Chapter Five
Rather than head straight for the bookstore, I made a pitstop at the flat. My coat was soaked, my feet were cold and wet, and in spite of my hood, the hair around the front of my face made me look like a drowned rat. I hung my coat, changed my socks and shoes, and styled my hair half up, as if that had been my plan all along.
It was five minutes past the top of the hour when I was fiddling with my keys, trying to find the one that would grant me access to the shop through the back door, located beside the staircase. I had four keys on the ring Mr. Johnson had given me. It was the fourth one I tried that worked.
At first, I walked into what was obviously a storage closet. The overhead light was switched on, which meant I didn’t have any trouble finding my way out and into the back of the store. I hadn’t taken the time to explore the place the day before, but as I stepped into the room, I wished I had.
It was magical.
The walls were lined with polished wooden shelves filled with books. There were so many different spines, it looked more like a library than a bookstore. At a glance, I had no idea if there was any rhyme or reason as to how the books were organized, but it didn’t matter. This was the kind of bookshop you visited to get lost.
In the center of the store, there were tables stacked with more books. There were also couches and armchairs scattered about for anyone who wished the lounge and read. Old, worn, patterned area rugs were strategically placed throughout the shop, protecting the wooden floors and cozying up the place. There was also a flight of stairs with a beautiful banister that led to the second floor, which bordered the perimeter of the room.
“Oh. Sawyer. Hi!”
I jumped, startled out of my thoughts by the woman I assumed was Victoria.
“Wow, that’s going to be weird. I’ll get used to it, though. Don’t worry.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant, but I nodded anyway.
“Victoria?”
“Oh, goodness me. Yes. Sorry. I’m Victoria, and I am at your service,” she said, offering me her hand. Her accent was quite posh, and I wondered if she was South African, like Prue, from The Great British Bake-off .
I accepted her hand, but before I could get in another word, she was speaking again.
“I’ll admit, I’ve been looking forward to this day for weeks. I did a bit of online sleuthing. Couldn’t help myself. Maeve Sawyer Nielsen? It couldn’t have been a coincidence. And, I must say, seeing you in person?” She paused and shook her head. “You are a sight to behold. I swear, if one of those photo generator things took a picture of your mum and your dad and created an image of what their child might look like, it would be the spitting image of you. Gorgeous, you are.”
“Ummm, thank you?” I hummed, completely clueless as to how to properly respond to that.
“Sorry. That sounded weird. I’m not a freak, I promise, just a fan. Of your mum, not of you—not that I assume we won’t get on. I—oh, gosh. I’m just word vomiting all over you.”
I laughed softly, sure I liked her already.
Victoria Smith was a petite, curvy woman with gorgeous, thick, purple ombre hair that hung in soft waves just past her shoulders. She wore clear, pink-tinted cat-eye framed glasses that were totally retro and very cool. She had on a pair of maroon slacks that stopped at her ankle, revealing laced up leather boots I loved. To top it all off, she had on a pair of suspenders over the long-sleeved, black t-shirt she wore tucked in at her waist.
In an attempt to put her at ease, I asked, “You mentioned my mother. Have you read any of her novels?”
“Have I—?” She cut herself off with laughter. “I’ve read almost all of them. Some of them more than once. She was brilliant, your mum. The only one I’ve not read was her last. I have it, of course. It’s been on my Tbr for years, I just haven’t been able to bring myself to read it knowing it really is her last.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean.”
I was actually quite relieved to learn she hadn’t read All the Shades of Summer . She was clearly a super fan. I didn’t feel like telling her I hadn’t read any of Maeve Nielsen’s books, especially her last one, or why.
“Anyway, when I realized who you were, I took a peek at your social media accounts. It’s how I know you prefer to be called Sawyer. I don’t blame you, by the way. If my mum was Maeve Nielsen, I’d do the same. I imagine it would get old introducing yourself only to have a reader like me question if there was any relation.”
While I hoped my mother wasn’t a frequent topic of conversation between us, it was safe to say Victoria was every bit the book nerd I’d wished her to be.
“I hope you don’t mind my snooping. When I got the news about Sawyer—your father, that is—I was devastated. This place hasn’t been the same without him. Not to mention, I was terrified what would happen in his absence.
“It’s no secret no one else in his family cares about this store. I thought it might get sold off and I’d be without a job; but I love it here. I’ve been stocking these shelves for more than sixteen years. It hardly feels like work at all.
“It’s been pretty quiet the last couple of months, but when I was told you were coming, I was thrilled. I knew, considering who your mum was, I had nothing to worry about.”
When she paused, I was quick to jump in, afraid I wouldn’t get a word in if I didn’t hurry.
“I haven’t had the chance to wander the store yet, but it’s like a dream in here. This is the kind of place that needs to be preserved for any book lovers out there. Not a big-box bookstore, but a small local one, meant to bring the reading community together.”
Victoria beamed. “Exactly. That’s exactly right!”
Before she could get going again, I interjected, “I should warn you, though, I’ve never owned a business before. I’m a quick study, and I’m not afraid of a challenge, but I’m a novice, not an expert. I could really use your help.”
“Say no more,” she declared, holding up a hand. “I was Sawyer’s right-hand woman, and I’m more than happy to be the same for you. I was on my way to the back to grab a couple things. Have a look around, and then I’ll give you a proper tour, how does that sound?”
My day was starting to look up.
“Sounds perfect.”
I liked Victoria within two minutes of knowing her.
After nine hours in her company, I adored her.
She was as funny as she was honest, and humble as she was intelligent—which was to say a lot . She spent most of the day filling my head with information, and I did my best to absorb as much of it as possible. Aware she’d been carrying the heavy load of managing and operating Tattered Edges all on her own the last couple of months, I admired and respected her greatly.
“Listen, I know we’ve been together all day, but we’ve been mostly business. I don’t have anything going on tonight. Would you fancy a drink? We could pop over to The King’s Steed and chat for a bit. Get to know each other,” she suggested after she’d locked the front door and flipped the open sign to closed .
“Oh,” I murmured, pausing as memories of my interactions with Rory flashed before my eyes.
I wasn’t sure if I was ready to return to his pub. After our exchange that morning, he seemed like a complication I didn’t have the energy to manage at the end of a long day—with or without an outstanding martini.
“Or, I suppose, we could go out another time,” said Victoria, misunderstanding my hesitation.
“No, no, tonight would be great. I just—how would you feel about dinner instead? I eat almost anything, so I’m happy to try whichever restaurant you’d recommend.”
“Dinner would be delightful,” she said, perking up once more. “In fact, I know just the place.”
Twenty minutes and a black cab ride later, we arrived at Bread Street Kitchen and Bar. It was far from empty, but on a Monday night, it wasn’t so busy that we had any trouble getting a table. A quick glance at the menu, and I knew right away I would be ordering the Gordon Ramsay fish and chips.
How could I not?
“I suppose, before I pepper you with questions, I’ll divulge a bit about myself,” Victoria began soon after our orders were taken. “I was born and raised in Cape Town, South Africa. I came to London to go to uni, and I loved it so much I decided to stay. Even convinced my parents to make the move—though, they live in the country now. Anyway, I thought for a while I wanted to be a teacher. Tried it out for a couple of years, and ultimately decided it wasn’t right for me.
“It was pure luck, finding Tattered Edges and meeting Sawyer when I did. The timing had been ideal for both of us. I took the job and never looked back. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe how long it’s been. Believe it or not, I turned forty just before Christmas.” She leaned across the table and whispered, “But don’t go telling anyone that.” She winked at me and then sat back in her chair.
Like I’d done many times over that day, I hummed my amusement, appreciative of her sense of humor.
“I’m not married, though I’m not opposed to the idea. Dating is such an exhausting endeavor. Quite frankly, I’d rather be home with a good book. I suppose there is the possibility one day a man will walk into the shop and make me think otherwise, but it hasn’t happened yet.”
“Every day is a new opportunity. You never know,” I insisted, meaning every word.
“Right you are.” She propped her forearms atop the table and waggled her eyebrows at me. “Now, my dear, it’s time to turn the tables on you.”
Victoria was officially my first friend in London. In spite of the nine years between us, and the fact that I was a complete newbie who was technically her boss, she showed me more respect than I had yet earned. Grateful for her kindness and confidence, I was more than happy to open up and a share what was worth knowing about me.
“What do you want to know?” I asked, mimicking her stance.
“I already know where you’re from. Born and raised in New York. Attended uni in California. I suppose what I’m most curious about is—what made you decide to come here? You had a whole life back in America.
“Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful you made the move, but it’s not a small thing to start over. I won’t claim to know your business, or that of the Blackstone family, but no one saw this coming. Least of all me.”
It wasn’t the first time that day someone had asked me the same question. It was, however, the first time I felt like the inquiry came with a genuine desire to hear my answer. And not just hear it but listen to it.
“I spent most of my life thinking it was just my mom and me. After she died, whatever family I had left was the family I’d chosen. When I learned about Sawyer—who he was, what he’d left me—I think there was only ever one choice. For me, anyway.
“Maybe that choice would have been different if I’d known him all my life, or if I’d met him in the five years he’d known about me but kept his silence. I don’t know. I’m not sure I believe in serendipity, but I do think timing is everything.
“I won’t be so callous as to say he died at the right time. There is no right time to die. But he gifted me something that was important to him and, in a way, it felt like he was telling me I was important, too.” I paused, sitting back a little in my chair as I realized just how transparent I’d been. “Maybe it sounds pathetic,” I admitted, “but if there was anything I could wish my father would say to me— that would be it.”
“Oh, Sawyer,” Victoria murmured, reaching across the table between us to rest a hand on my arm. “That’s not pathetic. Not at all. It actually breaks my heart a little to hear you say that, knowing the man he was. I bet you would have loved him. I don’t know many people who didn’t.”
Our server returned to deliver our dinner, but the interruption didn’t deter me from asking, “What was he like?”
“He was marvelous. Honestly,” she replied easily. “I’m not just saying that because he’s dead. He was generous and humble, qualities that are hard to come by from people who build their way up from nothing, let alone people who are given everything on a silver platter.
“He loved his family and believed in tradition. If you want to know the truth, I think that’s why he gave you the bookstore.”
I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth as I stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re his first born. His mother left the store to him—her first born—and I think he wanted to continue that tradition. He might not have known you, but it’s obvious he wanted to claim you in some way. Not to mention, he wasn’t stupid. I think he knew, if he left Tattered Edges to Archibald , his mother’s legacy would have been gone at the soonest opportunity.”
A humorless laugh forced its way out of me. “He would have been right,” I muttered before finally taking my bite.
Victoria’s dark brown eyes widened, her intrigue on full display.
“Have you met him?”
“Mmmhmm. This morning,” I mumbled around my food. Victoria continued to stare at me, obviously more interested in gossip than food, and I was happy to oblige as soon as my mouth was empty. “To be honest, it wasn’t entirely pleasant. Maybe it was unrealistic to think it could have been, but it was pretty bad. Archie was particularly peeved. Apparently, he was hoping to sell the shop to the pub next door.”
“I knew it,” she practically hissed. “That entitled bastard.” She cut into her butter chicken curry as she continued, “Granted, there are worse businesses he could have sold to. I do like The King’s Steed, and the man who owns it. Though, good looking as he may be, the idea of him turning the bookstore into anything other than what it is—well, it turns me inside out, is what it does.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” I teased.
She quirked an eyebrow at me, abandoning her dinner once more as she admitted, “Archie and Eloise Blackstone act as though they’ve never been told no in their entire lives. Eloise at least works for a living. I know one day she hopes to be at the helm of Blackstone Publishing House. For now, I suppose, it’s in Juliet’s hands.
“Eloise will get her wish, of course. If nothing else, her name will be all the credentials she’ll need. Archie, on the other hand, is nothing more than a mooch, if you ask me. I don’t know how he spends his days. I wouldn’t be surprised if his mother still pays him an allowance.”
I swallowed another bite, then confided, “She offered to buy me out. Juliet did. She said I could keep the flat, if it meant that much to me, but that I didn’t have any real right to the bookstore.”
“What rubbish. I’m sorry. I know they’re your family, but the gall!”
I was laughing again. I couldn’t help it. To see her so worked up was as amusing as it was validating.
“Obviously, to everyone’s disappointment, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Cheers to that.”
We both took a moment to consume a bite before she changed the subject.
“Speaking of the flat, do you have everything you need?”
I shook my head and confessed, “Not by a long shot. It’s great, and I love it, but I definitely need some furniture and a few odds and ends.”
“Makes sense. It hasn’t been lived in for years. Sawyer renovated it about four years ago, but he didn’t use it as a residence so much as a workspace. If you’d like a shopping buddy, I’d be glad to help you out. I’ve got a car. I don’t usually drive in the city, but I’d be more than happy to. Maybe Sunday?”
I shook my head, in awe of the gem who sat across from me.
“Victoria, you are seriously my favorite person in all of England.”
She grinned and replied, “Just remember that come Christmas time.”
It was nearly nine when Victoria and I said goodbye at the restaurant, and I caught a cab ride home. Even though the evening had been relatively dry, I’d already been caught in the rain once that day. I didn’t feel up to taking any chances. It was also cold enough to make the fare worth it.
I thanked my driver at the end of my ride, then hurried for my door, digging in my purse for my keys as I went.
“Good evening, Sawyer .”
I practically shrieked, completely caught off guard as Archie stepped into the light illuminating the step of my front-porch stoop.
“What the hell? You can’t just jump out at a person like that! It’s freaking creepy,” I cried.
He had the audacity to look perturbed before he sighed and replied, “My apologies. I’ve been waiting on your return for nearly an hour. Can I come in?”
I frowned. “You’ve been standing out here for an hour? ”
“What? Of course, not,” he scoffed. “When I realized you weren’t home, I went next door for a pint. But now you’re here, and I would like a chat.”
I hesitated, trying to decide if I wanted him in my space. It didn’t take me long to conclude the flat had only been mine for a couple of days. Before that, it had been his father’s. Our father’s. He’d probably been upstairs plenty of times, so I nodded and continued to make my way toward the door. He followed me inside, and neither of us said a word as we climbed to the third floor.
I switched on the light in the front hallway, then the one in the kitchen before I discarded my purse and shrugged my way out of my coat. I draped it over one of the chairs at the kitchen table as I asked, “So, what did you want to talk about?”
He didn’t answer me at first, and I noticed the way he was looking around—his hands tucked into the pockets of his long, wool coat. I couldn’t tell if it was nostalgia, grief, or curiosity that had his tongue. It almost seemed like he might have been seeing the space for the first time, which was odd.
I didn’t have the chance to ask about it before he shook his thoughts away and leveled his gaze on me.
“I’m sorry about earlier. Leaving so abruptly.”
I nodded, not sure how else to respond. If that was all he was sorry for, my opinion of him wasn’t about to change.
“The truth is, learning who you are has been a massive shock.”
“Yeah. I can relate,” I replied, folding my arms across my chest.
“I’d like to know the real reason why you’re here. No bullshit. If this is just your way to play out some fantasy of living abroad, fine. But this isn’t some Netflix sitcom. This is real life. If at the end of this story you end up selling the bookstore, it would have been a waste of everyone’s time.”
I narrowed my eyes at him skeptically as I asked, “Do you think all Americans are so shallow, or just me?” I didn’t give him a chance to respond before I continued, “Believe me when I say, if I really wanted to run away from my life, I would have gone somewhere that guaranteed a far more welcoming reception. But, to everyone’s surprise, this is my life.
“What I told you this morning wasn’t bullshit. I want to be here. I want the store. It was given to me for a reason; and while I didn’t know Sawyer Blackstone, I have every intention of respecting his wishes and carrying on the part of his legacy he entrusted into my care. Ideally, you would help me. You and Eloise together.”
His mouth curved into a smile so fake, I knew for sure he was trying not to sneer.
“You said it yourself. I’m the eldest child in this family. I’ve not been longing for an older sister. If you want the store so badly, you’ll have to go it alone.”
I shouldn’t have been disappointed. I’d lived through this only twelve hours earlier—but it still sucked, all the same.
“Well, this has been great,” I said facetiously. “But it’s getting late. I think it’s best you go now.”
Archie stared at me, and I wondered if there was something else he wanted to say, but then he turned on his heel and headed for the door. He didn’t even bother with goodbye.
I remained in my spot in the kitchen, sighing as I reached up and let my hair down. Raking my fingers through it, I tried to make sense of how the Sawyer Blackstone Victoria described to me had spawned the man-boy who had just left. Victoria was sure I would have loved my father, but a small part of me wondered if that wasn’t true.
If he was anything like Archie, it was unlikely.
I grabbed my phone and double checked the time in Palo Alto on my way to lock the door. It was early afternoon, which meant Diane would be at the gallery. I knew she was probably busy, but I tried her anyway. When she didn’t answer my video call, I didn’t bother leaving a recorded message. Instead, I sent her a text, assuring her she didn’t need to call me back but that we needed to schedule a phone date soon.
Not yet ready to go to sleep, I decided to read a little. Except, rather than take out my e-reader, I headed for the bookshelves in the living room. I browsed through Mr. Blackstone’s collection for nearly twenty minutes—half hunting for something that struck my fancy, and half curious about his tastes. Not surprisingly, he owned every one of my mother’s books. The only one missing was her last. It made me wonder where he kept it.
After perusing most of the shelves, I slid Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis from its spot. I then made myself a cup of tea, curled up on the couch, and traded the worries of the day for a myth retold.