Chapter 1
Sylvie
Present Day, September
The shock hasn’t worn off yet.
Even now, with a weekend’s worth of clothes stuffed into the bag beside me, I can’t believe it. Everything else I own is in a moving truck hopefully already at my new place, what looks to be an adorable—if run down—apartment over the bookshop I’ve inherited.
Two weeks since a simple letter changed everything, punctuated by a very official and very stuffy meeting with a lot of lawyers, and then another meeting with a very unamused financial advisor, and here I am, driving into New Hopewell, Texas.
It still feels too good to be true.
The green mile markers fly by, a sign just up ahead claiming the next exit’s the one I need to take, and it’s a relief and nerve-wracking all at once to be this close to my new life. I turn down the blaring music just so I can listen harder to the GPS telling me where to go.
My phone rings through the speakers and I jump at the incoming call, nearly jerking the wheel in my alarm.
There’s only a handful of people that would call me instead of texting, especially once I got let go from my librarian job, and a quick glance at the screen has me tapping the wheel to answer the call.
“Ivy,” I say in a chastising tone. “I told you I’d call when I got there.”
“Hello to you too, you goober,” Ivy responds easily, but there’s a note of tension in the familiar and ridiculous insult.
“What’s wrong?” I ask immediately, putting the blinker on to signal to the empty highway that I’m exiting. Better safe than sorry!
“I don’t want to bum you out,” she says cautiously.
“Is it Hazel?” Ivy’s youngest sister is always getting into trouble of one sort or another. “Is she hurt? I can turn around.”
“No, Hazel is fine. And don’t be ridiculous, I read the terms of that probate or whatever it’s called just like you did—I know you have to stick it out there for at least one year, right?
I bet you don’t though. I bet you want to stay there and the what’s-it-called…
whatever, you get the full access to that thing. ”
“Trust,” I supply, craning my neck as I follow the signs pointing me to downtown New Hopewell. “I’m like ten minutes away from the place.”
I’m excitement and nervousness all wrapped into one jittery mortal coil. My nose crinkles. What a gross mental image.
“Your new home,” she says forlornly.
“I can call you back once I figure out parking,” I tell her, not wanting to be rude to my oldest friend. But my heart is pounding with nervousness, my palms sweaty on the wheel.
“I just, I know this sounds weird, but—” She pauses, and I hold back a sigh because I know her well enough to guess where she’s going with this. “Just be careful, okay? I…” Ivy trails off. “Things there aren’t what they seem.”
“I’ll be careful,” I tell her gently, trying not to let my impatience and anxiety show in my voice. “Thank you, Ivy, I gotta go so I don’t rear-end someone or end up at the wrong house.”
“Don’t worry. There’s only one house you’re going to end up in,” she says miserably. “Bye.”
With that, the phone line goes dead, and I do my best to brush off Ivy’s bizarre (though normal for her) warning and focus on getting my ass (and my car) safely to my new abode.
I’ll have to figure out whatever the hell she meant later, once I’m unpacked and have the apartment as clean as I can get it.
Until then, I’m sure there will be plenty of things to worry about that have nothing to do with another one of Ivy Romantic’s so-called premonitions.
* * *
The GPS leads me through the adorable town square, where several safety-vest-clad crews sweat in the late summer heat.
One balances on a ladder, hanging a fabric pennant from one of the old-fashioned lampposts lining the street.
Market lighting hangs between the old brick-facade buildings, glass glittering in the sun.
Someone honks at me, and I swear under my breath and tear my attention back to the road.
Green light.
“Right turn ahead,” my GPS says. “Your location is in one hundred feet on the right.”
I squeal in excitement.
Home.
This is going to be my new home. It’s in the downtown area—which, of course, I knew because I am a very proficient Googler—but seeing it with my own eyes is better than any blurry Google Earth picture could be.
I park carefully, happy to find a spot right in front of the little white-washed brick three-story building, and sit in my car for a long moment, staring at it.
It’s everything I’ve dreamed of, and more. Too good to be true, a little voice nags in my head, but I shut that bitch up faster than the eighteen-wheeler that nearly ran me off the six-lane highway an hour ago.
An aged wooden sign hangs from an iron post, the dark engraving simply stating “Books”. Brown butcher paper is taped inside the dusty floor-to-ceiling windows, which will require some serious cleaning, but the door…
The door is gorgeous, a dark wood affair with a cathedral-style stained-glass window in deep purples and ocean teals and ruby reds.
My mouth twists to the side.
Alright, it’s filthy, just like the windows, and the pock-marked sidewalk desperately needs a good power wash, but it has potential.
It has promise.
And it’s all mine. My heart gives a little jump of excitement, and I finally turn the car off. The heat immediately becomes unbearable, and I tug my old red JanSport over my shoulder and hustle out of the car before it bakes me alive.
Not an ideal way to go.
The keys one of the legion of lawyers gave me are already in a place of honor on a newly purchased keyring. It is, without a doubt, the most frivolous thing I have ever purchased for myself, and a familiar rush of guilt grips me before I let the tinkle of its enamel books soothe the feeling.
“Five years,” I say out loud. “Five years is nothing. I’ll have this place up and running in no time, and then the trust will be mine.
” I get a stipend too, which is the only reason I splurged on the bookish keychain.
There’s space for more charms, and I told myself that once I hit certain business milestones, I’d be filling that bad boy out with more cute little enamel goodies.
I mean, I don’t know a whole hell of a lot about running my own business. I have a degree in library science. But… I am damn good at research, and I am damn good at getting things done.
I want this to work.
That counts for something, doesn’t it?
“You can do this, Sylvie,” I say under my breath, still standing on the stone threshold of the old building, keys poised just in front of the tarnished brass handle.
“Hi,” a voice says.
I scream, jumping and throwing my keys all at once.
They hit the shoulder of the brunette woman standing beside me and clatter against the sidewalk.
“Oh my god,” I clutch at my throat. If I had pearls to grab, those babies would be white-knuckled in my hand. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to throw that at you. Or anything, I didn’t mean to throw anything at you. Nothing was supposed to be thrown.”
“I shouldn’t have snuck up on you,” she says, picking up the keys gracefully and handing them back to me.
“I know all too well how this place gives out that jumpy vibe. I’m Tara, by the way.
I own the kolache and tea shop just around the corner.
You should come by tomorrow morning, on the house. I’ll even throw in a reading.”
“Oh,” I say, doing my best to digest all of that information with my heart still acting like it’s about to fly out of my chest to freedom. “A reading?”
It’s the only word that stuck in my head, probably because I have a one-track mind for books. “Like poetry?” I ask, thrilled I’ve already found a fellow bibliophile.
“Ah, maybe,” she says slowly, grinning. “What’s your name? We knew the old place was changing hands, but that’s all that we could figure out.”
Maybe? I shake my head, trying to keep up with this unexpected public relations event.
She’s looking at me still, one eyebrow raised, and it hits me in a flush of embarrassment that I haven’t introduced myself.
“I’m Sylvie. Sylvie Barlow.” I shift the pack on my shoulder and hold out one hand, only to belatedly realize it’s the wrong hand because I still have the damn keys in my right hand. “I’m so sorry, I’m a hot mess today.” I point at a bead of sweat on my temple. “Literally and figuratively.”
To my relief, she laughs and shakes the awkwardly offered hand. “That’s Texas. It’ll keep you wishing for fall until December, and then you’ll freeze your ass off and slide on black ice for two months, and then it will be hot again before you can blink.”
It’s my turn to laugh because she’s right.
“I gotta get back to my store, so I’ll leave you to it—but don’t be a stranger.
Come by tomorrow morning, okay?” Tara gives me a pointed look, and it’s clear she won’t take no for an answer.
“I have a feeling you’re going to need a debrief after a night in there.
” With that ominous remark, she gives a little wave and turns around, back down the street before I can ask her what that was supposed to mean.
I face the door again, a little flutter of excitement and nerves in my belly at the sight of all that gorgeous jewel-toned glass, and slide the key into the lock. It takes some maneuvering, and I mentally add “call a locksmith” to my to-do list as the door creaks open.
I expect a face full of hot air, the scent of old books and probable mold, the detritus of a bookstore gone to rot.
Instead, once the door opens fully, I’m blasted with cold air, the difference in temperature sending the little hairs on the back of my neck standing at full attention.
“Here goes nothing.”
I’ve really got to stop talking to myself.
I step into the bookstore, my new home, and the door slams shut behind me.