How to Find Love in a Bookshop

by Veronica Henry

  If she thought about it, she could still feel that love now. A burning heat that went into her very bones, a ball of warmth where her heart sat. They had never known what to do with their love. Acknowledging it in public would have taken them into another realm, a set of circumstances Sarah knew she couldn’t manage. Her duty was to her husband, her family, and Peasebrook. She couldn’t compromise that duty. It wasn’t fair to anyone, but most of all it wasn’t fair to Julius. He protested that he didn’t mind, but Sarah did. She always felt terrible, that he had got the raw end of the deal, and that she was somehow having her cake and eating it, too.

  But if she ever talked about ending it, which she did from time to time when the guilt gnawed at her in the darkness of dawn, he would pull her to him and kiss her. Oh, how they had kissed. Was there anything more momentous? she wondered. To kiss someone so hard you could feel your soul fuse with theirs?

  She wasn’t proud of her relationship with Julius, for it compromised the two men she loved. For she still loved Ralph in her own way, despite everything he had put her through. Though the two of them lived very separate lives, they still had much in common, not least Alice. Never in a million years would she have walked out on what they had.

  But she had needed Julius. She knew it was selfish, to carry on, even though he insisted the circumstances didn’t matter to him. As long as he could have a little bit of her, it didn’t matter to him.

  She couldn’t explain all this to Emilia. Emilia was young. She wouldn’t understand the subtleties and compromises and dilemmas that came with later life. And she didn’t want to sully Emilia’s memory of Julius by making him out to be less than morally upright.

  So she chose her words carefully.

  “I loved your father, but of course I’m married, and he was very aware of that. He was a very understanding and considerate man. He respected my situation. But we became very close . . .”

  She hoped what she was saying made sense. She wasn’t actually lying. She hadn’t denied anything as such. It was equivocation, if anything. She didn’t need to go into details about the intensity of what they had. The extraordinary passion, even if it had felt pure.

  Emilia didn’t say anything for a while. When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle.

  “I’m glad,” said Emilia. “I’m glad he had someone as lovely as you. To care about him. To think about when he woke up in the morning.” A tear slid out onto her cheek. “Sorry. It’s just . . . I miss him.”

  She rubbed her eye with the heel of her hand. Sarah jumped to her feet. She could never bear to see anyone cry—it might be her duty to keep her emotions in check when it came to herself, but when it came to others, she was open and caring. She sat on the sofa next to Emilia and hugged her.

  “I miss him, too,” she said. “Dreadfully.”

  “I’m just glad he wasn’t lonely.” Emilia’s voice wavered. She sounded like a small girl trying desperately not to cry harder. “I always worried that he was lonely. He was such a wonderful man. He deserved to be loved.”

  “Oh, he was loved. Be sure of that.”

  Emilia leaned into Sarah. It was wonderful to be comforted by someone who had loved her father.

  “Nobody knew about us, of course. We could never tell anyone. But I’m taking the risk of telling you because I think you’ll understand. And because I want you to know that I’m always here if you need me,” Sarah told her. “I know Julius would have wanted me to look out for you. And if I can be of support, in any way, just let me know. Even if it’s just to talk about him. Or just to come up for tea. Or wine. Or anything. Anything.”

  Emilia held Sarah’s hands and looked at her. She could see now the depth of the sadness in Sarah’s eyes. And she could feel the warmth and kindness that Julius must have been drawn to. And she was grateful to Sarah, for her compassion and honesty. It must have been a painful confession. She felt honored to be trusted with the secret. She supposed when she had time to think about it, she might be shocked, but she wasn’t going to judge. She found it a comfort, that Julius had this woman’s devotion. And she knew, from all the books she had ever read, that life was complicated, that love sprang from nowhere sometimes, and that forbidden love wasn’t always something to be ashamed of.

  16

  A few days later, Bea laid a presentation folder in front of Emilia with a proud smile.

  “I tried really hard not to get too carried away,” she said.

  She had made it into the shape of a book. On the front it read Nightingale Books in silver writing on navy blue. She’d designed a logo—N and B entwined, with a tendril of roses and a tiny nightingale perched among them.

  “This is the logo—you can use it on all your social media, your bags, the sign outside. A really strong visual that people can recognize and identify with.”

  “It’s sweet. We could have T-shirts, too. A uniform!” Emilia felt a swirl of delight.

  “Exactly. This is about creating a brand as much as creating a really immersive shopping experience.”

  “Okay . . .” Emilia wasn’t used to jargon, but Bea thrived on it.

  The first page was a CAD drawing of the shop divided up into sections, using double-sided bookcases. There was a four-sided counter in the center of the floor space, allowing whoever was serving to see all around the shop.

  “I wanted it to feel as if it’s got different rooms. Different rooms with different feels,” Bea explained. “There’s so much wasted space, but this gives you twice as much shelf space as well as more room to browse.”

  Each section had a page, and Bea had created a mood board for each one. The pièce de résistance was the café area on the mezzanine, which also had an area selling cards and wrapping paper and small gifts.

  “Oh!” breathed Emilia. “Do you think we can do it? It looks absolutely gorgeous. Sort of the same but different.”

  “I wanted to keep the spirit of what your dad had here, but move it on a bit. Make it modern but nostalgic. Somewhere people can explore their imaginations: step back into the past if they want, or into another world, or into the future. That’s what a bookshop should be, after all—a gateway to somewhere else. But books aren’t enough—you have to give people a helping hand.”

  Emilia leafed through the drawings. Bea really had been clever. She had kept everything that was important but showed it off to much greater effect. The colors were softer: the walls pale gray, the shelves painted white, which made the shop seem bigger.

  “I love it all. I love the lights!”

  At the moment, the shop was lit with old-fashioned strip lights, harsh at best. Bea had put in some very cool chandeliers: white twisted glass with red wire threaded through them.

  “Well, those are probably very expensive, but it gives you an idea of what could be done.”

  Emilia sighed. “How much do you think it will cost? Because, of course, that’s the rub. None of this looks cheap.”

  Bea made a face. “Well, you get what you pay for. But some of it can be done with a bit of creative DIY and magic. And we can work with what we’ve got already. If we rip up the carpet, we can use the floorboards—put a nice chalky paint effect over them. And then painting everything pale colors will give the illusion of more space. And you don’t have to do it all at once!”

  “But I want to do it all at once.” Emilia laughed. “And how long do you think it would take? We’d have to close while it was being done.”

  “I’ve done a timetable,” said Bea. “I reckon two weeks, with all hands on deck. As for price, we’d have to get quotes. It’s mostly carpentry, a bit of wiring. Decorating. But of course, as we all know, once you start taking something apart, then you uncover all sorts of horrors.”

  “It’s a total refurb,” said Emilia, shaking her head. “There’s no point in being half arsed about it. We’d have to take all the books out and put them somewhere. And I need to
put in a new computer system while I’m at it. And security.” Emilia looked around the shop. She imagined everything Bea had outlined brought to life, and how exciting that would be.

  She just had to find the courage from somewhere.

  And the cash . . .

  “I’ll get some quotes. There’s no point in getting excited until I know what it’s going to cost.”

  “I’ve got some guys who did my house. They’re reliable. And fast. And good. They have to be, to work for me.” Bea laughed. “I’ll ask them for a quote.”

  “And will you help me do a window display for Mick Gillespie? He’s coming on the weekend, remember.”

  “Of course!” Bea’s eyes sparkled. “Can I have carte blanche?”

  “Carte blanche and a fifty quid budget,” said Emilia. “And as many copies of his book as you can stuff in the window.”

  “As long as I get a signed copy of his book,” said Bea. “Fair exchange is no robbery. Which makes a change . . .”

  —

  Later that week, Jackson came back to Emilia with his verdict on the Moomins.

  “We loved it,” he said. “And I’m going to try and be more like Moominpappa.”

  “Well, that’s a very good resolution,” said Emilia. “But you might need to put on a bit of weight.”

  “Don’t! My ex kept going on about how fat they all were. But at least they’re happy. Not making kale smoothies and freaking out if they have an extra raw almond.”

  “Is she a bit of a health freak?”

  “She’s turned into one. She never used to be. She’s doing a triathlon and she’s obsessed with her heart rate and her body fat and how often she can go training.”

  “Sounds awful.”

  “I don’t mind. It means I get to have Finn more while she goes on endless bike rides. So—what shall I read next?”

  “I’ve just got the perfect book in. I’m trying to build up the children’s department.” She led him over to a display table and held up a picture book. “I don’t know anyone who can’t learn something from The Little Prince, though you probably need to read it a few times to get the full meaning.” She handed it to him. It was a slender book, with a picture of a little blond boy dressed in blue on the front, standing on a planet. “It’s a funny book,” she went on. “Funny peculiar. But it explains things. It’s my favorite book in the world.”

  “I thought the Moomins were?”

  “After the Moomins.” She grinned. “Okay. I admit it. I have lots of favorites. That’s the trouble with books. You can never choose your favorite. It changes depending on your mood. But I think you’ll like it.”

  “I’ll give it a try.” He handed over the money. “Finn’s really loving being read to. It’s made a big difference to our relationship. I think he just saw me as the one who messed about with him in the skate park, but we’ve been having some really good chats.” He looked a bit emotional. “It’s good, after everything that’s happened. I don’t feel like such a bloody failure . . .”

  “I’m sure you’re not a failure,” said Emilia.

  Jackson looked embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m oversharing . . .”

  “Listen, it’s part of the job. Everyone comes in here to overshare. I’m part bookseller, part therapist.”

  She handed him the book. As he took it, Jackson spotted the poster behind the counter, advertising the evening with Mick Gillespie.

  “Mick Gillespie? Is he actually coming here?”

  “I know, right? I’m so excited.”

  “Have you still got tickets? How much is it?”

  “Five pounds—but you get nibbles and a Silver Moon cocktail for that. I’ve got someone doing special Irish canapés. It’s going to be amazing.”

  “Mia would love that. She’s obsessed with Mick Gillespie. She bought me one of those Aran jumpers for Christmas one year. I looked like an idiot in it.” Jackson shrugged ruefully. “Can I have two tickets?”

  “Of course!” She took two tickets from the drawer.

  “She is going to be so made up.” Jackson grinned, pulling out a tenner.

  Bea emerged from the window, dressed in a boilersuit, a glue gun in one hand. She smiled at Jackson and looked at Emilia, inquiry in her eyes.

  Emilia had no choice but to introduce them.

  “Bea, this is Jackson. Jackson—this is Bea. She’s doing a window display for the event.”

  The two of them nodded hello at each other.

  “If you ever want anything done,” said Jackson, “I’m quite handy.”

  Bea held up her glue gun. “I’m good. But thanks.”

  Jackson turned to go, putting a farewell hand up to Emilia.

  “Thanks for everything. See you soon.”

  Bea watched him go out of the door. “I bet he’s handy, all right. What are you waiting for?”

  “Bea!” Emilia feigned shock. “He’s not my type. Although he is cute. But he’s totally obsessed with his ex. He’s just bought tickets to the Mick Gillespie event for her.”

  “She’s his ex!” said Bea. “Come on! You need to have some fun. And he needs to get over her. Ask him out. He’s superhot.”

  “He’s a customer! I’m not going to ask him out.”

  “Why not? It’s not like you’re a doctor. You’re not breaking some Hippocratic oath. There is nothing that says you can’t have a relationship with one of your customers.”

  Emilia was suddenly reminded of her father and Sarah. So many questions had been whirling round in her head. How had their affair started? In the bookshop? Sarah might tell her one day, she supposed.

  In the meantime, she needed to get Bea off her back. Jackson wasn’t an option. She could see it in his eyes.

  “You’ve got glue in your hair,” she said, and walked away.

  —

  Later that afternoon, Thomasina came in to discuss the food. She was going to buy a copy of the Ballymaloe cookery book for inspiration, but Emilia insisted on giving it to her.

  “You’re paying me to do the food!” Thomasina protested.

  “Yes, but you wouldn’t have had to buy an Irish cookery book otherwise.”

  “But I’ll treasure this. It’s a brilliant book. I can’t just take it.”

  “Okay—then have it at half price. We’ll compromise.”

  Thomasina agreed, reluctantly.

  Emilia was worried that there were too many people in Peasebrook doing her favors and not getting anything back. June, Andrea, Bea, Thomasina . . . If the shop was going to work, she had to pay people properly. She couldn’t run it on goodwill forever. And she couldn’t just repay them with books forever, either.

  —

  Thomasina left Nightingale Books and walked back up the high street, slowing down as she went past the cheese shop. Then she realized it was early closing day—one of those infuriating old-fashioned traditions that some of the shops in Peasebrook still clung to. The blinds of the window were down, the door firmly locked.

  She stood on the pavement, racked with disappointment. She’d been longing to catch sight of Jem. She hadn’t stopped thinking about him since he’d asked her for coffee after the memorial. She’d been psyching herself up all day to go into the shop. And now she didn’t know what to do with herself.

  She hurried away before anyone noticed her mooning. She’d go home, have a cup of tea, and leaf through her new book. Recipes always calmed her and soothed her. She would read about soda bread and champ and carrageen moss pudding and forget any silly ideas about there being a man on the planet who might possibly be interested in her.

  —

  Dillon had been in to see Alice every day after work. He’d brought in her laptop and she was jubilant.

  “Don’t tell my mum,” she warned him. He didn’t think it really mattered, her having access to her e-mails. She had noth
ing much else to do in the hospital.

  “To be honest, it takes my mind off the pain,” she told him.

  He was steaming ahead with Riders. He was actually starting to enjoy the story and wanted to know what happened next. It was like being in a little bubble, just him and Alice in her private room. The nurse brought them dark brown tea in green cups, and he brought in more chocolate.

  “I’m going to get so fat,” complained Alice. “I won’t fit into my wedding dress.”

  Good, thought Dillon. He wanted Alice to get better, but he’d been hoping and praying that the wedding would be postponed because of her injuries. She seemed determined, though. Even though she was in terrible pain, she pushed herself to do her physio.

  “I’m walking up that aisle without crutches if it kills me,” she told him.

  It exhausted her, though she tried to pretend it didn’t. She was lying with her eyes shut again.

  He stopped reading.

  She opened her eyes.

  “Do you want me to carry on?”

  “No.” She sat up. “I want you to do something for me.”

  “Anything, you know that.”

  “I’m going to take off the bandage on my face, and I want you to look at my scar and tell me how awful it is. I can’t look at it myself. But I need to know if it’s too bad to get married.”

  “Okay.”

  She picked at the tape holding the gauze in place.

  Dillon tried not to show his distress. “Careful.”

  Gently she pulled back the dressing. Underneath was a livid red gash, a V-shaped wound on her cheekbone.

  “It should go down and the redness should go and it will fade a bit,” Alice was gabbling. “But is it really horrific? Is it Frankenstein stuff? Do I look like Herman Munster? All I’m worried about at the moment is not looking awful at the wedding. If it’s really bad I’ll have to call it off. I want you to be really honest.”

  Dillon looked long and hard at the wound. His mind was racing. If he told her it was terrible, then maybe, just maybe, she would postpone the wedding.

  He couldn’t do it to her, though. To him, it wouldn’t matter if her whole face were scarred: she was beautiful.