Chapter Nine
My shopping trip with Victoria was both exhausting and expensive.
It was also well worth it and, considering my company, incredibly fun.
Sunday had been as practical an outing as it was exploratory. I still hadn’t managed to start on my list of touristy adventures, but a full day of shopping around the city brought with it plenty of new attractions.
On Monday, my things from the states were delivered. By the time I went to bed that night, I was well on my way to being unpacked. I was still sleeping on the couch and digging underwear and socks out of my luggage, but my bedroom furniture was scheduled to be delivered on Thursday. I hoped by the end of the upcoming weekend I’d be fully settled into my new home.
With my living arrangements sorted, I had every intention of pouring myself into the bookstore. As I finished getting ready for work on Tuesday, I mentally sorted through the list of ideas I’d been writing down over the last several days. I really believed Tattered Edges held so much promise, it just needed someone who had the time and ability to pour into it for it to truly succeed. As I understood it, my father spent a decent amount of time at the shop, but his priorities were tied to the publishing business.
While I certainly didn’t consider myself a business guru, I’d spent plenty of time in Diane’s shadow at her art gallery, and I had a passion for books. Not to mention, I had Victoria as a secret weapon of whom I was sure my father didn’t take full advantage.
All in all, I was confident enough to believe in my ideas, and that felt like a decent starting point.
With my second mug of coffee in hand, my keys in the other, and my phone in my back pocket, I locked up my flat and headed for the store. It was only a few minutes after nine, but I wanted to get an early start. Thirty minutes later—my coffee half empty, completely cold, and nearly forgotten—Victoria let herself in through the front and found me on the floor. I was surrounded by books, my arms stretched high above me, my phone camera aimed down in order to get the perfect shot.
“What on earth are you doing?” she asked.
“You’re right,” I mumbled, lowering my phone as I glanced around me. “This would be much better if you took it.”
“Pardon?”
I looked up to find Victoria eyeing me in confusion. She was bundled up, her cheeks rosy after her trek from the Underground in the cold.
“I’ve decided we’re starting an Instagram page. Facebook, too, because I can connect them, and it’ll really only feel like I’m managing one platform rather than two. If I get extra wild, maybe I’ll even start a TikTok, but I hate the idea of spending time editing a bunch of videos, so we’ll start with Instagram and see what traction we can get.”
“My, oh, my. You’re certainly firing on all cylinders this morning, aren’t you?”
I shrugged. “I’ve been here over a week, and I’m beginning to understand a few things. We’re located in a great part of town. We’re right next door to a pub that draws a ton of attention, just down the street from an iconic tourist destination, and yet the business makes only enough to get by. This place is beautiful and magical, and it should be buzzing with activity, but it’s mostly you and me dusting shelves. So, we’re making some changes.”
Victoria smiled. “Starting with an Instagram account? And somehow this involves you on the floor with a bunch of books scattered about?”
I narrowed my eyes at her playfully. “Tell me, do you have Instagram?”
“Oh, heavens, no. I abhor social media,” she insisted with a shake of her head.
“Yeah. I don’t blame you,” I responded with another shrug. “In this case, I think it’s a necessary evil. Anyway, I’ve spent the last few days doing a bit of research and taking notes of accounts that are particularly eye catching, and I’m confident we can create something similar. But, yes, it involves me exploiting myself a bit.” Grinning, I added, “You too, if you’re up for it.”
She laughed. “Of the two of us, you’re the one with the looks worth exploiting.”
“Nonsense! With your purple hair and retro style, you make nerdy look exceptionally cool.”
Still laughing, she shook her head and started to make her way around me. “Right. Well, you’re the boss. While I’m not sure my face is a draw, I do think you’re onto something. I’ll follow your lead. Just let me shed a couple layers. Be right back.”
We spent half the morning playing around, snapping photos—some of the shop, some of us, all with the books that would be the ultimate draw. We ended up with quite a few good ones I added to a new album on my phone, so I could post them over the next couple of weeks. When we were finished with the photos, I ran up to the flat to exchange my forgotten coffee for my laptop, and I camped out behind the register and got to work on our profiles.
“Hey, Victoria!” I called up to the second floor, the shop as quiet as ever.
“Hmm?” She came to the banister and bent over the railing until she saw me.
“I’m thinking of adding some favorite book quotes to a few of our posts. If any spring to mind, or you spot a book or two you love up there, let me know.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m on it.”
“See? This is kind of fun, right?”
With a smirk, she conceded, “Truth be told, it is.”
By lunch time, I was happy with my progress. Our business Facebook and Instagram accounts had been created. I’d linked them and scheduled a number of posts for the next couple of days. Using our best selfie and a shot of the storefront, I created an introductory post and made it into an ad I hoped would draw a few followers online and feet through the front door. When I finally closed my laptop, I felt quite accomplished.
“Finally out from behind your computer?” asked Victoria as I got up to stretch my legs.
“Yeah. I think I’m done with that for today.”
“And are there any other ideas floating about in that head of yours?”
“Actually—there is one I think we should discuss.” I stopped by a table stacked with first edition hardcovers and traced my finger around the edge of one. “I understand the whole point behind Tattered Edges is that it’s a shop stocked full of old, well-loved books. But—and you can call me crazy—I think we should have a small section of new releases.”
“Oh.” I studied her face as she processed what I’d said. I could tell by her hesitation she wasn’t completely sold on the idea.
“You’ve been here the longest, obviously, and you knew Sawyer Blackstone. Maybe he wouldn’t have ever dreamed of doing such a thing. I’m not proposing we disrupt the character of the store, but—”
“No, I know,” she sighed and lowered herself down onto a nearby sofa. “You’re right. You’re trying to drum up business. Your enthusiasm is quite refreshing, and I do admire it. We need it. But change is not always easy.”
“Tell you what,” I clasped my hands together in front of my chest as a sign of my sincerity. “I promise we’ll implement new ideas in baby steps. If along the way you think any changes made are more of a money grab than an attempt to put some life into this place, we’ll discuss it. I’m not trying to be the next best thing—but I want this place to survive. It’s obvious its been kept afloat on account of Sawyer’s financial tie to the publishing house; but that’s not something we can stand on. Especially given I’m sure the Blackstones are waiting for me to fail.”
“When you put it that way, I feel inclined to start rearranging the shelves now to make room for those new releases you were talking about.”
Smiling, I shook my head and assured her, “How about you think about ways we could revamp the front window display, and I’ll do some research on a few best sellers we should buy? We’ll start there.”
“Baby steps,” she replied with a nod.
“Precisely.”
We were interrupted by a couple of customers, one who simply wanted to wander about while the other was looking for a specific title. Victoria headed behind the counter to do a search of our inventory for the specific book while I grabbed my laptop, settled on a couch near the center of the shop, and began my research. Both customers ended up making a purchase. It might not have been much, but it felt like a win all the same.
An hour later, I was about ready to go over a list of potential new titles for the store with Victoria when a familiar face entered the shop.
I set my laptop aside and stood to brace myself as my half-sister approached. She looked no different than the first time I’d met her. Hair loose and parted down the middle. Her makeup elegant yet simple. She was dressed professionally, and she had on a pair of heels that made her footsteps sound even more deliberate against the hard floor than they appeared. Her long, wool coat was tied closed, and she wore her purse draped over her forearm. I’d only met her mother once, but it was hard to deny the two were so very much alike. Eloise carried herself like she was almost fifty rather than almost thirty.
“Hi,” I greeted.
I hadn’t had contact with any of the Blackstones in more than a week. Her visit definitely piqued my curiosity.
“Hello… Sawyer .”
I smiled, appreciative that she’d used my name correctly, even though I could tell it bothered her to do so.
“I know my visit is not an expected one, but I was wondering if you might be able to step away for a bit? There’s a place not too far from here that serves afternoon tea. My— our father used to like to dine there. If you can spare the time, I’d like to talk.”
“Oh,” I murmured, taken aback by her request. It felt like she’d extended an olive branch, one I really wanted to accept. “Um…” I hesitated, looking around the store for any sign of Victoria. She was still behind the register. When our eyes met, she raised her eyebrows as if to silently express she was as intrigued as I was.
“I’ll be fine here. Go ahead,” she assured me.
“Thanks.” To Eloise I said, “Let me just run upstairs and grab my coat. I’ll be right back.”
She nodded, and I collected my laptop before hurrying for the flat. I donned my coat, grabbed my mittens and my purse, and returned to the store. Eloise was waiting for me by the front entrance. Clearly, she and Victoria didn’t have much interest in speaking to one another, but this didn’t surprise me.
With a wave, I promised Victoria I’d be back soon, and then followed Eloise out into the cold.
“Where is it we’re going?” I asked, hoping to jumpstart our conversation.
“Just up the road, near St. Paul’s. It’s called Cafe Rouge. It’s not the most traditional afternoon tea, but I think that’s why dad liked it so much.”
“This will be my first official tea outing. It’s really nice of you to invite me.”
She glanced at me then replied, “Whether we like it or not, we are sisters. And you’re here. There’s no ignoring that.”
“Right,” I muttered under my breath.
I’d heard the Brits were indirect and reserved by nature. I believed the stereotype that their good manners were a result of respecting people’s feelings. However, it seemed—so far as my family was concerned—they weren’t afraid to be blunt.
Eloise and I didn’t say much else to each other for the remainder of our short walk. When we arrived at our destination, I was relieved to get out of the cold. Moreover, I hoped the warmth of the restaurant would also extinguish the chill that wafted from Eloise herself.
It being sometime between lunch and dinner, the restaurant wasn’t too terribly busy, and we were seated in short order. When Eloise told our server we were interested in the tea menu, we were provided with the abbreviated options. In the mood for savory over sweet, I chose the rouge afternoon tea, which sounded like glorified charcuterie, with a kettle of earl grey. Eloise ordered the traditional option, and then we were left on our own.
“I know we didn’t get off on the right foot,” admitted Eloise. “I’m sorry. You must understand, there’s no amount of time that can prepare someone for the news that she’s not her father’s only or first daughter. And the way I found out—it was like a slap to the face.”
Taking a page out of her book, I was not at all afraid to be direct as I replied, “I get that it was a shock. I can also understand that maybe news of my existence somehow distorted the version of your father you knew—but at least you got to grow up with him as a part of your life. I don’t have any version of him, only what he left behind.” I breathed a sigh and reached up to sweep my hair behind my ears in an attempt to take a beat and combat my defensiveness. “None of this has been ideal for any of us. How you feel about all of this, it’s not more or less important than how I feel. It’s just different.”
Eloise stared at me for a long moment. I saw it when something in her mind changed. Her shoulders relaxed, she exhaled slowly, and then she nodded as if in concession.
Just when I thought we might find our way to an easier sort of conversation, she dropped a bomb I was not expecting.
“I read All the Shades of Summer . I wasn’t going to. I didn’t want to. But then—then I met you and my curiosity got the better of me.”
Our server brought our tea, allowing me another few seconds to stall before confessing the truth.
When we were alone once more, I told her, “I haven’t. Read the book, that is.”
Eloise knit her eyebrows together in an obvious show of surprise. “Are you serious?”
I merely nodded in response.
“It’s about you. I mean, it’s a work of fiction, but it’s obviously a mother sharing the secrets she never told her daughter in a literary piece of genius that makes it hard not to enjoy. How could you not have read it?”
Now, I wasn’t sure surprise was the right word to assign to her expression. I was feeling judged more than anything else.
“My mother and I weren’t close. I’ve never read any of her novels.”
She shook her head, as if in disbelief, and muttered, “He found out about you because he read that book. Put aside the fact that he’d been following the woman’s work for years— this one changed everything. Everything . I can’t believe you haven’t read it.”
“If you spent most of your life feeling like your mother’s fiction was more important than you, maybe you’d harbor a bit of resentment and avoid her work, too.”
She considered this a moment then murmured, “I suppose that's understandable,” before lifting her cup of tea to her lips.
I did the same, appreciative of the silence that passed between us.
Conversing with the Blackstones was like walking through a minefield. There was no telling which conversation topic was safe. Silence was the only way to get by unscathed. Except, silence couldn’t last forever.
Our short reprieve was extended when the food was delivered, each order on its own three-tiered plated display. I learned very quickly the English didn’t mess around at teatime. There was no way I was going to be able to eat everything in front of me.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try. It looked delicious.
I plucked an olive from one of my plates and attempted to steer the conversation in a direction that seemed safe-ish. If nothing else, it was a topic I didn’t think I’d get to discuss with either of my siblings. Now that the opportunity was right in front of me, I felt compelled to take my chance.
“Will you tell me about him? About Sawyer?” I asked.
Eloise hesitated. For a moment, I was afraid she wouldn’t—as if to do so would have been like sharing him with me, something she didn’t seem keen on doing. But after a long pause, she directed her focus onto a scone she was smearing with jelly and said, “I told you the other day he was as close to perfect as I wanted him to be. It’s likely that’s not true. In grief, loads is forgotten in favor of making space to hold tight to all the good things you want so desperately to remember. Nevertheless, for all his faults, he was a good man. A loving father. Looking back, it’s clear as day his family mattered more to him than anything else. He put more stock in relationships than business.
“If it weren’t for my mum, the publishing house would have gone under years ago. Dad was an outstanding editor, but he didn’t much care to take on the responsibilities of CEO. He was happiest locked away above the bookstore with a stack of manuscripts and a takeaway curry.”
It was likely insignificant, but I loved learning he had a fondness for Indian food.
“Was he a private person? Did he spend a lot of time alone?” I wondered aloud.
“No, not particularly. He liked the quiet when he was working, but he could just as easily enjoy the bustle of a crowd. He loved a good party. He was great at networking. Growing up, I always thought he was friends with everyone.”
Once I got her started, it wasn’t hard to keep her talking. For nearly an hour, I collected the bits and pieces of our father she shared with me. A lot of what she said about him reinforced the way Victoria described him. He wasn’t perfect, but he was kind, generous, and well-loved by many—especially Eloise. Watching her as she spoke about the man was all the proof I needed that he had been a real and present dad; one who supported her and encouraged her; one who taught her and guided her. I was certain she had no idea how lucky she was.
When we were finished with our meal, Eloise flagged down our server in order to pay the check. I reached for my purse, ready to cover my share of the bill, but she insisted my first afternoon tea was to be her treat. I expressed my gratitude, and was on the verge of suggesting maybe we could go out again sometime when she steered us toward a landmine.
“I’m afraid before we go I have to bring up Tattered Edges.”
I sat up straighter in my chair. “What about it?” I asked.
“Archie really does have his heart set on the place. I’ve got to ask—are you truly planning on sticking around? And if you are, is it with the expectation that we’ll one day be a big happy family? Because if that’s what you’re waiting for, let me spare you the trouble.
“Our dad never saw fit to invite you into the fold. We’ve all gone most of our lives without knowing each other, and with him gone, there’s not a whole lot of reason to change the status quo. If, in the end, you’re just going to sell the bookstore and go back to America, why not spare us all the inconvenience and do it now?”
I coughed out a quiet laugh, void of any humor and laden with astonishment.
It wasn’t so much that I was surprised by her coldness after what I thought was her attempt at kindness. What made me laugh was how obvious it was that neither of the Blackstone children seemed to have inherited an ounce of the generosity for which their father was known. Even after describing the man and the importance he ascribed to his relationships, she refused to see the significance of his choice to leave the bookstore to me.
As I slipped my arms into my coat, suddenly eager to take my leave, I replied, “I didn’t come here looking to be adopted. I’m a thirty-one-year-old woman. Orphaned though I may be, I’ve been standing on my own two feet for a long time. As far as you and Archie are concerned, we can be friends, we can be siblings, or we can be strangers—that’s up to you. Whatever you decide, I’ll live. And where I live is in the flat above my bookstore.”
I stood, pulling my hair out from underneath the collar of my coat before reaching for my purse. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again—I’m not going anywhere. You might not give a damn, but our father didn’t leave me Tattered Edges on accident. While I didn’t get the chance to know him, I know one thing for sure—he wanted me to have a piece of him. This piece of him. It’s all I’ll ever get. I’m not going to be so quick to let it go. Especially not so Archie can sell it and have it turned into a restaurant.
“Thanks for the tea.”
I didn’t wait for her to speak a word of response.
It was my turn to make a dramatic exit.
So, I did.
Rather than return to the bookstore in my flustered state, I tucked my hands into my mittens and wandered around for a while. I thought about calling Diane, but it was first thing in the morning for her. I knew if she answered and saw I was upset, she would stop getting ready for the day and focus on me—but I didn’t want to be the reason she was late to the gallery. Moreover, it was silly to wallow. I’d already been disappointed by the Blackstones. To let myself go through those emotions all over again seemed self-depreciating.
Cognizant of my responsibilities and my promise of a timely return, after a half an hour in the cold I found my way back to Tattered Edges. When Victoria asked me about my visit with Eloise, I told her it went as well as expected—which was not well at all—and that I didn’t much feel like talking about it. She respected my wishes and distracted me with her ideas for a new window display.
At six thirty, I sent Victoria home, insisting I could close up shop by myself. Fifteen minutes after the top of the hour, I was headed upstairs. Still not hungry after the feast I’d had a tea, I didn’t worry over dinner. Instead, after I slipped out of my shoes, I pulled my mother’s book out of my purse and found my way to the couch. I didn’t bother flipping through the pages, but I extracted my father’s letter from the inside and unfolded it.
Archie and Eloise clearly had no interest in a relationship with me, and that was fine. In a way that took me by surprise, I’d found great purpose and pleasure in taking ownership of the bookstore. It was the whole reason I packed up my life and hauled it halfway around the world. Admittedly, I’d done so with a nothing-to-lose attitude; but after only a week, I had a new awareness of what was at stake. Now, I had everything to lose—or, more accurately—something important to fight for.
Except, one thing Eloise said at tea stuck with me all evening. The truth that Sawyer Blackstone hadn’t seen fit to invite me into their world before he left it. It was a reality I’d thought about countless times in the weeks since I learned who he was. Who I was. He’d kept me a secret from his family, and himself a secret from me, just as my mother had kept me from him. Considering this, it was hard to blame my siblings for their lack of interest in me, and their perception that I was nothing more than an obstacle. In their eyes, I wasn’t significant enough for Sawyer to fully claim as his. I was some sort of charity to whom he’d bequeathed the most insignificant part of himself.
Except, that wasn’t true.
Regardless of whether or not any of us agreed with him, he had his reasons—and I had his letter. One sided as it was, it was the only conversation we would ever have. That night, I wanted to have it again.
I read through all three pages of his letter, handwritten in a neat, masculine script. Absorbing the words again, in London, in his flat, on his couch, and with a vague idea of the man he was, I reminded myself that life and love was complicated. There was no perfect way to go about it. I was twenty-six years old when he found out about me. He was forty-eight and married with two grown children he’d raised and set free.
He was wrong to think I didn’t need him. He was a coward for keeping himself hidden in the shadows. But Eloise had it wrong.
At least—she didn’t have it all right.
He had claimed me. He’d left me my birthright.
I was beginning to read the letter again when I noticed the absence of a sound. Rather than something being turned on, I was hyper aware something had been turned off. I frowned, trying to identify what was missing. The lights were on, which meant I still had power. I set aside the letter, got off the couch and headed for the kitchen. Upon opening my fridge, I confirmed it was still running, too. It took five minutes of me wandering around to figure out what the problem was.
My hands hovering over the radiator meant to warm the living room, I realized my heat was malfunctioning.
The first place I was drawn to was my fuse box. Unfortunately, that was not the least bit helpful. The boiler switch was still on. I reset it anyway, but nothing happened. After a quick Google search, I surmised I had a problem with the building’s boiler itself.
Of course, I knew nothing about boilers.
I sent Victoria a text, curious if she had any ideas. She responded almost right away, informing me broiler problems were a common occurrence at thirty-one St. Andrew’s Hill.
Sawyer usually fiddled around a bit and could get the thing going again. Only trouble is if you’re afraid of heights. It’s located on the roof.
I groaned in frustration as I read her reply.
My day had started off so well.
I wasn’t afraid of heights, but I knew there was no point in venturing up to the roof. Simply locating the boiler wouldn’t fix the problem. I needed someone who knew what he was doing.
Chances were good I needed Rory.
The last couple of days had been eventful enough that I hadn’t given him a ton of thought. Now that he was on my mind, the last thing I wanted was to play the damsel in distress again. I didn’t think I had much of a chance with him in the first place, but I knew if I became the needy neighbor, it would tank my desirability. At the very least, I wanted to be the fun, smart, cute American woman next door. Except, I was book smart, not handyman smart.
I pulled up the weather app on my phone. The low that night was going to be thirty-two degrees.
Fahrenheit. Not Celsius.
It was nearly eight o’clock. I wasn’t a physicist, but I knew it would take time for the temperature inside to drop to unbearable levels. Plus, I had brick walls, insulation, and was located in the top half of the building. With any luck, I could tough it out until morning and then call in an expert who knew how to fix a boiler.
It was a solid plan for about ninety minutes.
At first, I wasn’t sure if I was getting cold because I was overthinking it or if I was legitimately cold. I layered another sweater on top of the one I was already wearing and then kept myself moving by tossing together a quick, warm dinner.
By nine-thirty, I was wearing three sweaters, a pair of fleece-lined leggings, sweatpants, and the thickest socks I owned.
A few minutes after ten, snuggled under my comforter on the couch, I was so cold I couldn’t fall asleep. I felt sure if I could just slip into unconsciousness, I’d sleep through the night, no matter how cold it got—but when I began shivering and contemplating sleeping in my coat, I had to admit I was being ridiculous.
I didn’t have Rory’s phone number, which meant another trip next door. As I pulled on my short, sheepskin-lined Ugg boots and donned my coat, I hoped to find him at home.
On Tuesdays, the Parlour wasn’t open, and The King’s Steed closed at nine. I assumed he wouldn’t be at work, but I didn’t know the man’s social calendar. It wasn’t until I rang his buzzer that the thought occurred to me that if he was home, there was a chance he wasn’t alone. He’d never mentioned having a woman in his life, but that didn’t mean his bed was always void of company.
I was spiraling down the rabbit hole of undesirable thoughts, imagining the kind of woman Rory wouldn’t say no to when suddenly he was standing in front of me. Unlike the first time he’d answered his door, he was fully dressed. He had on black jeans and a forest-green, crew neck sweater, the sleeves pulled up over his forearms. Even at the very end of the day, his hair was perfectly coifed, all but begging for someone to run her fingers through it.
I wanted to be that someone. I’d settle for just once, if only to see if it was as soft as it looked.
“Sawyer?”
Until he spoke my name, I didn’t notice the way he was staring at me with one eyebrow furrowed, the other quirked in confusion.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re at my doorstep bundled up like a marshmallow, or must I guess?”
I grimaced.
A marshmallow.
Not the daring, sexy woman from the bar.
Not the smart, cute, American next door.
A marshmallow.
Yup.
There went all my desirability credits right down the drain.
Shoving aside my defeat, I confessed, “Yeah. Hi. I, uh, I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your help.”