by Jane Porter
“I don’t know. I do worry I’ve opened a can of worms. It might have been better to have stayed home and played ostrich. The store’s been closed for years. I could have left it the way it was.”
“You can still do that.”
She looked at the books on the counter, and then her laptop screen showing the new database. She’d researched for hours and after researching, had input twenty some books. The store had thousands more. Bringing the store into the electronic age would be a labor of love, and for someone with a full-time job, nearly impossible. “I want to do right by Lesley.”
“She’d want you to do what makes you happy.”
Rachel bit her lip, not knowing that answer, either.
“Don’t be frustrated,” he said. “You’re doing great.”
“Am I?”
“I think so. You just need some fresh air to help clear your head. Have you been out today? Did you go get lunch?”
“No, and now that you mention it, I am hungry, and grumpy,” she added with a grimace.
“If you feel like walking, we could hit a place on Main Street, or, if you thought you could wait another thirty minutes, I could take you to a little place in Paradise Valley, and you’d have a chance to see some of Montana’s magnificent scenery.”
“Magnificent scenery is the way to go.”
“Grab your coat and lock up. We’re going for a drive.”
*
Atticus’s car was a four-wheel drive SUV, and he drove Highway 89 with the same confidence he did everything else. She realized almost right away she was in good hands and little by little she relaxed, or at least, she tried to relax but part of her was all too aware of Atticus next to her. She’d been around other men who were tall, and she’d been around men who were powerful, but Atticus exuded strength and a very sexy masculinity that made her feel a little tingly and nervous. It was disconcerting, too, as she worked daily with men and none of them made her skin feel sensitive and her pulse race. The truth was, she didn’t even know most of them existed.
Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. And again.
Rachel rested her elbow on the door, put her chin in her hand and watched the world go by. It was a beautiful world, too, with jagged snow-covered peaks silhouetted against a brilliant blue sky. The Yellowstone River curved through the valley floor, paralleling the two-lane road, the icy blue water a contrast to the snow dusted riverbank.
Pastures covered the hills, with cattle in some and horses in others. Big old barns of weathered wood were tucked next to old homesteads, while big, luxurious new construction dwarfed leafless poplar trees. It was all interesting, though, and new, and it’d look different in spring and fall, when the hills were green and gold.
“You okay?” Atticus asked, breaking the silence.
She looked at him, took in that rugged profile of his and nodded faintly. “Yeah.”
He shot her a side glance. “You’re pretty quiet.”
“Just trying to relax.” She wrinkled her nose, expression rueful. “It’s not something I do often, or do well.”
“I can turn around.”
“No, please don’t. I’m enjoying this, I really am.” Glancing back out the window she spotted a sign. Gallagher Christmas Tree Farm ¼ mile. Rachel felt a prick of curiosity. She’d never been to a Christmas tree farm before. Did one cut your own tree down, or did they do it for you?
“Have you ever been there?” she asked, pointing to the next sign reading Turn Here for Gallagher Tree Farm.
“No,” he answered. “But a lot of people from Marietta come out here to get their trees. I think Troy and Taylor bring their kids here.”
“We go to tree lots where I live. The lots are all asphalt, usually on an empty corner or in some big parking lot.”
“We do that in Texas, too.”
“I haven’t actually had a real tree in oh—years. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I put up a tree. Just seemed wasteful.”
“Too much money?”
“I’m not home enough to enjoy decorations. I spend most of my time at the office.”
“Your boyfriend is good with that?”
Amused, she met his gaze. “Relationships fall under the Christmas tree category—there simply isn’t time.”
“So no significant other?”
“Not in a while, no.”
“How long?”
She wasn’t about to admit it been over a year, or that she’d given up dating because she was tired of men criticizing her for being a workaholic, when most of them she’d dated put in nearly the same hours she did. For some reason, men who worked hard were admired, but it wasn’t an attractive quality in a woman. “You answer first,” she retorted.
“Me?”
“Yes. Come on. Fair is fair. Are you seeing someone? Is it serious? When do you plan on getting married? How many kids do you think you’ll have?”
He laughed, and the deep husky sound filled the inside of the car. “You’re ruthless.”
“You’re ruthless. I was just happy to sit and let you drive.”
“True,” he answered. “And if you’re happy, I’m happy.”
Her gaze slid slowly over his handsome profile again, a strange warmth filling her. “I’m good,” she said softly, before turning her attention to the landscape. And she was good. She couldn’t remember the last time she did anything like this, and yet it felt familiar, and comforting, in the best sort of way.
“We used to go on drives when I was a little girl,” she said after a long moment. “My dad isn’t a material person, but when I was growing up he had a baby-blue 1960 Cadillac. He loved that car. The car was a boat, with fins and a bullet grill and blue-and-white bench seats. On weekends he’d wash his car, fill it with gas, and we’d drive from Irvine to Laguna, where we’d cruise the Pacific Coast Highway. Dad would play Elvis and Johnny Cash, and I’d sit in the back seat with my hair blowing everywhere and the sun in my eyes, singing ‘Ring of Fire.’” She swallowed hard around the lump in her throat. “Those drives were my idea of happiness. Sunshine and blue sky, the road and the wheels of the car…” Her voice faded and she drew a slow breath, fighting the emotion. “I don’t think I’ve been for a proper drive since Mom died,” she added huskily.
“What happened to the Cadillac?”
“Dad sold it my first year of college.” She shrugged uncomfortably. “He said he did it to pay bills, but I was living at home during school. UC Irvine was a public university. Tuition wasn’t that much of a burden. He sold it because the car reminded him too much of Mom.”
*
Atticus heard Rachel’s soft sigh and he glanced at her, concerned, but he couldn’t read her mood. She seemed to have mastered the calm, neutral, no emotion expression a little too well. “Did your dad ever remarry?” he asked.
“No. Have there been women? Probably. But he’s never introduced me to anyone, or moved anyone into our house.” She suddenly wrinkled her nose. “Let me also clarify that I don’t still live at home. I have my own place. I bought it four years ago. I just meant that, so far, Dad’s never moved anyone into the family house.”
“Would you mind if he did?”
She didn’t immediately answer and he could see from her furrowed brow that she was thinking. “No, I don’t suppose so. I want him happy.”
“You don’t think he’s happy?”
Rachel’s shoulders twisted. “I don’t know. We don’t talk about… feelings… in my family.” She drew a quick breath and added more lowly, “And we don’t talk about Mom, or that she’s gone. After the funeral, we just kind of… moved on.”
A heavy beat of silence followed her words and when Atticus glanced at her, he saw the grief in her eyes and a quiver in her lower lip, a quiver she ended by ruthlessly biting into her lip. She was wrong, he thought. They hadn’t moved on, and he suspected, Rachel still struggled with the loss.
Atticus shifted his hand on the steering wheel, fingers tightening around the wheel as it crossed his mind
that maybe this drive was a mistake. Being near Rachel was increasingly problematic. Rachel wasn’t his type and yet he felt protective of her and that was the last thing he wanted to feel. He wanted the bookstore, not Rachel.
He wanted to open a restaurant, not pursue a relationship. If he wanted female company, he knew where to find it, and the women he dated understood that he wasn’t interested in a wife, or commitments, at least not yet. He’d grown up in a loving family and had always assumed he’d marry and settle down, but that had been before, when he’d been a brash litigator and he thought the world was his oyster. After switching careers, he’d been forced to confront his weaknesses, and he’d realized that yes, one day he might make a good husband and father, but he wasn’t there yet. In the meantime, he surrounded himself with fashionable socialites who were easy and fun, women who appreciated expensive dinners and were delighted by A-list parties. His girlfriends weren’t demanding, usually happy just to dress up and go out and be seen. He tried to imagine Rachel in the VIP section of one of the swanky clubs, but it was impossible to picture her gyrating on the dance floor, or sprawled across his lap at their table, texting and taking selfies while downing bottles of champagne.
“Why accounting?” he asked abruptly.
Her slim shoulders lifted and fell. “I was always really good at math. President of the math club in high school, honors math and science courses. I’ve just always liked numbers. They make sense to me.”
“There are a lot of things you could do with math besides accounting. Economist, financial planner, investment analyst, statistician—”
“Professor,” she interrupted. “I know. My dad was an econ professor, but the difference is, he enjoyed working with people. I like to work alone. And I like accounting. I like the precision, I like the research, I like tax law. It’s just a good fit for my personality.”
“As an accountant you work with people.”
“Very little, compared to some of the other careers you mentioned, and I like not being dependent on other people to do my job. People, in my experience aren’t predictable and orderly.”
He smiled faintly. “This is true.”
“And numbers have never let me down,” she added.
“But people have,” he said quietly.
She looked at him, expression sober. “Lately they have, yes.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
Interesting, he thought, but didn’t push. Instead he asked more questions. “Did you study accounting in college?”
“I did, and was offered an internship with Novak & Bartley on graduation, with the understanding that I’d take the Uniform CPA exam at the end of a year, and if I passed the exam, I’d be offered a full-time position. I’ve been with Novak & Bartley ever since.”
“So what do you do for fun?”
“Define fun,” she retorted.
“Dressing up, cutting lose, going out, drinking, dancing.” He paused. “Do you do any of that? Do you ever go dancing?”
Her forehead furrowed. “Dance? Like… night clubs, or line dancing?”
“Yes. Do you have a favorite club in LA? Or a venue where you go listen to music?”
She gave him an incredulous look. “And who would I do this with? My fellow accountants?”
“Surely you have a group of girlfriends—”
“Oh right, my posse.” And then she rolled her eyes. “I’m not Taylor Swift.”
“You have to have friends.”
“Have I complained that I’m lonely? Because I’m not. I’m busy. I work hard.”
“I don’t doubt it. But what do you do in your free time?”
“I thought we covered this already. I don’t have a lot of free time. I work.”
“Even on weekends?”
“If I’m not in the office on Saturday, I’m pouring over files on my dining room table.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? To get ahead, you have to put in the hours, which is what I’ve been doing.”
“So, you are being rewarded for your hard work.”
There was a slight pause before she answered. “Yes,” she said quietly.
It was only a brief hesitation but it was enough to get his attention. He’d been a very good trial lawyer at one point in time—back before the case that changed everything—and he might have given up the court room, but he could still read people well.
She wasn’t being entirely truthful with him, but why should she? They weren’t friends. She owed him nothing. He wasn’t even sure why he cared, or why he’d been so compelled to get her out of the stuffy store for a change of scenery. Inserting himself into her life would just complicate negotiations. From now on, he had to be more careful. More distance, less familiarity.
He pulled off the highway a short time later in Emigrant where they’d have lunch at the barbecue restaurant Troy had taken him to on one of Atticus’s first visits to Crawford County. Over ribs and brisket he told her about the Sheenans, mentioning that Taylor said she’d met Rachel a couple nights before.
At first Rachel was puzzled, but when he added that Taylor was the head librarian Rachel’s expression cleared. “Yes, I do remember her. I talked to her at Grey’s Saloon. She seemed very excited that the bookstore might be open again.”
“Zane Nash said the same thing, didn’t he?” Atticus said, trying to keep all emotion from his voice, not wanting to influence her one way or the other.
“He did,” she agreed. “But I’m not actually opening the bookstore. I’m just looking at the records and doing some research.”
Atticus wiped his sticky fingers off on the paper napkin and pushed his plate back. “Maybe you should open it while you’re here. If you’re going to be in town a couple weeks, run it like a real business and see what kind of response you get. It might help clarify things.”
She studied him for a moment. “You think Taylor and Zane are exceptions to the rule.”
He shrugged. “I think people are sentimental about the bookstore, yes, but the people who are sentimental aren’t the ones who will be dipping into their savings account to pay for upkeep and expenses. We both know that store is not going to pay for itself. I predict it’ll be a nonprofit for years to come.”
Rachel didn’t smile. In fact, she looked downright annoyed. “I don’t know if it’d struggle for years. It might be a rough first year, but there are ways to shore up the income. Carry more new books, add a selection of cards and gifts, lease part of the space to another business.”
“Like who?”
“An artist, maybe.”
“So you’d tear out bookshelves and create room for art?”
She glared at him. “You were so encouraging and supportive earlier, and now you’re just being mean.”
“I’m not being mean. I’m being honest, and practical. Paradise Books, in my opinion, is going to be a massive financial drain, but that’s just my opinion, so don’t listen to me. It’s your bookstore, as well as your opportunity to prove me wrong. I’d love for you to prove me wrong.”
“Oh, would you?” she retorted grimly, a flash of temper in her blue-green eyes.
He welcomed the flare of temper, reassured by the blaze of heat in her expression. She wasn’t quite as cool and controlled as she liked to pretend. “Open the doors. Make it a trial run. You might discover you love owning a bookstore. But you also might discover that it’s not for you.”
“That’s a great idea,” she said. “I’m here for a couple weeks. Why not open the store tomorrow?”
“Can’t wait to see what you’ll do with the place.”
Rachel crumpled her napkin and tossed it onto her plate before standing up. “Since it looks like I have work to do, I’d like to head back.”
He rose as well. “You’re not angry, are you?”
“Why would I be angry?” she asked, shoving her arms into coat sleeves. “I’m opening my bookstore just in time for the holidays. I couldn’t be more excited
.”
Chapter Four
Rachel seethed on the drive back to town, and was still seething when she went to bed that night, her last night at Bramble House. Fortunately, by the time she woke up, her anger had melted away, replaced by quiet determination.
She’d show Atticus he was wrong. She’d show him that Paradise Books wasn’t doomed, nor was it a sentimental relic of the past, but rather it was a business that was still vital to the community.
After checking out of the bed and breakfast, she drove to the nearest grocery store and bought some basic supplies, and then headed to Paradise Books to settle in. This morning she looked at the store with new eyes. She wasn’t going to let herself be negative. For the next ten days she’d focus on opportunity and possibility, and with Christmas right around the corner, why couldn’t she get some strong holiday sales? She just needed to fix up the windows and create some attractive displays and before long everybody would be coming in and buying things, and making spirits bright.
Her gaze went to the big windows where, until yesterday, a Valentine’s Day display had filled the windows for three years. Clearly it was time for a new display, a Christmas display, something inviting so folks would want to come in. She’d need to locate the Christmas books. Surely Lesley had Christmas books. Rachel would just need to find them.
What else?
Some festive decorations. Something easy, though, and inexpensive, because her practical side hadn’t gone dormant, and was whispering to her even now that a used bookstore wasn’t practical, not in a technology-driven age, but at the same time, she didn’t have to give that little voice free reign. She’d spent her life being rational, and lately she’d been feeling…
Frustrated.
Bored.
Dissatisfied.
And now, for the first time in years, she felt excitement. Eagerness. Okay, there was a fair amount of anxiety mixed in with the other emotions, but that was to be expected. Rachel was a perfectionist and while she didn’t know the first thing about running a store, she could learn.
After searching the shelves, she only found a half dozen Christmas titles, but three in each window was better than nothing.