by Viv Royce
“But you rebelled?”
“On the contrary.” Cleo almost laughed. “I did everything they wanted. I was an A student in college. I did an internship with a top-notch firm, one of my father’s colleagues and friends. But it never gave me joy.” She waited a moment to see if he’d say what others had said: Adulting is about more than having joy. She herself had believed that for a long time, silencing the questions whispering in her heart: Is this everything? Working sixty hours a week and then socializing with the people needed to get even more work?
But he didn’t say anything. Their footfalls echoed in the empty street. In the distance, a man walked his dog, just two dark shadows moving along.
Cleo continued, “It was hard for them to understand because I was so good at what I did. I looked the part in my pantsuits with my leather briefcase, rushing from client appointments to court and back. I won cases, and my clients were happy. But I…I didn’t see myself doing that for the rest of my life. The long hours they worked—how it took away from everything…” All the afternoons she’d come from school and nobody was home to ask her how her day had been or listen to her stories. They had no idea who her friends were. “Can’t remember all of those names,” Dad used to say. He could remember every sentence from a twenty-page court plea but not a few kids’ names. Because it didn’t matter.
“It might sound extremely silly,” she said slowly, “but for a long time, I didn’t realize I could make another choice. I simply did what they expected of me.”
I wanted them to see me, love me. Be there for me. If their work took them away from me, maybe by joining them in it, we could be together.
“Then I met an old college friend and she told me she had decided to turn away from her law degree and start her own business in kids’ clothes. She looked so happy, so…fulfilled. I didn’t have that feeling about what I did. But I told myself I was never going to work in kids’ clothes, and…it took me a bit to realize it could be anything I chose. I took a vacation from my job to travel around and see where it took me. And it took me here. To this shop.” She pointed at the door of the shop they were approaching. “When I first saw it, I thought I misread the name. Rook should be book, right? I came closer, and there was a notice on the door. They were looking for a shop assistant. On impulse, I went in and asked about the job requirements. I found out I could live over it. It was perfect. Like a chance that had been ready and waiting for me, if only I had the nerve to jump in.”
She stopped and looked at Mark. “Now you can say I’m crazy.”
“Why would I?” His eyes surveyed her with a searching look.
Everybody else did. “You’re a big city hotshot. You must think anyone exchanging a prominent career there for life out here must be nuts.”
Mark laughed softly. “I’ll take the ‘big city hotshot’ as a compliment.” His grin faded. “No, I think you’re very courageous. It can’t have been easy. What did your parents say?”
Cleo sucked in a breath. She could hardly tell him they weren’t on speaking terms. Yes, she did go home for Christmas, and she did spend time with them—with them and their high-powered friends who swarmed to their house to celebrate the season—but there was no real contact and no interest in how she was doing. Even their friends gave her the cold shoulder, the women whispering behind her back and the men saying, “Oh yes, you moved away…” to fall into awkward silence as if they were embarrassed on her behalf.
“You don’t have to tell me, really,” Mark said. “After all, we hardly know each other.” He looked down at the sidewalk. Then he snapped his head up as if some thought struck him like a stone shot at him from a catapult. “If I don’t accept the shop into the Stephens chain, and it ends for you here, what will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
He studied her as if he wanted to see right through her, ask her something but didn’t know quite how to put it.
“You wanted my opinion about something?”
“Yes, uh…” He pointed at the window of the home decoration shop. “That Wedgwood cup with the flowers. Are they roses or something else?”
Sorry? She blinked. “That’s what you want to know?”
“My mother has a china set like that. One of the cups broke last Christmas, and I wanted to buy her a replacement.” He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll buy it and take the risk.”
“Wedgwood has a ton of designs. You could ask her, but that would spoil the surprise. Can’t you ask someone to snap a pic of the china set for you and then send it so you can compare the patterns?”
“I doubt Dad dares to go near it.” He grinned. “But I’ll ask.”
The church tower struck eleven, the chimes lingering in the still night air.
Mark straightened up. “I’d better get going. See you later.”
“Yes, see you later.” She watched as he walked away, crossed the street toward the parking lot. The echo of his footfalls died away, and it was eerily quiet and dark. Lonely. She shivered and turned up her collar. What would she do when Rook closed its doors? Certainly not go back home. There was no such thing as home. All she cared for was right here. She’d have to convince him to let her keep it.
But with every hour they spent together, that mission seemed to get harder to accomplish. She felt at ease with him. She was telling him things she didn’t tell others. She shouldn’t, it was dumb and risky, but she couldn’t help herself. She didn’t only want him to believe in the shop’s potential, but believe in her, too.
In them, even?
No. There’s no such thing as us. This has to be strictly business. Or it’ll end in disaster.
…
Maybe she’s hoping I won’t accept the shop into the chain and her job will end so she can go back home with a reason for why it didn’t work out, instead of having to admit it wasn’t everything she dreamed of.
Mark sat in his car, his hand on the key in the ignition but not turning it. Cleo’s story had sort of taken him by surprise. He had expected her to have grown up around these parts, working at shops from an early age to earn some money on the side, then gotten the chance to come into the bookshop with Mr. Fellows. What she had told him now was something completely different. A life lived at a…
Higher level? Not the kind of snobbery he hated in some of his father’s high-powered business pals. There were plenty of people who would consider it a terrible waste to have a law degree and then go work in a small town bookshop. But Cleo had mentioned that practicing law had not given her any joy. Tonight, as he had watched her moving between the tables in her sparkly dress, leaning down to help small kids work out what they wanted to do, it wasn’t just her dress catching the light, but her face, her eyes. She had been radiant.
But Cleo’s dream here was under threat. From his father’s company. The Stephens chain had rules, a plan, a dress code even. He hadn’t mentioned that to her yet. But her pink sneakers and sweater would be no-go once their name was on her storefront.
Mark could imagine how she would feel about that. No freedom to choose her own clothes?
If her shop had to become part of something bigger, imposing on her every choice, would it not kill the joy she had in her work? Would it not make her feel like she was working in a law firm anyway?
What a mess. He sighed and threw his weight back in the seat. Whatever way he twisted it, the outcome would be bad.
Not taking her into the chain would mean the end of the shop and her dream.
Taking her in would put her into a straightjacket of rules.
So create another option?
He retracted his hand from the key and pulled his phone out to make a few notes. He called the file creating community engagement in the shop and noted that a creative event involving children could reach parents who were potential bookshop customers. He could see his father’s face if he dared present such a plan to him, but didn’t they
embrace being innovative? Didn’t they pride themselves on seeing chances where others didn’t? That had made Stephens into what it was today. Maybe they had become too risk-avoiding. Stagnant. Dad hated that word. If I work in “stagnant”…
He lowered the phone and caught a glimpse of the bookshop in his rearview mirror. The lights were on behind the windows of the upstairs apartment. Cleo was there, maybe pouring herself a quick glass of juice before bed. Rearranging a pillow on her sofa while she thought about the night. He’d love to see inside for a moment and get an idea of the things she liked to surround herself with. He imagined there would be a lot of trinkets, giving the place atmosphere. Maybe handmade, like the book castle?
Would she be smiling to herself because it had been a success with all those kids creating something they could be proud of? Bookends that would get a prominent place in their parents’ or grandparents’ homes?
Or would she sit down on the sofa and think about her own parents, about the choices she’d made and whether those had really made her happy? Would she feel doubts? Would she maybe even shed a tear?
His gut clenched at the idea she might be unhappy but hiding it from the people around her, wanting to be this upbeat, charming person who was always there for others. Don’t put on that show for me. Tell me what makes you laugh out loud or groan in frustration. Tell me what you wish for when you look up at the stars. How you would spend a million dollars…
He wanted to get out of the car, cross the street, ring the bell, and ask her if he could have that coffee anyway. To talk. Until three in the morning.
But that was crazy. She was tired. He was tired. They both had work to do.
And maybe she wouldn’t even want to let him into her home. After all, he was the man who was going to decide her future.
With my head, or my heart?
Chapter Seven
“And we’ll dim the lights a bit like this,” the young man said, pushing a button on the impressive control panel. Through the big glass window in front of her, Cleo saw the lights in the cinema’s main room fade until there was 25 percent of their current capacity left. It gave the space a hushed atmosphere of expectancy, as if people were sitting in those red plush seats, eagerly awaiting what would appear on the big screen.
The old cinema was the perfect place for their charity auction—with a stage in front of the movie screen. The auctioneer would stand there, leading the bidding. The guests would sit in the comfortable plush chairs and bid on the goods, with a break where they could buy soda and popcorn. Everything earned tonight—the price of the tickets their guests had purchased, the money raised with the auctioned-off items, and what people paid for food—was going to their good cause: the local library, which would use it for a summer program.
“Perfect. Thanks.” Cleo smiled at the young man and stepped out of his control box to go down the creaky stairs. Black-and-white photos of movie stars lined the walls, and a huge chandelier with countless elements of faceted glass dominated the cinema’s lobby. Her heel caught in the carpet, and she flung up an arm to balance herself. Careful, or I’ll be flat on my face. Normally, she never wore heels higher than an inch or so, but tonight was something special.
Yesterday, on a whim, she had driven out to a nearby town to buy a brand new dress. The red fabric was smooth like silk, and the embroidered bodice shimmered in the light. Love at first sight. And the hairdresser on the other side of the road had fit her into his schedule to get her hair styled in a wet look. Now the tall mirrors by the cinema’s doors reflected a person she barely recognized: a woman smiling at her with the air of a Golden Age movie star. All for…
Nerves crawled through her stomach. I want to run away and hide until the night is over. But Mark strode through the sliding entry doors.
His tuxedo fit him like a glove. His gaze slipped from her hair across her face down the dress. A slow smile formed. Cleo stood motionless. If this was a movie, he’d come over, take my hand, and sweep me into his arms for a long, slow dance.
Mark started to move again, straight for her. Her breath caught. Is he going to do it? Of course not, this is not a ball.
He halted in front of her and held her gaze. His blue eyes had a darker tinge as they bored straight into hers, and Cleo’s heart beat like a low, dull drum under her chest bone.
“Hello.” It was unlike any hello anyone had ever said to her.
“Hello.” At sixteen, just saying hello to her crush had been the hardest thing on earth. One word and yet…it had seemed impossible to get out. Once said, it should all become easier, but somehow it never did.
Music began to play in the distance, a soft piano. Was it real or her imagination? Ask me to dance, just ask me.
“Nice of you to come,” she said. Her voice was a little strangled.
He nodded. “Sure. I, uh…” He blinked as if he had trouble focusing. “I want to bid on some things.”
“Of course. That’s what an auction is for, right?” This really is an award-winning conversation.
“Cleo!” A woman her own age in a golden dress came up to her. Eleanor Brahms, her parents in tow. Eleanor looked at Mark, her perfect brows arching in surprise. “Why, hello. I don’t think we’ve met yet.” She extended an elegant hand with long bloodred nails. “Eleanor Brahms.”
“Of Brahms Motorcars,” her father said, elbowing her out of the way to shake Mark’s hand before Eleanor could latch on. “We’ve been selling motorcars in the region since 1922. I bet you like a good set of wheels. We can talk about it. Let’s go in.” He dragged Mark along with him.
Mark threw a semi-desperate look at Cleo, and she suppressed a laugh.
But her amusement died as Eleanor followed the pair at an eager trot. She had been engaged to the mayor’s son until he had decided he wanted to work in Australia for three years and had met another girl there, married her, and then written Eleanor about it. Ever since this “humiliation,” as her mother kept calling it, Eleanor was out for a big score that would rehabilitate her in the eyes of the town. Cleo could see her brain working overtime—this gorgeous man might be it. The moment she heard he was the son of the owner of the Stephens bookstore chain, she’d start drooling even more.
Well, nothing to be done now. Cleo rubbed her hands together and forced herself to assume a relaxed attitude. He’s been abducted and has to make the best of it.
As one of the hosts tonight, she had a lot of things to take care of. Mark was on his own.
…
How is it possible that every time I meet Cleo Davis, she seems to be a completely different woman?
In the shop, at their first meeting, she had been a down-to-earth free spirit, running the bookstore with flair and creativity.
At the craft night, she had been floating around the tables in that star dress, as he remembered it, somehow soft and approachable and at the same time even more out of reach.
And tonight…she was a movie star, a woman who belonged on the red carpet, someone to admire in a poster on the wall. Somehow not real, and still, he knew that if he had touched Cleo’s hand, it would have been warm under his fingertips. If he had leaned over to…
Stephens! What’s going through your head? You barely know her.
Mark widened his eyes a moment and forced himself to listen to what Mr. Brahms was telling him about sports cars in his showroom and how he could drop by for a test ride. The daughter—what had she said her name had been? Ellen or something?—was smiling at him with an intensity that set off alarm bells. Nights like these were the perfect opportunity for social disaster. Being too nice could be easily misunderstood. Women seemed to analyze every look and every smile a man gave them, like it was somehow special. Yeah, and what am I doing staring at Cleo? Is she happy to see me? Does she want to talk, spend time with me?
Get a grip.
A buzzer indicated they should take their places, and people scr
ambled for their seats as the auctioneer appeared on the podium. He explained the basic rules of bidding, throwing in a bit of humor that provoked a chuckle here and there, and then the first item was introduced.
“Here’s a list,” the Brahms girl breathed in his ear as she leaned over to put a paper in his hands. “I’ve only got one, but we can share it.”
Mark nodded, absentmindedly, as his eyes were on Cleo, who walked down the aisle to sit in front. She moved with grace and elegance, as if she wore such dresses daily, and maybe she had done so, earlier, when she had been a lawyer. Male-dominated world, still, and she must have been surrounded by admiring men. Had she dated, had she had a serious relationship and made plans, until her dream of doing something different had ended it all?
Or had she been a workaholic like he was, not caring for something like personal bonds? Relationships were complicated, and one was better off keeping life simple, right?
The Brahms girl raised her hand to bid on something, putting it back down again almost on his knee. He moved a bit away from her. Invent a girlfriend to nip her interest in the bud. Drop Tamela’s name. No need to mention she’s my sister.
The Brahms girl cried out in frustration when the object she had bid on went to someone else. Her mother scolded her, calling her Eleanor, and Mark made a mental note not to forget her name again. He had to avoid her for the rest of his stay here.
“You must bring me a bit of good luck, Mark,” Eleanor whispered to him, moving her head closer to his as if she wanted to rub it against him.
Enough. He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the screen. “I really have to take this call. It’s Tamela. About the wedding.”
“Wedding?” In a split second, her expression changed from total bliss to utter horror.
“I’m really sorry.” He wormed his way out of the row and went for the lobby. This was going to be a long phone call.