by Ellery Adams
“May I?” she asked, pointing at the paper.
He passed it to her. The moped was canary yellow with pink daisy decals, was less than a year old, and was priced to sell. Nora had no idea what a new moped cost, but this one seemed like a bargain, despite the garish color scheme.
“How old is your daughter?”
“Sixteen. And at the rate she’s going, she’ll be grounded until she graduates,” the man said gruffly. He tapped his index finger on the paper. “When we got this for her, we told her that it came with certain conditions. Since then, she’s ignored every one of them.”
The man exuded exasperation. It was in his voice, in the furrows he plowed through his hair with his fingertips. He was frustrated and tired.
Nora smiled at him. “I might be in the market for a moped. Would you like a cup of coffee? I just poured myself one.”
The man said that he’d love a coffee and followed Nora to the ticket agent’s office. As they walked, he said this his name was Richard Kerr and that he and his family were new to town. “I’m the foreman at the Meadows. My wife, Jess, does interior design. Our daughter’s name is Lily.”
Nora showed Richard the menu board and he took his time reading the selections.
Ernest Hemingway—Dark Roast
Louisa May Alcott—Light Roast
Dante Alighieri—Decaf
Wilkie Collins—Cappuccino
Jack London—Latte
Agatha ChrisTEA—Earl Grey
Harry Potter—Hot Chocolate with Magic Marshmallows
Assorted Book Pocket Pastries
He ordered a Jack London. Nora served him his coffee and then dropped into a chair across from him.
“The moped is pretty new. Has your daughter taken good care of it?” she asked.
“She hasn’t, but I have.” Richard pursed his lips in annoyance. “I don’t know where we went wrong. Lily doesn’t take care of anything. Her room is a pigsty, her grades are terrible, and she does whatever she can to avoid helping around the house. She used to be a sweet, hard-working girl. All she cares about now are her friends and her phone. She spends hours posting selfies and videos and God knows what else. Last weekend, we found vodka in her bookbag.”
His words had poured out in a flood, and as soon as he finished Richard seemed abashed by his openness.
“Sorry,” he said. “This situation is making me crazy. Jess too. We’re . . . afraid.”
Nora saw the fear in his eyes. “Of?”
“Of losing our daughter,” Richard said. “The more we try to hold on, the faster she slips away. We don’t know how to control our own kid. She doesn’t listen to anything we say. I’m worried she’ll get hurt. Drinking is just the start.”
Nora let this hang in the air for a moment. “Will she miss the moped if you sell it?”
“I don’t think so. She’ll catch rides with older kids who have cars. She did that this weekend. She didn’t even tell us she was going out. Probably because she’s grounded for failing three classes. That didn’t stop her, though. She ran out into the rain and got in someone’s car. We didn’t see her again until after midnight. My wife and I were sick with worry.”
Book titles were already scrolling through Nora’s head. Richard and Jess had every reason to be concerned, but they also needed to consider Lily’s point of view. Being a teenager was hard, but being a teenager in the digital world was particularly challenging. Social media provided an endless stream of feedback, and some teens were exhausting themselves trying to appear perfect. The high schoolers Nora saw around town were far more sophisticated than she’d been at their age. Then again, she was the type of girl who wanted a new book more than a new eye shadow palette.
But I wasn’t judged by my number of online followers, she thought.
“It sounds like the lines of communication between you and your daughter aren’t working,” Nora told Richard. “Lily probably doesn’t talk to you and your wife because she doesn’t think you’d understand what she’s going through. She’s giving you the silent treatment and saving her words for her friends. Is that right?”
Richard nodded. He looked miserable.
“That’s normal. Teens need to separate from their parents, but her need for independence shouldn’t hurt your family this much. Maybe you and Jess could learn to speak Lily’s language.” Richard opened his mouth to protest, but Nora held up her hands. “I’m not defending her. She’s breaking the rules, which are important to her safety and well-being. But she won’t come around until she believes she’ll be heard and respected. She’ll just keep pulling away.”
“We don’t want that. We want our little girl back.” Richard’s voice cracked.
Nora gave him a sad smile. “That little girl is gone. Your daughter is growing up, and she’s trying to figure out what kind of adult she wants to be. It’s a scary and emotional journey for her. For you and your wife as well. If you’d like, I can give you several books to help bridge the gap between you two and your daughter. It’s not too late to reach her. Part of her is hoping that you’ll try—but not by yelling or lecturing her.”
“I’m still selling her moped,” Richard said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Lily needs to know that her actions have consequences.”
“I get that. Maybe I could rent the moped until you’re sure about selling it. In the meantime, why don’t you finish your coffee while I pull some books for you? Sound good?”
“Yeah. Sounds good.” Richard sank back into his chair.
Nora smiled at him. She believed that this man, armed with a bag of books, could change his family dynamics for the better.
Moving to the fiction section, she chose Stephen Chbosky’s The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld, Jay Asher’s Thirteen Reasons Why, and Emily Giffin’s All We Ever Wanted.
These novels would give Richard and Jess a glimpse of what it was like to be a teen. Next, she added two nonfiction books to the pile. She didn’t want Richard and Jess to feel overwhelmed by advice, so she limited the self-help titles to How to Raise an Adult by Julie Lythcott-Haims and Screens and Teens: Connecting with Ours Kids in a Wireless World by Kathy Koch.
“There’s a pile of books on the counter by the register,” she told Richard when she was done. “Look through them and see what you think. If you decide to read them, you might want to share what you’re doing with your daughter. Even if she doesn’t show it, it’ll mean a lot to her. She knows that you and your wife are angry and disappointed, but when she sees the two of you reading in an effort to connect with her, she’ll know that you love her too.”
“Thank you.” Richard stood up to shake Nora’s hand. “Do you have kids? You seem so sure about what to do.”
“I’ve given books to other parents in similar situations.”
A customer asked Nora for a copy of Jodi Picoult’s Small Great Things, and Nora turned to show her where it was shelved. Before she could walk away, Richard put a hand on her arm.
“Sorry, but is there a name for what you do? The way you help people with books?”
Nora smiled. “It’s called bibliotherapy. I have no formal training in psychology, but I know books. Words have the power to hurt and to heal. The books I gave you will do both. They’ll hurt because they’ll give voice to the pain you’re feeling. And then, they’ll help you heal. That’s what the best books do if you’re brave enough to read them.”
Richard pulled out his wallet and headed to the register.
He was brave enough.
He was ready to read.
Chapter 5
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of roses will hang round it still.
—Thomas Moore
Buoyed by her bibliotherapy session, Nora called the Inn of Mist and Roses. When Patty answered, Nora asked after Sheldon.
“Poor guy spent the whole day in his room. He’s hardly eaten, and the rice bags aren’t doing much to ease his pain. I asked if he
had medicine, but he said he got in trouble with pills once and won’t go there again.”
“Could I stop by later?” Nora asked. “My friend knits socks scented with essential oil. I’d like to bring him a pair.”
“I’m sure he’d love the company,” said Patty. “Lou and I spent another day stripping wallpaper, so we barely saw him. But the inn’s official bookings start the first week of June, which means we’ll be working night and day to get everything done in time.”
Richard had said the same thing about his deadlines at the Meadows. Though he’d used his lunch break talking with Nora about his daughter, he had a sandwich in his truck and planned to wolf it down before he and his crew spent the rest of the afternoon hanging drywall. Nora hoped that he wouldn’t be too tired to read when he finally got home.
After a full day, Nora thought she’d be tired too. But the combination of sunshine, robust sales, and a positive bibliotherapy session had her feeling good. She called June and asked if she had a pair of men’s socks on hand.
“I do, but they’re unscented. I’ll have to run home to get the peppermint, which is what your friend needs. I could meet you at the inn later.”
Nora used the little time she had to hit the grocery store. She’d just put the last item in her cart on the moving belt when someone placed a bouquet of daisies on top of her box of Raisin Bran. She was about to move the flowers when Jed said, “Ma’am, I paid for these at self-checkout. I just wanted to give them to this lovely lady while I had the chance.”
The cashier beamed at him. “Aren’t you sweet?”
Jed scooped up the flowers and handed them to Nora. She blushed with pleasure and embarrassment. For over five years, her burn scars had earned her plenty of unwanted attention. Stares and whispers followed her everywhere. And though the scars on her face had recently been repaired by a plastic surgeon, making it hard to tell she’d ever been a burn victim, Nora still felt like one. Inside, she would always be scarred. She would always carry around the heat and flames from one fateful night. And she would always shy away from being the center of attention.
Nora thanked Jed and hurriedly paid the cashier. She wanted to get outside. She reached for her cart, but Jed gave her a gentle shove.
“How will you get all of this on your bike?” he asked, pushing the cart toward the exit.
“I’m walking home.”
On the sidewalk, Jed stopped. Nora ran her hand down the sleeve of his uniform shirt. “I’d ask you to come over, but it looks like you’re starting another shift. Have you taken any time off this week? And how is Henry Higgins handling being home by himself?”
Henry Higgins was Jed’s dog. Like Nora, the Rhodesian ridgeback was a fire victim. Like Nora, the memory of fire still haunted Henry Higgins. The dog suffered from anxiety, dry skin, a delicate digestive system, a fear of loud noises, and an aversion to strangers.
“I was off this morning,” Jed said. “My plan was to stop by the shop with flowers, but Mrs. Pickett’s roof leaked last night. The water came down through the attic and flooded her bedroom and kitchen. I moved some furniture and put a tarp over the hole until she could get someone to fix it, but she’s pretty upset.”
“I thought you were keeping your distance because she has you pegged as husband number four,” Nora teased. “Or is it five?”
Jed laughed, and his dimples appeared under the dark stubble covering his cheeks. Nora was tempted to run her fingertips over the bristle, to trace the line of his strong jaw, but there were too many people around. Public displays of affection were not her thing.
“I owe Mrs. Pickett because she’s been helping out with Henry Higgins. She feeds him and lets him spend time in the backyard. Henry really likes her. It’s been good for both of them.”
“It sounds like he’s coming out of his shell a little. That must make you happy.”
“Do you know what makes me even happier? Being with you.” Jed plucked a flower from the bouquet and wove it through the braid in Nora’s hair. “Oh, goddess of beauty, books, and coffee, would you join me for dinner this Saturday?”
As he spoke, Jed ran his hand over the curve of Nora’s neck. He gazed at her as if no one else existed. As if they were alone in a candlelit room and not standing on a busy sidewalk. Nora couldn’t look away from his smiling gaze. She couldn’t think of anything else but the feel of his fingertips sliding over her shoulder. Her skin was electrified by his touch, and she wondered if other people could see how her body glowed with a firefly light.
“I’ll try to fit you in,” she whispered, her eyes moving to Jed’s lips. It had been too long since she’d felt those lips on her mouth. On the inside of her elbow. On the tender skin behind her earlobe. On her breasts and belly.
Jed took his hand off her shoulder. He kissed the end of her braid and flashed her a dazzling smile. “My place. Seven o’clock. Don’t bring anything but your amazing self.”
As Nora walked home, she raised her lust-warmed face to the breeze sweeping down from the hills. She hoped the air would lower her body temperature, but the scent of wet grass and pine only made her think of Jed more. It reminded her of their first kiss. And of what that kiss had led to. That night, they’d curled around each other like storm winds, reckless and passionate, before parting again the next day. Nora knew that eventually, one of them would blow away for good. She had a feeling she knew which one it would be.
* * *
“Come in!” Lou beckoned Nora into a hallway lit with brass sconces. The walls were stripped of all traces of paper, revealing white, pockmarked plaster.
“You finished,” Nora said.
Lou grinned. “And we’re still speaking to each other.”
“Barely,” Patty said, entering the hall from another doorway.
Nora ran her hand over the uneven plaster. It felt as solid as time. She admired the elegant curve of the staircase and the scent of beeswax permeating the space.
“I just finished polishing the banister,” Lou said, as if reading Nora’s mind. “It was my way of apologizing to Patty, of admitting that heat guns were a good investment. I wish I’d gotten them earlier. I won’t be able to lift my arms for a week after this.”
“Are you going to paint or paper?” Nora asked, her hand still on the wall.
Patty shuddered. “Definitely paint. If we can pick a color. Would you weigh in on our top three shades?”
Lou led Nora to the dining room where three pieces of poster board sat on a square table. The room was outfitted with several tables surrounded by Chippendale-style chairs. An antique sideboard held a fruit bowl, a row of tumblers, and a glass pitcher filled with water. Slices of oranges floated in the water.
“These puke-yellow walls will be painted too,” Patty said. “We’re leaning toward this sage green for this room. These swatches are for the hall. What’s your fave?”
When Nora reached out to take the paint chip, Patty’s gaze roved over the burn scars on her hand and locked on Nora’s pinkie finger. Or, more accurately, on the space where the rest of her finger should have been.
“I’m sorry,” she said when Nora caught her looking. “I didn’t mean to stare.”
Nora gave her a reassuring smile. “At least you apologized. Most people just pretend they weren’t looking, which can be more awkward.”
“You and this inn have something in common.” Lou made an all-encompassing sweep of her arm. “This lady was burned too. Twice. And she’s still standing. Just like you.”
“She was the first hotel in Miracle Springs,” Patty added. “Built right on what was once known as the drover’s road. The accommodations were meager, and the inn was notorious for brawls and robberies. Too much booze and testosterone led to the first fire.”
Lou pointed at the window, toward the bookshop. “When the railroad came, this gal was given another lease on life. And she was much grander the second time around. Two stories with high ceilings and formal gardens. The Lattimer family made this their home. They built the
lodge and could have lived there, but Muriel Lattimer wanted to raise her children in a normal house. She studied architecture. I was told by my grandmother—she was a Lattimer too—that Muriel designed secret hiding places throughout the house. We’ve found one so far. A false panel in the back of the closet.”
Nora wanted to ask about the second fire, but she was embarrassed by how little she knew of her town’s history.
“How did the inn get its name?” she asked instead.
Patty smiled. “Isn’t it deliciously gothic? Muriel had one son. Colonel Lattimer. He married Rose Blythe and planted a rose garden in her honor. Legend has it that a morning mist came down from the mountains and rolled over the property. That’s when Rose liked to stroll through her garden. Because of the mist and her long skirts, she appeared to float. That’s one legend. There’s another one, but it’s kind of sad.”
“I’d like to hear it,” Nora said.
Patty gestured at Lou, who took up the thread. “When the Civil War broke out, Colonel Lattimer put the property in Rose’s name to prevent it from being confiscated by either side. He then enlisted and died soon afterward from a battlefield injury. Because this house was at a crossroads, both Union and Confederate troops passed it. Rose opened the doors to the wounded, regardless of which side they were on. She ministered many men back to health.
“According to the other legend, the mist is made of the souls Rose couldn’t save.” Lou’s voice was hushed. “They float out from their burial places just before dawn, searching for her. They’re cold and lonely. They miss Rose’s kindness and the light of her beauty. She was a sister to them. Yankee or Confederate, they were all brothers under this roof. ”