by Jane Porter
He looked at her for a long moment. “I have avoided women like you. I have deliberately dated women that I couldn’t see a future with, women who were ‘fun for now,’ rather than ‘perfect for forever.’”
She blushed, suddenly feeling shy. “I didn’t know there was such a category.”
“It’s not a spreadsheet kind of thing.”
“Ah.”
“You make me want all the things I’ve never had—the snug little Victorian on Bramble, the family, the traditions.”
Her cheeks still felt hot but now her mouth had gone dry. She didn’t know what to say. On one hand, his words filled her with fizzy emotion, making her feel like a bottle of champagne. On the other hand, none of his dreams meshed with her goals. And yet she was impossibly drawn to him. She loved looking at him. Loved everything about his face from the creases at his eyes, to the brackets at his mouth, and the warmth in his blue eyes. She’d come to Marietta for an old bookstore and had instead fallen in love with the most handsome, dashing, man she’d ever seen.
But how impractical this all was.
How impossible.
He was in Houston, she was in Irvine… and he talked of a home in Marietta.
She liked Marietta but couldn’t imagine living here full-time. She couldn’t imagine leaving her life in Irvine behind for the old bookstore, either.
None of this made sense. She was asking for pain and disappointment.
*
Atticus heard her heavy sigh and glanced at her as he signed the check to his room, but her expression was shuttered, and she suddenly seemed distant.
They left the restaurant, and walking through the lobby, stopped to have a look at all the gingerbread houses from the competition yesterday. There were little houses and big houses, log cabins, Bramble House B&B, and even a replica of the Graff Hotel.
They made small talk as they admired the display and then stepped outside for the walk back to the bookstore.
Rachel buried her hands in her coat pockets. “Why have you never shown me your plans for the bookstore?” she asked.
He frowned but didn’t immediately answer and Rachel pressed on. “Cormac Sheenan told me last night when he came by during the stroll that you’d had plans drawn up for your restaurant, and that they were pretty remarkable.” She hesitated. “I’d like to see them.”
“I don’t think you’re the ideal audience, Rachel.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not.”
Her forehead creased. “No, I don’t.”
“You do. We talked about the two dogs, one bone—”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that,” he said firmly.
She tipped her head back to look up at him. “But what if I shouldn’t have the bone?”
He frowned, uncertain where this was going. “You love the store.”
“I wouldn’t say I love it. I find it intriguing, it’s a puzzle, and I’m starting to love some of the books, but I have a real job, and it’s not here.”
“You’ve given up on Paradise Books?”
“No. I started uploading books to a big online retailer today that specializes in old books.”
“Good.”
“But, come on, who is going to manage things when I’m not here? Who will input the thousands of books that fill the store? Who will mail the books out, and keep entries updated? The bookstore has so much potential, but only if someone really works hard at it. I don’t know that I’m that person.”
“Did Cormac put this idea in your head?” he asked, troubled.
“No. I’m just… worried. I have to go back one day—”
“Do you? You couldn’t stay here? Find work here?”
“I’m an accountant, not a bookseller.”
“So be an accountant, and hire someone to work the bookstore.”
“Are you no longer interested in purchasing it?” she asked.
“Not if it’s going to hurt us.”
He saw her flinch at his words, and it caught him off guard.
“You told me you’ve been trying to get Lesley to sell the store to you for the past eighteen months,” she added flatly.
“Yes.”
“But you’re giving up on your dream, just like that?”
“Dreams can change.”
“Not that quickly.”
“There are other ways to do this.”
“I want to see your plans, the ones Cormac mentioned.”
He battled to hang on to his temper. Why was she so determined to be negative? She had options, so many options, and she refused to consider them. “Why?”
“Because I want to see how you’d use the building. I want to know how you’d reenvision the store.”
“The books would be gone. The shelves would be gone. Only the brick, the crown molding, and the windows would remain,” he said, tone curt. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Where would the books go?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t my problem,” he answered. “I figured the books could be moved, someone could take one of those little houses on Church and turn it into a charming bookstore. Many of the houses have already been zoned for commercial use.”
“That could still happen,” she said. “Paradise Books wouldn’t have to be closed. It would just be relocated. It’d also be a lot more affordable to run—smaller space, lower ceilings, all one floor.”
“You’d need two houses then for all those books. You’d have to cut your stock in half.”
“Which could work, if the online business picked up.” She chewed her lip. “It’s not a bad idea, you know. It could work if someone wanted to save the books.”
“Rachel, you want to save the books.”
“Do I?” She stopped walking and he was forced to stop, too. “Or is that what you think I should do?”
“Why don’t we do this together? Why don’t—”
“So, you’re withdrawing your offer for the bookstore?” she interrupted, her voice short, clipped.
He sighed, arms folding over his broad chest. “Not officially, no. But I got a tip that the Bank of Marietta, across the street from the bookstore, might be closing its location, and opening a small branch in the new development north of here. It’s also a landmark building, on a corner, with a lot of space.”
“It doesn’t have the brick you wanted, or the character.”
“No. It has marble and high ceilings and fancy columns.”
“That wasn’t your vision for your Montana restaurant.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I’m excited about what you can do with the bookstore. Maybe I realized those books are part of that historic building. The books are the heart of the building. How do I just dismantle that?”
“You have wanted Paradise Books for eighteen months, and now just a week after meeting me, you’re giving up the dream. That’s crazy, and wrong.”
“What’s crazy was me thinking only one place would do. I could put my next Galveston anywhere—Bozeman, Missoula, Big Fork. It doesn’t even have to be in Montana. There’s Wyoming, there’s Idaho.”
“You love Marietta.”
His jaw hardened. “I’m not going to fight you for it anymore.”
“So, your offer is off the table.”
“You can make the bookstore work,” he said. “If anyone could make it work, it’s you.”
“You’re making me want to cry, and I never cry,” she whispered, throat aching with emotion.
“You can do this, Rachel. We can do this, Rachel. Let’s team up together—”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re not together, and we can’t commit to big things together.”
“I have a good gut.”
“Not in this case. I’m sorry.”
“Rachel.”
“I can’t listen to this, and Atticus, you shouldn’t want this. You’ve invested in plans. You have an architect and a contractor ready to go. I had no idea how much money
you’d already poured into this—”
“Cormac had no business telling you any of that.”
“This isn’t about him, though. Don’t be upset with him. This is about your goals, and mine, and they’re not in sync. We’re not in sync. I like you, I do, but you have no idea how much I regret coming to Montana right now. I came here on a lark and now neither of us will have what we wanted. It wasn’t supposed to go this way.”
“Nothing has changed.”
*
Rachel drew a tremulous breath, and then another. She was angry, so angry. He’d changed everything because he’d changed.
He wanted more from her, but she didn’t have more to give.
She’d enjoyed his attention, and had reveled in the romance, but that was all this was… a romance. It was fantasy. Nothing about this town or her time with Atticus had anything to do with her reality. “I’m not who you want, Atticus. I’m not who you need me to be.”
“I don’t need you to be anything but who you are—”
“This is so awkward, so uncomfortable. I hate that it’s now uncomfortable.”
He caught her chin and turned her face toward him. “I have fallen for you, Rachel. It wasn’t part of my plan, but here we are, and I want to see you succeed. I want your Paradise Books to be the store it could be.”
“And what if I don’t want it—any of this? What if nothing in Marietta is right for me?”
He looked stunned for a moment and then his hand fell away. “Does that include me?” he asked stiffly.
She hated to hurt him, she did, but she had to be honest. “I’m sorry, Atticus, but we’re not on the same page.”
His dark head inclined. “Wow. Okay then. Good to know.”
“So the bookstore—”
“I don’t feel like discussing the store anymore.” He glanced at the big brick building and then back at her. “You’re going to do what you want to do, but it looks like it won’t include me.”
Chapter Nine
Upstairs in the attic apartment, Rachel numbly changed into sweatpants and a soft sweatshirt, doing her best to not think, feeling too confused to think.
She made a cup of tea, and sat facing the window on the foot of her bed, staring out at the jagged mountains. She felt trapped, and sad, disappointed in herself, but also disappointed in Atticus. Why did he have to ruin everything? Why couldn’t things have continued as they were—sweet, lighthearted, fun?
Talking about marriage and children wasn’t fun.
Talking about settling down wasn’t fun.
Talking about building a business together wasn’t fun.
She didn’t need the complications and she didn’t need the confusion. Things were already so hard and he’d made it all worse.
There was no way she could stay here now. There was no way she could open the bookstore tomorrow and pretend that everything was fine. Nothing was fine. She wasn’t fine. And she was an idiot for thinking she could make a bookstore—a bookstore—work.
And yet Atticus…
He was just so much. He was too much… too much handsome, too much wisdom, too much wonderful. He made her feel like a juvenile wreck in comparison.
Her phone pinged with an incoming text.
She leaned across her bed and picked it up from the tiny nightstand. The message was from Atticus. “Let’s talk tomorrow.”
Blinking back tears, she deleted the text, and then immediately regretted it, and then kicked herself for regretting being strong.
She had to be strong now. She had to pull herself together. Everything here, including Atticus, was too much. She needed to go home to the place where everything made sense.
Atticus could have the bookstore. He could give the books to his mother. Rachel didn’t care. She just wanted her life back, the one she understood, the one that felt safe, and familiar. Retrieving her laptop from the kitchen table, she bought her one-way ticket back home.
*
Atticus didn’t sleep well that night aware that the conversation with Rachel had gone badly. He kept checking his phone, hoping she’d reply. She didn’t. He told himself to give her time. He knew he could be intense and overwhelming.
He hadn’t thought she’d react quite so badly though. He’d even imagined she’d be glad—relieved—that he wasn’t pushing for the store anymore. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t sell Paradise Books down the road, but after all she’d done this past week, why should she be in a hurry to get rid of it?
It didn’t make sense.
But the way she’d looked at him when she’d said good night didn’t make sense, either. The smile was gone. There was no light in her eyes. She looked shuttered. Detached. And that worried him.
Atticus went downstairs for breakfast and was on the way back to his suite when the man working the front desk flagged him down. “An item was left for you, Mr. Bowen. Let me get it from the back.”
He returned a moment later with a book. “There’s a letter, too, and I tucked it inside the cover,” the clerk said. “The book and letter were dropped off early this morning.”
Atticus took the book and turned it over and his chest tightened as he read the title on the worn dust jacket, To Kill a Mockingbird.
He knew immediately who’d left the book but waited until he was in the elevator on the way to his room to open the letter.
Atticus,
I thought your mom might like this for Christmas. I believe it’s a first edition, but an 8th printing, so not the most valuable of first editions.
Thank you for your kindness and friendship, as well as your support. It meant a great deal to me.
I’m heading back to California now. If you want the bookstore, we can work out the details after the holidays. If you don’t, perhaps you can pass the key to a reputable commercial Realtor and the Realtor can help me with the next steps.
All best, and happiest of holidays,
Rachel
Southern California was in the middle of a heat wave when Rachel arrived back in Orange County Monday afternoon. She peeled off her sweater as she retrieved her suitcase and waited for her ride, amazed at the difference between frigid Montana and blistering California. Standing at the curb with her suitcase she felt her phone vibrate. She glanced at her messages, expecting a text from Atticus.
Instead it was a message from her father, checking in with her.
She sent him a text that she was back and on her way to her place. She’d just hit send when her phone rang from an Orange County area code but she didn’t recognize the number and let it go to voice mail. She played the voice mail once she could. It was Jared Helm calling, her immediate supervisor at Novak & Bartley. She was being offered the promotion.
She replayed Jared’s message a second time.
Jay Shields had been fired—Jared didn’t say why—but Jay was gone and the firm was offering her the promotion, if she wanted it.
If she wanted it.
Rachel hung up and clutched the phone in her fist. Why wouldn’t she want it? This was what she’d worked so hard for. This was why she’d sacrificed so much. Of course she wanted it.
Part of her felt vindicated. Jay had not deserved the promotion. He’d barely pulled his weight. But now they were offering her the title, the raise, the recognition she’d craved.
And they’d offered her the promotion before she returned. They’d think she was coming back early from her holiday because of the raise, instead of her returning because she’d fallen in love, and that was beyond terrifying because falling in love would require change, and risk, and pain.
Falling in love meant she could lose Atticus. He could walk away from her at any point, or he could get sick and die. Far safer to not love, and not be hurt. Far safer to be obsessive about work rather than a person.
So she didn’t have Atticus, but she had the promotion. She didn’t have love, but she would soon earn substantially more money.
That was something, wasn’t it?
*
Rach
el had never found it hard to concentrate before, but since returning from Marietta, her attention wandered constantly.
She was struggling being in the office, struggling at her computer, struggling to stay focused during meetings.
Fortunately, no one knew her well enough to know she wasn’t on her game. Fortunately, she could hide her exhaustion behind her calm, professional mask.
But she hated the mask. It was just that—a fake persona she’d created so people would respect her, and not know how sensitive she really was.
She didn’t let herself think about Atticus, though. And she didn’t let herself think about Marietta or the bookstore, either.
She did find herself returning to her last morning there, and how she hadn’t said goodbye to anyone when she left. She’d simply tidied up the store, emptied the refrigerator of perishables, unplugged the lights on the Christmas tree and yes, she’d agonized over the note she would be leaving for Atticus, because she didn’t know how to say goodbye to him.
It was unthinkable that she was saying goodbye, but it was also unthinkable remaining, and feeling such strong feelings. She liked him far too much. She was becoming dependent on him and that wasn’t healthy. And so, she’d stood, pen in hand, for the longest time, staring out at the sea of books, and remembered the moment he’d entered the store and introduced himself, extending a hand to her.
“Atticus Bowen,” he’d said.
“Atticus?” she’d answered.
“My mother loved To Kill a Mockingbird.”
Rachel had raced upstairs and searched the L section and there she’d found a lone copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, and inside a tiny slip of paper read, first edition, 8th printing, average wear and tear.
Rachel hoped the book would be a suitable parting gift, and maybe it’d help smooth things over. After dropping the book and letter off at the hotel, Rachel drove her rental to Bozeman never intending to return to Montana again.
She’d done the right thing, she told herself, as she dragged herself into her second week back at the accounting firm. She’d worked too hard for too many years to not return. She’d earned the promotion. She deserved it.