’em over again.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Grace said.

  Jane frowned. “Don’t be so defeatist. It isn’t like you.”

  Grace sighed and splayed her hands over her jeans, studying her chipped manicure. No, she supposed it wasn’t like her at all. Usually when Grace wanted something, she went for it. Nothing to stop her or stand in her way. So wasn’t it ironic that when it came to the two things in life that mattered most outside her family—her career and Luke—she had been beaten down entirely?

  “Maybe I’m afraid. Rejection stings, you know,” she said, trying to sound casual. The truth was she was afraid—afraid of the final blow, the confirmation that something that mattered so much had slipped through her fingers.

  Oh, she’d thought of giving it one last go, but she had a track record with that type of performance. She knew how it felt when your last chance was taken from you. When hope finally disappeared. Luke had taught her that lesson. The hard way, of course.

  “I can imagine,” Jane said, an edge creeping into her tone. After a pause, she abruptly flashed a smile. “Come on, come with us. We’ll grab a hot chocolate and get your nails fixed. Don’t bring yourself down further. You worry me when you get like this.”

  Grace gave a half smile, appreciating her sister’s worry even if she didn’t need it. Or want it. She knew what Jane was referring to—Luke. It always came back to Luke.

  She glanced back at the shop, and then turned to Jane, patting her hand. “I think this is where I need to be.”

  Jane nodded, and squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you came back, Grace,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. She blinked quickly, her eyes remained fixed on her lap. “It means more than you know.”

  Grace swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m glad I came back, too,” she said, and her pulse skipped a beat at the words.

  “It’ll mean a lot to have you at Sophie’s pageant tomorrow, too. Why don’t you come over beforehand and help with the cookies for the bake sale?”

  “I’m going to be an angel!” Sophie cried proudly from the backseat, and Grace brightened at the joy in her niece’s smile, her sadness inexplicably and wholeheartedly replaced with complete and utter happiness.

  Her chest pulled, leaving her breathless for one startling moment, as she gazed into the little girl’s face. Had she really almost given this all up? The possibility of pure, simple, happiness? For a long time she had convinced herself that she was happy in New York, in her elegant apartment with sweeping skyline views, planning to marry a man whose understanding of her barely dipped below the surface. She had thought she was fulfilled, that it could be enough—that she would make it enough. She had been wrong.

  But then, she had been wrong about a lot of things.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Grace waited until Jane was out of sight before turning to face the crimson-painted door. She heaved a breath for courage and slid the key into the slot. It stuck as she tried to turn the lock, but after a little wiggling, it turned a quarter turn to the right with a slight clicking sound. Slowly, Grace turned the knob and pushed the door open, aware of the heaviness of her heart as she took one careful step after another, her eyes sweeping the room. A jingle of bells welcomed her across the threshold, but the store was otherwise silent and lifeless.

  She soaked it all in, fearfully at first, looking for signs of change or disruption, and then, with some relief, she allowed each memory to come quietly flooding back.

  The old chenille armchair with its fading red fabric was still wedged between the last two shelves, which were still packed tight with a rainbow of book covers. The strong bookcases in warm wood tones grazed the ceiling, and she ran a finger over one of the handwritten signs her father had affixed to each shelf, listing the category. Grace glanced at the hard-covered spines of some first editions, tucked securely behind a glass case, remembering how she had shelved some of the titles herself, and then frowned to realize they had never sold. Venturing farther into the room, she smiled at the sight of the finely polished, rich cherrywood counter.

  She pressed her lips together, willing herself not to cry, when she pictured her father standing proudly behind it, just as he had been the last time she came through that door. She could see him sliding her a warm smile, telling her to come into the back room with a conspiratorial wink, and she’d quicken her pace, following eagerly, waiting to see what new books had arrived since her last visit.

  Next Grace walked into the room that housed storage and a small desk, sighing at its empty yet chaotic state. Boxes of unopened books were stacked in the far corner. The coffee machine that her father kept percolating throughout the day looked like nothing more than a useless toy. The file cabinets were full of neatly organized papers. Anywhere else, the sensitive papers would have been taken away for safekeeping, but here in Briar Creek, there was so little crime it never occurred to anyone to secure them.

  Nothing exciting ever happened in Briar Creek.

  That’s what she had always thought, wasn’t it? In a way, she supposed it was true. People were born and raised here; they went about their lives surrounded by the same faces and places they had seen every day. There was no sense of wonder, no possibility. But was that really so bad? She wasn’t so sure anymore.

  Flicking off the lights, Grace closed the door behind her and ventured back into the storefront, winding her way through the maze of ceiling-high shelves, pausing here and there to study the titles. When she came full circle, she wandered over to the chair nearest the window and plopped herself into it, her heart feeling like a brick.

  The morning sun had been replaced with thick clouds, and the sky had turned gray. It had started snowing again, and she watched as large, thick snowflakes danced their way through the air, her mind far away. She couldn’t remember the last time she had sat and watched the snow. In New York there were too many distractions, too much to get done. She was too busy to notice something so simple. Instead, she let it fade into the background, assuming it would always be there. She took it for granted. She was good at that.

  A hot
tear laced its way down Grace’s cheek and she brushed it away, but another quickly trailed in its path. The knot in her throat ached, and she swallowed hard as the tears fell as freely as the snow on the other side of the glass.

  What would her father think of her now? If he were still here, standing behind that counter, what would he say to her in this moment? She squeezed her eyes closed, and tried to summon his voice, his words of wisdom, knowing he would have the right thing to say. The words that would make it all better.

  She could still remember the pride bursting in his voice when she’d sold her first novel and the unabashed joy when she hit the best-seller list quickly after. But now… Now what would he have said? Would he have looked at her sadly, told her she couldn’t win them all, told her to keep going?

  One thing was certain. He wouldn’t have told her to call it quits. And that’s exactly what she wanted to do.

  She opened her eyes, inhaling sharply when she saw Luke standing outside the window, his face creased with concern. Jolting from the slumped position in her chair, she smiled reflexively, and then cursed herself for doing so. This man had broken her heart—shattered it, really. He didn’t deserve a smile. He didn’t deserve anything.

  Luke held up a hand, his mouth curved into a lopsided grin, and her pulse skipped a beat. In that one brief moment, she could see the boy she had fallen in love with, the boy who could make her stomach flip-flop with a slow smile. Then just as quickly, he transformed back to the man he now was. The man who had married someone else. The man who had planned an entire future without her in it.

  She stood as he entered the store, frantically wiping at any lingering evidence of her tears. His presence seemed larger than usual in the cramped, crowded room, and she felt backed into the corner, forced to confront the one person she had hoped to avoid.

  In the light of day, she allowed herself a proper look at the man who had once been her entire world, from the tousled, espresso-brown locks that spilled over his forehead to the sparkling blue eyes that still sent a shiver down her spine. She’d forgotten how tall he was—at least six feet—but she didn’t forget the contours of his body, the way her fingers felt against the smooth plane of his chest. She wished she could forget. But then, life could be cruel. Sometimes memories were too sharp. Some things were best left in the past.