- Home
- Jane Porter
Oh, Christmas Night Page 4
Oh, Christmas Night Read online
Page 4
He said nothing, and his silence felt like judgment.
“You think I’m making a mistake,” she said.
“No,” he answered, surprising her. “I think you’re wise. You have options. You should explore them.”
“Even if it means you don’t get what you want?”
“I’m not worried. I play the long game.”
Rachel didn’t remember the last time she felt so overwhelmed by the need to make decisions, and yet for the life of her, she wasn’t ready to decide anything. “I just need time,” she added.
“Then take it.”
“But you’ve flown here to meet me. You must be in a rush—”
“I’m not.”
She gave him a searching glance.
He shrugged. “I’ve been talking to Lesley for the past eighteen months about the bookstore. I can certainly give you whatever time you need.” The antique clock on the wall chimed. Atticus glanced up at it and then grimaced. “Has it been an hour already?”
“How is that possible?”
He reached for his wallet and she stopped him. “I’ve got this. Don’t be any later than you already are.”
“I can put it on my room.”
“I’m going to stay and have dinner, so go. Don’t keep your friends waiting.”
He rose and reached for his coat. “How long will you be in town?”
She’d bought a one-way ticket because she didn’t know how long she’d want to be here. “Not exactly sure. You?”
“Taylor is hoping I’ll stay through the stroll, which happens next weekend. It’s supposed to be a big deal.”
“I’m sure we’ll bump into each other sooner or later.”
Rachel remained in the Graff pub after Atticus had gone, going through the folder he’d given her. She read everything in the file, too, including all the fine print as she nibbled on the skinny salted fries. He was right, his offer wasn’t just generous, it was dazzling. That kind of money would go a long way toward her retirement nest egg, especially if she invested the money wisely—which of course, she always did.
But for the first time in forever, she didn’t feel reassured by her investments, or her careful, thoughtful planning. What good would a lavish retirement be, if she were all alone?
*
“What is she like?” Troy asked, rinsing the last of the big pans before setting it on the counter to dry.
Atticus reached for it, just as he’d reached for the other dishes that Troy had hand-washed once the dishwasher was full. “Smart. Savvy. Rather fascinating.”
“A fascinating accountant? There’s a first,” Troy answered, turning the water off.
“What Atticus isn’t telling you is that Rachel is very pretty,” Taylor said, returning to the kitchen after putting the kids to bed. Usually Troy helped read the stories and tuck them in, but tonight Taylor tackled the bedtime routine while Troy and Atticus managed the dishes.
“I’ve met her,” Taylor added, putting away the assorted pots and pans. “We didn’t talk long, but I liked her. I hope she’ll keep the bookstore open.”
Troy smiled. “Even though Atticus wants it?”
“He doesn’t have to turn the bookstore into a steak place,” she answered, shooting Atticus a mock severe glance. “He could find a different spot. There are lots of places vacant in Livingston right now. Why not one of those buildings?”
“But I want to be in Marietta, near you,” Atticus answered, snapping his dish towel at Taylor as she passed him.
“I’d like you to be here, too. Just not in my bookstore.”
“Your bookstore?” he retorted, looking from her to Troy. “Are you making an offer as well?”
Taylor and Troy exchanged glances. “Not yet,” Taylor replied lightly, “but we’ve discussed the store, and Troy knows that I feel it’s important for Marietta to have its own bookstore.”
Atticus leaned against the counter, arms folding over his chest. “I’d think you’d want everyone to take advantage of your library.”
“I love Marietta’s library, but I can also want to support our indie bookstore. In my mind, you can never have enough books.”
“But who are the customers for the bookstore? Paradise Books is almost all vintage books.”
“Lesley specialized in collectibles—her children’s collection makes my mouth water—but she always carried new books, too. Maybe not as many as a chain bookstore would, but she’d special order titles for her customers. Whenever I wanted something, whether it was a cookbook or the most recent New York Times bestseller, she’d place an order, and I’d have it within a week.”
“But you could do that yourself online and have it sooner.”
“I could, but that wouldn’t support our local businesses, and I value our small business owners.”
Atticus didn’t like how Taylor was making him feel like a bad guy. He wasn’t a bad guy. He could be a tough negotiator, but he was always fair. It was important to him to be fair, and one of the reasons he’d switched from litigation to real estate law. “I didn’t set my sights on a thriving business. The bookstore has been closed for three years.”
Taylor plucked the dish towel from his hands and hung it on the towel rack tucked inside the sink cabinet doors. “Now we have a chance for it to be open again.”
Troy had been silently following the back and forth between his friend and wife and he cleared his throat. “And that decision rests squarely with Rachel. It will be interesting to see what she chooses to do.”
“It will,” Atticus replied. “And on that note, I should say good night. Thank you for dinner,” he said, giving Taylor a hug. “It was delicious as always, and you know how much I enjoy my time with your family.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Troy said, getting Atticus’s coat from the house’s hall closet.
It was a clear night and stars glittered overhead. Colorful lights glowed on the houses lining Bramble.
“I need to put our lights up,” Troy said, glancing up at his ornate two-story Victorian painted a soft sage green with a paler green trim. “I’m finding it hard to get in the spirit this year. It’s always hard when Thanksgiving is so late in November. This year I’m still thinking turkeys and pilgrims instead of Christmas decorations.”
“Your kids are certainly excited about getting the tree this weekend.”
“I’ll be excited when we bring the ornaments down from the attic. I’m just not there yet.” Troy hesitated. “Taylor is right, though, Atticus. Not everyone in Marietta will want to see the bookstore go. You might get some pushback.”
“I’m expecting some,” Atticus answered calmly, because it was true. In a place like Marietta change could be hard, and there were those who wanted everything to stay the same… even when it didn’t work anymore.
“What if Rachel does choose to sell… only not to you?”
“Is there someone else interested in that spot?” Atticus looked at Troy. “Are you possibly interested?”
“No, and I can’t speak for Taylor, but I don’t see how she could remain at the library and own the store, and raise four children.”
“You only have three—” Atticus broke off as he saw Troy’s crooked smile. “She’s pregnant?”
“Almost four months, but we haven’t announced it yet. She had a miscarriage last year so we’re trying to keep it quiet until we’re comfortable with everyone knowing the news.”
“Congratulations, though. I’m happy for you. You have an amazing family.”
“We own a big house so we figured we might as well fill it up.” Troy’s smile faded. “And not to be a negative Nancy, but I’d hate for you to pin all your hopes on the bookstore, not when you have other options.”
“I respect that. I also respect that Taylor really loves the bookstore. We need people like her who care about books, and promote literacy. But let’s be honest, this community survived just fine the past three years. People found a way to buy their books, probably heading out of town to Walmar
t or Target, or choosing to purchase online. It’s one thing to love the idea of something—in this case, a charming Main Street bookstore—but it’s another to make it self-sufficient. Paradise Books is not going to pay for itself. Whoever takes it on needs to be prepared to bleed red for quite some time.”
“This Rachel Mills might surprise you.”
Atticus pictured Rachel with her blonde ponytail, Levi’s jeans, and funky Vans and knew that Troy was right. “She’s already surprised me,” he said gruffly. “She’s not at all who I thought she’d be.”
Troy lifted a black eyebrow. “You don’t make that sound like a good thing.”
“It’d be easier if she was who I expected. Now I’m just conflicted.”
Chapter Three
Main Street was still asleep when Rachel drove to the bookstore early the next morning, fortified with coffee, her laptop, and her phone—which she intended to use as a Wi-Fi hot spot later since the old brick building didn’t have internet—and a large quantity of cleaning supplies.
A few cars were on Main Street, and warm yellow shone from within the Java Café and Main Street Diner, but nearly all of the other stores and restaurants were dark. Unlocking the front door of the bookstore, she flicked on the overhead light and stood on the threshold, soaking it in, appreciating it even more this morning, and how Lesley had thoughtfully placed upholstered armchairs here and there, creating inviting spaces to sit and read.
The irony hit her all over again—she didn’t get the promotion, but she did get a bookstore in Montana. It would have been laughable if she hadn’t poured herself into her career, working tirelessly to become Novak & Bartley’s first female partner. She saw what was required and she took on more accounts, and asked for more responsibility, and worked longer hours, earning the firm more money, certain that eventually her loyalty would be noticed and rewarded.
But that hadn’t happened, and she’d been at Novak & Bartley for almost eight years. If she wasn’t going to be promoted now, when would she?
Was it time to choose a different path? Time to set new goals?
Was there a future here in this corner bookstore?
After tying her hair into a knot on top of her head, Rachel dusted, and then swept and mopped, tackling the downstairs before moving to the second floor. Once all the wood gleamed and the store smelled fresh from the lemon polish, she noticed how the spines of the books added warmth, color, and texture.
Rachel hadn’t ever spent much time thinking about bookstores until now. In her mind, they were just another store, and she’d been raised to take advantage of the library, and not spend money on books of her own, but knowing all of this—the books, the reading nooks, the high ceilings and crown moldings—filled her with a pleasure she hadn’t expected.
Curious now to see the attic apartment, Rachel unlocked the door in the back room, and climbed the stairs, turning on lights as she went. At the top of the landing she discovered the stairwell divided the apartment in half, with a living room and kitchen at one end, and a bedroom and bathroom at the other. Sky lights had been cut into the roof, and an oval window above the bed had a stunning view of the Gallatin Range and Copper Mountain.
Someone had been clever enough to turn the narrow hallways into functional space, with one side having built-in closets and dressers, and the other side bookshelves and a small desk. A framed bulletin board hung above the desk, but the steep slope of the rafters meant there wasn’t tremendous headspace. Fortunately, Rachel wasn’t tall and she liked the coziness of the apartment, and thought she could be quite comfortable here once she took her dust cloth and broom to everything. She’d thoroughly enjoyed Bramble House—they served a lovely, hot breakfast every morning—but this was free, and she hated spending money when it wasn’t necessary, so she’d give the bed and breakfast notice that tonight would be her last night with them.
Using her phone, she created a new to-do list, making notes of what was in the apartment, and what she’d need to purchase. Happily, she discovered linens, quilts, and pillows in zipper storage bags tucked in a cedar-lined stairwell closet. Opening the bags, she sniffed the linens and they smelled of lavender and vanilla thanks to little sachets tucked between all the layers. The small kitchen had everything she’d need from dishes and silverware, to baking sheets and pots and pans. All she really needed was to grocery shop and carry everything up.
With one last glance at her notes, she returned downstairs and went through everything behind the front counter, including the binders Zane had mentioned. Lesley’s organizational system was baffling. The book titles appeared to be added as Lesley purchased them, and then marked off as the books sold, all done in Lesley’s neat penmanship, but there was no alphabetical list of titles, or organization by subject matter.
Opening her computer, Rachel created a brand-new spreadsheet entitled Paradise Books—Used Book Catalog, and then retrieved a box of books from the back room, and picked up the first hardback, a dusty caramel color embossed in hunter green, The Oregon Trail. Opening the book cover, she typed the title, author’s name and 1912 copyright into Google search and immediately the book popped up, editions being sold by different bookstores, and the editions ranged from four hundred dollars for a signed first edition, to forty-four dollars for a book almost identical to the one resting on the counter next to her computer.
She was surprised that the book was worth as much, but also aware it’d take a unique buyer to purchase the book for forty-four dollars. “You’re rather special,” she said to the book, creating her first spreadsheet entry by inputting the title, the author name, the year published, the book’s condition, and then placing the book in a “keep” stack.
She reached for the next book, a small relatively slim blue hardbound book titled Wilderness Ways. It was published in 1901, and an inscription was written on the first page, For my dear Stanley, merry Christmas. With love from your grandmother, Evelyn Camfield December 25, 1902.
Rachel felt a little pang as she traced the delicately penned inscription with the tip of her finger. The letters were slanted, and somewhat quivery, and yet she could feel the love in the inscription. But typing the book’s info into the search engine, she discovered that the book wasn’t valuable, with prices ranging from just ten dollars to sixteen, and yet, to her, the book took on significance as, once upon a time, it had meant something to someone. She closed the cover and studied the book a long moment before adding the book to her database.
Rachel didn’t know how long she’d been working, sitting on the stool, hunched over her computer on the counter, going through books, researching history and value, when the front door opened, making the little bell ring.
It was Atticus coming through the door and today he’d dressed more appropriately for the cold by at least wearing a jacket.
“Good morning,” she said as he closed the door behind him.
“It’s the afternoon,” he answered. “It’s nearly two.”
“Is it? I had no idea.” She sat up taller and stretched.
“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning on the counter, invading her space.
She ought to be annoyed. Instead she felt a quickening of her pulse, her heart beating a little faster. She didn’t want to respond to him but energy seemed to crackle around him, making everything come to life. “Trying to sort through books and figure out which ones to keep, and when I find a keeper, I add it to the spreadsheet I just created. But the storage room is filled with books. It’s taken me a couple hours and I’ve gone through only one box of the books in the back room. I still have another twelve boxes to go.”
“Progress is progress.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. His expression warmed as his gaze met hers. “Find any keepers?”
That half smile of his had her heart racing. Did Atticus have any idea that he was playing havoc with her sense of control? “These,” she said, touching a tall pile. “And those are the rejects,
” she added, indicating a much smaller stack.
“You’re saving most.”
“So far, but there might be boxes that are just yellowed paperbacks.”
He glanced around the store with the shelves of warm, colorful spines. “Lesley’s books are in good shape. I have a feeling she’d only acquire books she thought might have value.”
“She does have a lot of good books,” she answered. “In one of the boxes, I found a set of The Five Little Peppers, and each one is worth fifty dollars or more, and she has six from the series, and they’re all in excellent shape.”
“What about this one?” he asked, picking up a mustard-yellow book with red-and-black art. “The Red Cross Girls?”
“That one isn’t worth very much. Maybe seven dollars.”
“But you have it in the keeper stack.”
“I know, because look,” Rachel said, opening the cover and turning to the first page where it had been inscribed. “To Bessie, on your twelfth birthday, from Grandma Sterba.”
“And this one?” he asked, holding up a battered copy of Little Men. “The cover has come completely off. The pages are falling out.”
She leaned over and opened the book. “It’s to Bessie again,” she said.
“Who is Bessie?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but most of the books in this box seem to have belonged to Bessie—or Elizabeth—and they were all well-loved. A few of them more loved than others.”
“Surely you can let go of the ones that were overly loved.”
Rachel returned the copy of Little Men to the tall stack and nudged them so they were perfectly straight. “Elizabeth saved these since she was a little girl, and she took good care of them. It’s hard to be ruthless now.”
“But it’s practical,” he answered. “You can’t keep everything. There isn’t room for them all.”
She said nothing, because he was right. She couldn’t keep everything, and if she did sell the store to him, he’d keep nothing.
“You’re getting attached, aren’t you?” he asked, but his tone was kind.