by Diane Moody
Carla dismissed their admiration with a conspiratorial whisper. “Just don’t tell them I’m a Yankee, okay?”
Trevor spoke over their chuckles. “We’ll expect a sampling at next month’s book club, Carla. Now, back to our discussion.”
For the next hour, they argued the merits of the book.
Elise, the retired school teacher, said she enjoyed the book but struggled with the author’s constant head-hopping. “Every writer knows you can only write from one point of view at a time. Otherwise, it’s too confusing for the reader to figure out who’s saying what. Is it Noel who’s wondering about Moira’s constant invasion of their privacy or is it Lisa? It’s one of the fundamental rules of writing.”
“And yet, almost all of Maeve Binchy’s books were bestsellers,” Mavis added. “She may break a few rules, but you can’t argue with her success.”
“And yet we do,” Carla quipped dryly. “Still, for the uneducated among us who don’t know all those rules and regulations when it comes to writing, we find her work absolutely charming.”
Trevor set his coffee back on the table. “Yes, well, good for you, Carla,” he patronized. “But it’s time to move on to next month’s selection. As you know, it’s once again my turn to select a book for us to read, and—”
“Trevor, please tell us it’s not another one of your thousand page, dry-as-dust classics,” Marilyn groaned. “I couldn’t bear it. Right, everyone?”
Trevor looked over his reading glasses at her. “Now, Marilyn, you’d be disappointed if I chose anything else.”
“Oh, no,” she groaned again. “Gird your loins, boys and girls. Looks like we’re in for it this time.”
Trevor pulled a book from behind the small table. “Now, now,” he clucked. “Ladies and gentlemen, after the fluff of tonight’s read—”
“Hey!” Mavis barked.
“—I thought we should exercise our mental aptitude and go substantially deeper by digging into one of the most respected classics of all time. A story so unforgettable, it still thrills readers more than 160 years after it was first published.” He held up the thick volume, its title in gilded lettering on the brown leather cover. “This month we’ll be reading The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas.”
“Give us a break, Trevor,” Marilyn whined.
Scott tapped his cane against the hardwood floor. “No, quite the contrary! An excellent choice. Who narrates the audio version?”
Trevor grabbed a boxed audio set and walked it over to Scott. “Colin Firth, the British actor.” As Scott grasped the set, Trevor patted the older man on the knee. “I took a listen. He does a tremendous job.”
“Can’t wait to get started. How long does it run?”
“Sixty-seven hours, so you’d better get started tonight.”
“You don’t honestly expect us to read the unabridged version, do you?” Mimi balked. “Some of us have to work for a living, you know.”
“I do, Mimi. And for that reason you’ll find both versions available. You’ll miss some of the author’s brilliance by reading the abridged version, but nonetheless, you’ll be able to keep up with our discussion next time.”
“Did you ever see the movie?” Mavis asked around. “The one with Jim Caviezel playing the role of Edmond Dantés? It’s one of my all-time favorite movies.”
“Loved it,” Carla said, then ducked sheepishly back at Trevor. “But I promise I’ll read the book. Honest.”
“See that you do, Carla. Some have called this the most perfect literary work ever written. And I’d be inclined to agree.”
“Why?” Olivia asked.
“Why?” He turned toward her.
“Why do you agree? What is it that makes The Count of Monte Cristo stand out above all others? In your opinion, that is.”
He stared at her for a moment saying nothing. Then, as if catching himself, he pasted another tight smile on his face. “Well, Miss Thomas, I suppose you’d have to join us next month to find out. But alas, you’ll be long gone by then.” He stood. “Very well. Class dismissed, as they say. Grab a copy of the book if you need one. Help yourself to more coffee. Carla, thanks again for bringing your delectable cookies. I look forward to your Peach Pecan Pie Cake next month.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” the baker teased. “Since we’re reading the world’s longest book and much of it is set in a prison, maybe I’ll just bring something more theme-oriented, like molded bread. Or gruel.”
Mimi hooted, looping her arm through Carla’s. “Bring that for Mr. Snobby Pants over there, but the rest of us want cake!”
For the next half hour, Olivia enjoyed getting to know the others, each spending a few minutes welcoming her and sharing the usual pleasantries. To her surprise, they were all as friendly as she’d found Molly, Trig, and Michelle. Not at all the reserved, cliquish northerners she’d always heard about. Later, back at the refreshment table, Mr. Randolphson visited with her, his eyes aimed above her head. It occurred to her that he was the only one this evening who hadn’t given her the look. He was a tad formal but asked all the usual questions, chuckling at the appropriate times, always including his daughter Mavis in the friendly chat.
When their conversation came to an end, she was surprised to find everyone else had gone. Looking out the front window, Olivia was shocked to see a wall of white snow—blowing sideways.
“Oh my goodness! Look at that!”
“I’d love to, my dear, but I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Oh, Mr. Randolphson, how thoughtless of me!” Olivia winced, daring a peek at an amused Mavis.
“Call me Scott. I insist.” He reached out searching for Olivia’s hand and patted it once he took hold. “Now tell me what I’m missing, will you?”
She led him toward the window. “It looks like a blizzard out there! I’ve never seen anything like it! It’s blowing sideways!”
“Oh, that,” he scoffed. “Unless it’s piled to the rooftop, there’s nothing to worry about. Haven’t you seen snow before?”
“Well, sure. Not often in Atlanta, but I once had a flight delayed in Amarillo, Texas because the snow was so heavy. Visibility was all but zero.”
Scott hooked his cane over his arm while he buttoned his coat. “Texas, was it? Our Maine snows make those out west look like a mere dusting.”
Mavis wrapped a wool scarf around her father’s neck. “Now, Dad, you can’t say that. You’ve never even been to Texas.”
“And I’ve no desire to, thank you very much.” He searched for Olivia’s arm, and finding it, gave a squeeze. “It was lovely meeting you, Miss Thomas. I hope to see you again soon.”
She patted his gloved hand. “Very funny. Good night. Be careful out there.”
“We will.” Mavis helped her father out the door. “Good night.”
Olivia started to follow them when a sudden bark jarred her. Below, she found Charlie gazing up at her, her tail waving wildly. “Charlie, you scared me! Again, I might add.” She knelt down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. We’ve got to stop meeting like this, you know.”
Trevor caught up with them. “Charlie, leave the lady alone.”
“Oh, she’s no bother. I was wondering where she was tonight. Let me guess—you don’t approve of her taste in books?”
Trevor pursed his lips, but a flicker of humor passed through his eyes. “Charlie has excellent taste in books. But in her condition, I thought it best for her not to get too excited with a room full of people. She’s quite the social butterfly.”
“Obviously. But I suppose a little caution makes sense.” She nuzzled the dog’s snout against her chin. “Can’t be too careful. Still, I’m glad I got to see you tonight, Charlie.” Olivia gave her a final pat and stood again. “Thanks for allowing me to visit tonight, Trevor. I really enjoyed it.”
“Good. I’m glad you could join us.”
She pulled on her gloves, thinking he was about to say something else. He didn’t.
“Okay
, then. I’ll just be on my way.” She opened the door to a face full of snow. “Whoa!”
He reached for the door and pulled her back inside. “You really shouldn’t be out in this without the proper shoes.” He closed the door.
She looked down at her loafers peeking out beneath her slacks. “I know, but I didn’t think to buy some when I got to town. Silly, I know.”
“Yes, well, we can’t have our only tourist out and about in loafers, now can we?”
“We can’t?”
He pointed to the rocker by the fireplace. “Sit. Let me get you some pull-ons you can wear over your shoes.”
He disappeared down the aisle as she took a seat in the old rocking chair. Charlie stood, resting her front paws on Olivia’s knees. “What’s with him?” she whispered, petting the dog’s silky hair. “You let me know if he doesn’t treat you like a queen, all right? We girls have to stick together.”
Just like her Sammy used to do, Charlie smiled a knowing smile, her tail swishing back and forth. Suddenly, she bounded effortlessly onto Olivia’s lap and made herself at home.
“Well, now! Aren’t you the graceful young lady?” She took Charlie’s head in her hands and lifted the dog’s snout to her nose, rubbing it Eskimo-style. “I think you’re just about the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen,” she cooed. “I might just have to sneak you out and take you home with me. Would you like that?”
“Ahem.”
“Oh! Trevor. I didn’t see you there. You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“No, I suppose not.” He joined her, setting a pair of yellow galoshes next to her chair. “I’m afraid I’ve spoiled her terribly. Charlie, get down from Miss Thomas’s lap, will you?”
Olivia held onto Charlie, running her hand down the dog’s back. “Oh, please don’t. She’s fine. Really. In fact, I’m rather loving all the attention.”
He took a seat in the chair adjacent to hers. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.” She smiled as Charlie nuzzled her neck again. “Oh, I’m absolutely sure.”
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Not at all.”
“Why exactly are you here?”
Olivia looked over at him. “Here? In your bookstore?”
“No, I mean here. In Caden Cove. It’s not often we have tourists this time of year, but especially not women traveling alone.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure whether to be offended or tell you to mind your own business.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean—that is to say, I . . . well, I’m just curious. That’s all. You’ve only been here a day or two, and yet you’ve already met half the townsfolk, and you seem almost at home here. Which is absolutely preposterous, insofar as you’re . . . you’re . . .”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit of a snob?”
He sat back. “Me? A snob?”
She turned her head, resting it on top of Charlie’s. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I don’t have a clue what you mean.”
She laughed out loud, only slightly embarrassed when her laugh turned to a snort. She held a palm toward him. “I’m sorry! Really I am. It’s just that you sounded so innocent just then.” She couldn’t control the giggles bubbling out of her.
He folded his arms across his chest again. “You’re a very peculiar woman, Miss Thomas.”
She rested her forehead on Charlie’s, then lifted it back up. “I’m sorry. It just seems like you and I—well, it’s as if we keep getting off on the wrong foot. Regardless, you have got to stop calling me Miss Thomas. It’s Olivia, remember?”
He seemed to be studying her for the longest time, but for some reason, it didn’t bother her in the least. She cupped Charlie’s head in her hands again. “Charlie, what’s a girl gotta do to get through to this guy, huh? Any secrets I should know? Any quirky habits? Strange interests?” She raised one of Charlie’s ears and whispered into it. “He doesn’t play the accordion, does he?”
Olivia darted her eyes at Trevor just as his well-placed reserve gave way to laughter. He shook his head. “Think of me what you will, but be assured I most certainly do not play the accordion.” He chuckled again then sighed audibly, a contented smile on his face.
The noticeable change intrigued her. How could someone so stuffy and stern have such a warm, endearing smile? The creases that lined his forehead all but disappeared, and for the first time, she noticed a cluster of tiny lines feathering the outer edges of his blue-gray eyes.
“Miss Thomas—I mean, Olivia. I wonder, would you like a cup of tea?”
Chapter 9
Over their second cup of tea, their conversation grew more personal. Trevor wasn’t sure what it was about this woman that fascinated him so. To him, tourists were a dime a dozen in Caden Cove. For the most part, he played the role of bookseller when he had to, but rarely bothered to get chummy with any of them. Even as a realtor, he kept an arm’s length from both buyers and sellers. He knew he had a reputation for being a loner, which didn’t bother him in the least. Life was too short for messy friendships and obligatory acquaintances.
The one exception was his book club. Originally, he’d hoped to use it as an effective platform to help these town folk learn a thing or too. To teach them about the classics and thereby educate them at a level far surpassing their routine, daily lives. Of course, the dozen or so men and women who attended month after month weren’t as pliable as he’d first hoped. After their first four meetings, several insisted they all be given the chance to suggest which books to read. He’d balked at first, but rather than see the whole thing fail, he’d reluctantly agreed. Yes, they’d studied some interesting books he would never have read on his own. But he’d also endured some of the most inane rubbish ever published. On those months, he wondered why he’d ever started the book club in the first place.
Now, with the snow still blowing outside and the fire crackling beside them, he had to admit he was thankful for tonight’s meeting. How else would he have had the opportunity to get to know this stranger in their midst? They’d talked at length about books, of course. But she’d seamlessly moved the conversation to more personal topics. He deflected her questions, preferring to hear her story rather than share his own. And in doing so, he found himself even more intrigued by her.
“Listen to me, rambling on,” she said. “I must be boring you to tears.”
“No, not at all.”
She took another sip of tea then set the cup back in its saucer. “You haven’t fooled me, you know. You’re very good at deflecting questions I’ve asked you. Enough about me. I want to know what makes you tick. Why all the mystery?”
“Mystery? I have nothing to hide. I’m an open book.”
Her smile taunted him. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“I’m not that clever. And as for ‘the girls’—what girls? Our little town is hardly a mecca for the singles scene.”
“Mimi seems nice.”
“Mimi? Oh, please.”
“You’ve never married?”
“No. You?”
She turned to gaze at the fire. “Close, once. But that was a thousand years ago.”
He watched her, noticing the carefree, wispy style of her dark hair, a few hints of gray teasing at her temples. He guessed her to be a few years younger than himself. Most singles their age had at least one marriage under the belt by this point in their lives. He was surprised she hadn’t. Hers was a smile that lit up the room. He cringed at the cliché, but there it was.
He shook off the boyish thoughts and wondered how to ask her to leave. Just then she turned to face him.
“What?” she asked.
“What?”
“You’re looking at me funny.”
“I am?”
“You are. And I think I know why.”
“You do?”
“Okay, stop answering my questions with a question.” She rocked her head slowly, rhythmically from side to side
. “It’s the legend thing, isn’t it?”
“The legend thing?”
“You know—the curse of the single women who happen to stay in the Catherine Room at the MacVicar on leap year? That whole myth about lost love? You told me you’ve lived here your whole life. Surely you know about it.”
“Of course.”
She stared at him. “Of course?”
“Sure.”
“Sure?”
“Now who’s answering questions with a question?”
She smiled. “Sorry. I just thought . . . well, since I’ve been here, everybody keeps looking at me like I’m some kind of lab rat or something.”
Trevor smiled in return. “No surprise there. Every time February of a leap year rolls around, they all go a bit daft, wondering if this could be the year.”
“So you do know the legend. The curse.”
A scoff puffed his lips. “Nothing but a bunch of silly suspicions without a shred of truth to them.”
“So you don’t believe in them?”
“Of course not. Anyone with an ounce of sanity knows it’s preposterous. A handful of coincidences, nothing more.”
She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Thank goodness. I thought I was the only one who thought that.”
He flicked his wrist. “Completely absurd.”
“Is any of the story true? About Captain MacVicar’s demise and Catherine holing up in that room and that teacup—”
“Ah, the teacup. It’s tough to say. Stories like these have a way of taking on a life of their own, growing with each telling of the tale, so to speak.”
“But what about the captain and Catherine?”
“Well, that part is true, as far as I’ve been able to tell in my . . .” He caught himself, faking a brief cough. “Yes, he was engaged to a young lady named Catherine Bennett.”
“Molly told me all about it.”
“She did?”
“Yes. In fact she seemed a bit sentimental while telling me about it. I almost wondered if she were related to the family or something.”