5. Francesca
5
FRANCESCA
present day
The key feels heavy in my palm. Not because of the metal itself, but because of what it represents.
Freedom. Independence. The chance to build something that’s mine.
Or at least, the illusion of it.
I inhale slowly, shifting my grip on the key before sliding it into the lock. The old brass resists for a second before turning, the mechanism clicking open with a satisfying finality.
Romeo vocalizes softly at my feet, his leash looped around my wrist. At nine months old, my mini Australian Labradoodle is a fluffy shadow, never more than a few steps away. I swear he can sense my emotions, sometimes even before I do.
He whines again, pressing against my calf, and I exhale.
“I know, buddy.”
The feeling isn’t unfamiliar. Hope laced with pressure. Anticipation tinged with unease. It’s not the first time I’ve stepped through these doors, but it’s the first time as its rightful owner.
As long as I prove myself.
I roll my shoulders back, pushing away the thought as I take a step inside. I fought for this. Just like I fought to stay in school for as long as humanly possible. And it worked—for a while.
But once it became clear that I could no longer be a career student, no longer stall the proposed Ashburn and Bandini merger , I walked away with a BBA in Entrepreneurship & Business Administration, a BFA in English Literature, and a minor in Musical Theatre.
And that’s something no one can take from me.
Giovanni gifted me an entire summer without pressure from him or my parents to get married.
Sometimes, I hate myself for feeling gratitude for a man who does the bare minimum—for not constantly pressing me to tie my life to his.
No matter how many times I remind myself that this affects his life as much as mine, it never feels the same.
Not even close.
Florence was only too happy to take a trip with me up and down the East Coast. She never wastes an opportunity to be away from her husband these days.
And I don’t blame her. She’s been telling herself she loves wanderlust for so long that I think she has herself convinced it’s true.
But I know my sister.
And I have to believe that somewhere, deep inside, is the girl who once told me she wanted land. A meadow in her backyard. Rocking chairs on a wraparound porch. A house full of kids she’d bake cornbread and chocolate chip cookies with.
I have to believe that version of her still exists.
Somewhere.
We ended our trip in a tiny town about three hours north of Winthrop Harbor.
I didn’t know it at the time, but my sister had already arranged to purchase the first pick of a litter of Australian Labradoodles from a reputable breeder. And, because she’s nothing if not strategic, she timed everything perfectly.
The morning before we were supposed to head back home, we drove to a breathtaking farm—all rolling green pastures, white-fenced paddocks, and a red barn that looked like it belonged on the cover of a country living magazine.
And there he was.
So small. So reserved.
The only apricot-blond pup in the litter. And the moment I saw his sweet little face, I knew. He was mine.
Romeo came home with me that day, and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
I look down at his sweet face, his long, floppy ears lifting when he feels my attention on him.
“Ready to go, boy?”
Romeo’s tail swishes, his entire body wiggling with excitement.
I chuckle. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Stepping inside, the scent of fresh lemon and wood polish wraps around me, pressing against my ribs.
“Wow.” The word slips out on an exhale, my fingers tightening around Romeo’s leash as I absently close the door behind us.
The cleaning crews I hired before I even set foot in Avalon Falls did an incredible job. The space is immaculate. Almost too clean.
A tiny part of me mourns the loss of that distinct Aunt Miriam scent—the familiar mix of patchouli and oakmoss, the warmth of something lived-in.
I breathe in again, forcing my chest to expand. The fresh air is different.
New. Hopeful.
My sneakers echo against the hardwood as I move deeper into the space, Romeo’s nails clicking softly beside me. The bones of the bookstore are the same. The towering shelves lining the walls, the overhead lighting casting a warm glow, the exposed rafter beam ceiling stretching high above, the counter with the old-fashioned register still sitting on top. It still looks like Aunt Miriam’s store.
But for the first time, it’s becoming mine. Because soon, the sign out front will bear a different name.
Fiction & Folklore.
A new beginning. My new beginning.
The installers are scheduled to replace the weathered wooden sign in two weeks. And if everything else goes well, it’ll be the final touch needed before we open our doors.
I should feel relief. Excitement. Something. Instead, all I feel is pressure. Because I didn’t just fight for this bookstore. I bartered for it. I made too many concessions, too many silent promises, too many sacrifices.
Failing isn’t an option.
With determination thick in my veins, I lead Romeo toward the back storeroom. Three doors line the far wall. One leads to the rear parking lot, where the dumpsters sit against the brick alleyway and my permanent parking spot waits. The second door leads to the side entrance of the bookstore, a convenience for late deliveries or staff access. And the third—the one I reach for—leads to our new apartment.
I pull out my keyring, flipping past the others until I find the bright pink key. The lock turns smoothly, and I step into a small vestibule.
A set of mailboxes lines one wall, a designated space for package deliveries tucked neatly beneath them. To the right, a narrow exterior door leads outside, a secondary entrance. To the left, a wooden staircase stretches upward, leading to the apartment above.
Romeo doesn’t waste a second. He clears two stairs at a time, practically pulling me up behind him.
I laugh, gripping the railing as I run to keep up. “Geez, I already took you on a walk this morning. You shouldn’t have this much energy still.”
Romeo wags his tail, completely unbothered, as he waits on the top stair for me.
I unlock the door at the top of the staircase and step inside, into my home for the next year.
The space is huge.
Fourteen-foot ceilings stretch high above me, two of the walls are exposed brick, worn and rich with history. The layout is completely open—one massive loft, with only a single enclosed room: the bathroom.
Six ten-foot windows line the front-facing wall, flooding the space with warm, golden light. From here, I can see down Main Street, past the boutiques, the cafés, the familiar heartbeat of Avalon Falls.
The movers brought everything in before I arrived, but they only placed things in general spaces.
There are still boxes stacked in corners, furniture waiting to be arranged, shelves waiting to be filled.
It’ll take time to settle in, but for the first time in longer than I can remember, I don’t mind.
Because this place?
It’s mine.
And maybe—just maybe—that means I get to be, too.
I stretch out my bed, leaning back on my elbows, surveying the organized chaos of my new home. Boxes still line the walls, but I’ve made progress.
The kitchen is mostly set up, dishes neatly stacked in cabinets, pots and pans hanging from the rack above the island. My beloved KitchenAid mixer sits proudly on the counter, a welcome pop of candy apple red in the sea of stainless steel.
My bedroom is taking shape too, the new platform bed frame already assembled from the movers, mattress in place. I unpacked the boxes of bedding and pillows. And I even hung up a few vintage travel posters I found at an estate sale last year.
Romeo’s sprawled out, belly-up, paws twitching as he dozes, buried beneath his favorite blankets at the foot of my bed.
The warm glow of candlelight flickers from the dresser, filling the loft with the scent of vanilla and sandalwood. Music plays softly from the speaker I set up earlier. Taylor Swift, of course.
I pull the blankets tighter around me, flicking to the next page on my Kindle, when my phone buzzes with an incoming call from my sister.
I barely have time to sit up before the screen lights up again—she switched to video. I swipe to accept, and suddenly my sister’s smug, sun-kissed face fills the screen.
Behind her, dark-blue water stretches to the horizon, the sleek white railing of a yacht visible on either side of her.
“Frankie, don’t you look cozy.” Florence drawls, a glass of champagne in one hand.
I snort, rolling to my side and propping my phone on the charging stand on the side table next to my bed. “I am, thanks.”
She pushes her off one shoulder and rolls her eyes. “I was being sarcastic.”
I force a grin. “I know. Where are you right now?”
She winks, her nose pink from a day spent in the sun, I’m sure. “On a yacht.”
I quirk a brow. “Who’s yacht?”
Florence hums, taking a slow sip of champagne. “You know, you could be here with me, living the good life, instead of doing . . . whatever you’re doing now.”
Her tone is light, teasing, but the words sting like a tiny, precise cut. I laugh, brushing it off, but I feel it. I feel every single cut.
There’s a phrase for it—death by a thousand cuts. I wonder if there’s truth to that. If every small remark, every sideways glance, every moment I don’t fit into my mother’s world is another slice across my skin.
But Avalon Falls? Opening Fiction & Folklore? Living in my own apartment?
They feel like Band-Aids. Like opportunities to give those little cuts space and time to heal.
I take a slow sip of my tea, keeping my voice light. “I have a bookstore now.”
Florence lifts her chin, a smirk playing at the corners of her perfectly painted pout. “You know, Frankie, when you do things like choose books over European vacations, I wonder how we ever shared a womb.”
I force some brightness into my tone. “Right, well, I’m hanging up now.”
“No, no—wait, I have news!” she shouts on a laugh.
I sigh, already bracing myself. When it comes to Florence, her news could be literally anything.
“Okay, tell me your news.”
She moves the phone closer to her face, like she’s leaning in to share a secret.
Her eyes glimmer with mischief, her smirk stretching wider.
“Okay, ready? I’m coming to visit you!”
A tangle of emotions tightens in my chest. When it comes to Florence, it’s hard to tell what her motivations are sometimes—if they’re even hers at all. More than half the time, they’re our mother’s.
I don’t know what it would feel like to have Florence—or either of our brothers—show up for me, just because they wanted to. It’s a foreign concept. But I imagine it would feel nice to have that kind of unquestioned loyalty. That kind of love.
I swallow past the thought, shifting my position on my bed a little and aiming for nonchalance. “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’m not even opening for a couple of weeks.”
Florence pulls the phone back slightly, the yacht’s soft lights catching on her cheekbones in a way I’m sure was by design. Her brows lift, offended.
“Why don’t I hear ‘ Thank you so much, Flora. I can’t wait to see you, Flora .’ Like, what the hell , Frankie?”
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. It’s a tangled mess, but I didn’t have the energy to wash it after unpacking all day.
“Of course, you’re welcome to come anytime. I just meant—don’t you want to wait until it’s actually open to see it? You know, appreciate the full vision and all that?”
Florence arches a perfectly shaped brow, lips pressing into a flat, unimpressed line. “Yeah, I guess. I’ll wait a few weeks.”
Someone calls her name offscreen, drawing her attention away. She barely glances back before saying, “Okay, gotta go. Talk soon, Frankie. Kisses!”
And just like that, the call ends. No time for a goodbye. No space for me to say anything else.
Romeo stretches beside me, letting out a deep, exaggerated groan.
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, buddy. Same.”
I set my phone aside and grab my Kindle, curling deeper into the blankets.
The song changes, the slow strum of a familiar melody filling the loft. I exhale, the tension in my chest easing, but not fully gone. Because even though Florence’s words still linger, tugging at something deep inside me, the quiet around me feels like possibility.
Like maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something real.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.