I threw the pumps in the backseat with Moby. I couldn’t stop smiling as I stared at Kit over Lulu’s roof. “Thank you.”
He lifted his shoulders. “No thanks necessary.” He ducked his head and folded his considerable height into the passenger seat.
When I started the engine, she purred like a newborn kitten. Lulu hadn’t sounded this good since California. Maybe even since my brother bought her all those years ago.
I rolled down the window and waved. “Thanks, Doc.”
He leaned down. “Now be careful, honey. You haven’t backed up for a long time. Don’t forget to check the rearview mirror. It makes life a lot easier if you can see clearly. Where you’re going and where you’ve been.”
“I will!”
Looking in the rearview mirror, I could see that Autumn Lane was empty now. Everyone was getting ready for a busy afternoon and evening. I shifted Lulu into reverse and we traveled backwards the full length of Autumn Lane.
“Are we going to travel the whole way in reverse?” Kit looked as comfortable in Lulu as an elephant in a closet. But he was smiling nonetheless.
I shifted into park and revved the smooth engine. “Sorry. It’s just so nice to be able to back up.”
The sun was moving low in the sky and I flipped down the visor. Something new was there. A postcard of Truhart was paper-clipped next to the brochure of Angkor Wat. A sticky note on the postcard read Come back and visit us too! Love, Mac.
I smiled. Mac had been bored serving people he didn’t know at the Grande Lucerne. He was back at the diner twice a week. Happy to flip burgers and grill tofu for his friends.
I put a hand on the postcard. “I love this town.”
Kit was busy adjusting the seat. “It looks like you might need to have Doc fix the seat adjustment.”
I scrunched down to see what was wrong.
“That’s not the problem. This is in the way.” I pulled out Aunt Gertrude’s copy of Moby-Dick and handed it to Kit.
He read the spine and sent me a puzzled glance. “What are you doing with a book in your car? I thought you hated reading.”
“Don’t get all excited. I still do. That was Aunt Gertrude’s. She had it when she died and I just couldn’t throw it away. She kept it with her wherever she went. Go figure. A book about a whale . . .”
I stopped, unable to finish. My mouth went dry. For a long moment Kit and I stared at each other.
“Do you think . . . ?” How could I have forgotten about the book? All this time it had padded the distance between the seats on the ride from California to Michigan.
Kit turned the book over, examining the worn black cloth binding. He removed his glasses and swallowed several times before he managed to speak. “This . . . this should start with Call me Ishmael . . .”
Slowly, he opened the cover and turned the blank pages until he reached the place where the words began. His hands were trembling. His face was pale.
He cleared his throat and tried to speak. His voice was hoarse. “Trudy . . . I can’t—”
I grabbed his hand in mine. “It’s okay. I’ll read it with you.”
Together we started:
“The setting sun is like the love of a woman. She’ll find her most beautiful light at the end of the day and remind you why you loved her. The memory of that one perfect moment will remain with you throughout your life. And so it was for a man and a woman in a town at the corner of a dark forest on the edge of the world gone slightly mad.”
We sat in Lulu’s silent interior until Moby’s head came between us, taking turns licking our faces.
When Kit lifted his head, the world was in his eyes. I held out the finger I had used to read the page and caught a tear sliding down his cheek. “You seem to have found your lost manuscript, my lord. Are you happy?”
He pulled my finger to his lips. “You read it with me.”
I didn’t understand why that was important. “It’s the lost manuscript.”
“It is. But you read it with me, love.”
“You read most of it. I don’t read so well.”
“I know. But I’m honored just the same. You reading it. It was fitting.”
I didn’t read a lot of things right. Not just books. I didn’t always read people and places right either. Not everyone in Truhart thought I was crazy or stupid. Maybe I just let myself think they did because it was easier than trying to understand them. Or to explain myself. And my aunt was just an eccentric, lonely woman. She didn’t know how to deal with a rebellious teenage girl like me.
Kit stared down at the book in his lap. “Bloody hell. I can’t think of what happens next.”
“It appears we have a priceless Robin Hartchick manuscript.” I couldn’t resist adding something on behalf of Aunt Gertrude. “Cared for by a woman who loved him. A woman he didn’t deserve.”
He grinned and kissed me. I grabbed the pictures from the visor and stuffed them in the book. “Bookmark that page. We’ll read more together later.”
Our story was more important to both of us. The one that had a dog. And a handsome man. And a funny little town. And a girl who belonged to all of them.
Our story was just beginning.
I shifted into drive and put my foot on the pedal.
The open road was ahead of us.
Author’s Note:
Millions of people around the world suffer from some form of dyslexia. While dyslexia is a learning disorder that affects people to varying degrees, it has absolutely no bearing on intelligence. In fact many of the world’s greatest minds have suffered from dyslexia. Trudy was diagnosed late in her life, but early intervention is the most successful way parents and teachers can help reduce the long-term impact of dyslexia.
For more information, contact The International Dyslexia Association, (eida.org).
The Bookshop on Autumn Lane is a work of fiction. However, it was inspired by the real life lost manuscripts of Ernest Hemingway. In 1922, while on assignment in Switzerland, Hemingway asked his then wife, Elizabeth Hadley Richardson, to bring his promising, and as yet unpublished, manuscripts to Lausanne so that he could show them to an interested editor. Hadley packed everything—carbons and originals—into a valise and boarded a train for Switzerland. Once settled on the train, she stowed her valise and went to buy water before the train left the station. When she returned, the valise was nowhere to be found. Among the missing manuscripts was an early version of Hemingway’s Nick Adams Stories that were set in Michigan. He once said the lost manuscripts were some of his best work.
Did you miss Elizabeth and J. D.’s story? Keep reading for a special
excerpt of Skinny Dipping Season, and a summer that changes
everything.
I took another sip. And another.
The last few weeks had been a living hell. But now I was in the middle of nowhere. Not a single soul could bother me. Wiping the wine dribble from my lower lip, I moved into the living room. My insides were warming up and I let my hips sway. I reached for the knob on the radio and turned up the volume. Taking my bottle with me, I went in search of matches.
I lost track of time. A happy glow was spreading upwards through my chest. I caught the beat of the music and twirled around and around, dancing from the kitchen to the living room.
Before I knew it, the bottle was almost empty and the butts of two cigarettes rested in a piece of foil I had turned into an ashtray. Everything was spinning and the room around me was bathed in a fuzzy radiance. A rap song played on the radio, and even though I had absolutely no idea what the words were, I danced to the beat with a passion that Colin, my ex, would say I had never been able to exhibit in bed.
I held my cigarette up, ready to attempt my first twerk, when I heard a loud pounding at the window. I froze with my bottom sticking straight out.
A beam of light distorted an image on the other side of the pane, making it look like a monster. Suddenly, the fact that I was alone in the middle of the woods wasn’t such a great thing.
<
br /> I opened my mouth to scream. But it was like a bad horror movie. Nothing came out. A hand pounded on the window again, almost shattering it.
I lowered everything—the bottle, the cigarette, and the ridiculous pose I had been attempting—and finally found my vocal cords. My bloodcurdling scream cut through the bass of the music and gave me the energy to move. I set down the bottle and smashed the butt of the cigarette into the foil wrapper. I tried to remember where my phone was.
Bumping into the ledge of the table, I almost lost my footing. My cell phone was on the counter where I had left it earlier. I grabbed it, praying that there was some sort of cellular service up here.
The pounding increased. Making a split-second decision and hoping I wasn’t being rash, I dialed 911, and reached for the volume on the radio. I heard the bored-sounding voice of a woman on the other end. I didn’t even let her finish her introductory message. “I think someone is trying to break in!”
There was a pause. “Can you tell me the address?”
What was the address? I didn’t even know that. I knew how to get here. Where to turn at the fork in the road where the Fire Danger sign stood. But I had little else.
“It’s my grandmother’s house. Doris Blodget. She used to live here. Crooked Road.” From the other room I heard the footsteps on the back porch. No one knew I was here. The house had been empty for years.
“Hurry.”
“Ma’am, you need to stay calm.”
Were these the fatal last words that every murder victim was forced to hear?
“Easy for you to say.” I cradled the phone in my neck and started to open drawers, looking for a weapon.
I could hear a man shouting from outside.
The lady raised her voice. “There is an officer on the way, ma’ am.”
I grabbed the only weapon I could find, a soup ladle, and peered around the corner of the kitchen.
The pounding had moved to the front door. A deep voice shouted, “Harrison County Sheriff’s Department!”
I dropped the phone and tiptoed to the door.
“Lady! Can you hear me? Sheriff’s Department,” came the muffled voice through the door.
I reached for the doorknob. The sweat on my palms made it difficult to turn the handle. I pulled the door open just enough to be able to see who was on the other side.
The shadows and a red glare behind him obscured his face and all I could see was a vaporized cloud of breath disappearing in the cool night air between us.
“Yes?” I croaked.
“Sheriff’s Department.”
A badge appeared and there was a moment of silence. “The badge isn’t part of a Halloween costume, in case you were wondering . . .”
A strange moment of clarity hit me and my fear turned into something equally painful. I looked over the dark outline at an SUV with blinking red lights.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
Since my arrest in March I had learned a few things about my rights. Things I should have remembered from my high-school civics class. I didn’t have to let law enforcement search my vehicle or my house. “Why?” I asked.
“I just want to check—”
“Do you have a warrant?”
I heard him shift restlessly. “Look, lady, you’ve got—”
“I know my rights and you can’t come in without a warrant.”
“But—”
“You might look scary and tough, but I won’t be bullied.” I attempted to close the door, but a hand snaked out and grabbed my own.
“I don’t think you understand—”
Something tickled at my nose, but I was too busy trying to smash his hand with the soup ladle to consider it. He was way out of line trying to barge in like this.
Boom! The door burst open, trapping me against the wall in the process. “Hey!”
This was definitely in violation of my rights.
I moved the door out of my way and felt a surge of anger. The man stomped up and down in the middle of the living room. His actions were so strange that I stopped protesting and watched him in confusion. A tiny spark disappeared under his boots and smoke rose from the floor. He put down his flashlight, reached for my bottle of wine, and poured the remaining contents on the carpet. A billowing fog of steam rose up.
“I was drinking that!”
He turned around and our eyes locked. “I’ll make sure to mention that in my report,” he said.
I looked at a spot in the rug that now sported a nice-sized black hole that was almost the same color as his eyes. It dawned on me that the cigarette must have landed on the rug.
“Well, I didn’t realize—” I bit my lip. What an idiot I was. “All you had to do was explain.”
“I tried. In between showing you my badge and using your precious bottle as a fire hose. . . .” He brought it to his nose. “What is this stuff? Cough syrup?”
“That is good wine.”
He looked at the price sticker and raised his eyebrow. “Obviously.”
He set down the bottle. “I’ve seen too many fires caused by a single spark from a cigarette. That makes the fact that I entered this house to ensure your safety perfectly legal. Look it up.”
I struggled for something to say. “You—you could have told me.”
“It takes a long time for fire trucks to reach this road and there isn’t a lot of time for a—” My cell phone chimed a Disney theme song from the floor where I had dropped it.
His mouth tilted and he must have recognized the song. “Your fairy godmother is calling you,” he said in a snarky voice that was completely unnecessary.
I picked up the phone and accepted the call. “Are you all right, ma’am?” As the dispatcher spoke, the officer stepped closer. I was painfully aware of him towering over me. My eyes traveled over him, taking in the hard body underneath the dark jacket, and the badge that he still held.
“I don’t suppose you could send someone else?” I asked the dispatcher.
He narrowed his eyes and I added, “Never mind . . . Everything is fine. Thanks.”
The dispatcher sounded amused when she hung up. Great . . . I was about to be the newest joke in the county.
I must have looked ready to fall over because Officer Smug took my arm and lowered me to a sitting position on the springless couch. Then he moved about the room, double-checking the house and looking at the boxes against the wall.
“At least my ears have stopped ringing,” he said a moment later. “I don’t know what was louder, your music or your screaming. What was that thing you were doing?”
I wrapped my hands around my waist and mumbled, “It was a twerk.”
“A what?”
“A twerk,” I said louder.
He stifled a laugh with a phony cough. “Is that something like an itch?”
I did not appreciate his sense of humor.
He came back to me and leaned down, examining me more closely. The muscles on his square jaw tightened, and then he compressed his lips and did something surprising. He removed his coat and tucked it, still warm from his own body, around my shoulders. I blinked. I must have been shaking. I almost thanked him for his kindness. But I stayed mute as heat burned a path to my face.
For someone who had been so dangerous just minutes ago, this man was now—well, terrifying in a new way.
The lines of his face were chiseled, and his dark, close-cut wavy hair fell across his forehead. He had charcoal eyes and hawklike brows that watched me as if I were a field mouse. A shadow of dark stubble was starting on the lower half of his face. He was probably one of those men who couldn’t go a day without shaving, especially if he was supposed to look like one of the good guys. And his broad shoulders were so wide they blocked the light from the ceiling.
Why was I thinking like this? I struggled to find my equilibrium. It had been natural to be scared when I saw him at the window. He could have played a serial killer on TV—the kind who seduced, then killed. Perhaps some women might be attracted to
that, but I was more accustomed to clean-cut, preppy men.
He stared as if he was trying to figure out how he was going to deal with a crazy lady like me. The sound of the furnace kicking in again broke the silence.
“Let’s start over, shall we? I’m Deputy Sheriff J. D. Hardy. We received a report of a light on here. I don’t suppose you want to explain why you’re having your own personal party inside a vacant house?”
“Not really.” I didn’t want to tell him about the events that blew my world apart and the reason I had run away from my former life. Clutching the coat he placed around my shoulders, I tilted my chin down and inhaled, noting the scent of pine and something else I couldn’t name.
“Your weapon, although unique, isn’t exactly banned,” he said, gesturing to the soup ladle I still clutched. “But you are trespassing on private property.”
I was only too happy to prove him wrong. “This house belonged to my grandmother—well, my parents now.”
“And your name is. . . .”
“Elizabeth Lively. ”
“Okay, Beth. You know I am going to need to have that verified.”
“Elizabeth. My license is—”
He turned back to the kitchen before I could say a word. Taking in the empty bottle of wine now on the table near my knees and the way he had found me, I realized how this looked.
“I left a message with the real-estate agent to let him know I would be staying here for a while. You can call him to confirm it. The name is on the For Sale sign leaning against the side of the house,” I explained.
“Yeah. I know him.” He held up my purse and seemed to weigh it and shift it, making sure there was nothing dangerous inside. “Can I look for identification or do I need a warrant?” I couldn’t figure out if he was trying to be funny or not.
“I’ll get it for you.”
He watched closely as I put down the soup ladle and sifted through the contents of my large designer purse. Three bottles of hand sanitizer and a package of sanitizing towelettes, sealed facial cleansing wipes, two packs of facial tissues, a clear plastic bag with safety pins, a pack of Band-Aids . . . With every item I shifted around, I felt my face grow hotter. By the time I got to my large wallet, with pockets for change, credit cards, a calendar, a checkbook, and female hygiene products, his mouth was pinching at the corners. It wasn’t that strange. Many girls carried this much in their purse. Finally, I removed my driver’s license and he picked up his radio from the floor nearby. He made the brief phone call to verify my story.
The Bookshop on Autumn Lane Page 28