CHAPTER 2 MAIN STREET AGAIN
Clara woke before sunrise in Aunt June’s spare room with the uneasy certainty that she had dreamed about Eli Mercer.
She refused to examine the details.
Instead she made coffee in a chipped blue pot, opened every curtain in the house, and wrote a list.
Clara believed in lists.
Lists were honest. They did not become awkward when an old boyfriend appeared in a dark bookshop. They did not look at her as if thirteen years were both nothing and everything. They did not remember promises spoken beside a river on the night before college graduation.
Her list read:
1. Call attorney.
2. Call boss.
3. Inventory house.
4. Inspect bookshop.
5. Decide whether to sell.
6. Leave town.
She stared at the final line.
Then she underlined it.
At eight-thirty, Clara sat across from Arthur Wynn, who had practiced law in Honeysuckle for so long that his office furniture seemed older than he was. He wore a brown suit despite the August heat and peered at her over half-moon glasses.
“June made one thing very clear,” he said. “The shop transfers to you outright. Building, inventory, fixtures, business name, and the apartment above it.”
Clara blinked. “There’s an apartment?”
“Has been since 1924.”
“I thought that was storage.”
“So did June for about twenty years.”
Arthur shuffled papers.
“She renovated part of it last winter. Quietly.”
Clara leaned back. “How quietly?”
“Apparently enough that you didn’t know.”
“What about debt?”
“Modest business line. Manageable. Property taxes current. Insurance current. June was careful.”
“Was the shop profitable?”
Arthur removed his glasses.
“Some months.”
“That means no.”
“That means bookstores are difficult businesses even when their owners are beloved.”
Clara folded her hands. “If I sell the building?”
“You can.”
“Any restrictions?”
Arthur hesitated.
Clara noticed.
“There’s always something after a hesitation like that.”
He smiled. “You sound like June.”
“I’m learning to be concerned when people say that.”
Arthur passed her a document.
“June received an offer before she became ill. Cash. Strong price. The buyer is still interested.”
Clara scanned the letterhead.
Hawthorne Development Group.
She knew the name. They converted small commercial districts into mixed-use properties—boutique hotels, apartments, restaurants designed to look older than they were.
The number on the page made her sit straighter.
“That is a strong price.”
“June refused it.”
“Why?”
Arthur put on his glasses again. “She said a town should have at least one place where nobody expects you to finish quickly.”
Clara looked at the offer.
With the proceeds, she could pay off the remaining balance on her condo, invest, and return to Charlotte with no unfinished responsibilities. She could place Aunt June’s house with a realtor and be finished with Honeysuckle before September.
It was sensible.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from her boss.
Take the week. Presentation moved. We’ve got you covered.
Clara almost laughed.
Apparently everyone in her life was conspiring to give her time she had not requested.
She folded the offer and put it into her bag.
“Who do I contact if I want to accept?”
Arthur handed her a card.
“Before you do, I recommend you spend one full business day in the shop.”
“Did June put that in the will too?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because she asked me to tell you.”
Of course she had.
Clara left the attorney’s office just as Main Street began filling with morning traffic.
Honeysuckle had grown, but gently. A fitness studio had replaced the old video store.
The bank had become a café. Someone had painted the movie theater marquee dark blue.
Yet the courthouse still anchored the square, and elderly men still occupied the benches beneath the sycamores before nine in the morning.
Three people called Clara by name before she reached Boone’s Bakery.
Inside, the smell of bread and cinnamon wrapped around her.
“Clara Bennett.”
Maggie Boone came from behind the counter with flour on her apron and pulled Clara into a hug.
Maggie had been two grades behind her in school and now owned the bakery her parents had started.
“I was hoping you’d come in.”
“Coffee,” Clara said into her shoulder. “I’m here for coffee.”
“You’ll get coffee. You’ll also get breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That has never influenced a Boone.”
Five minutes later Clara sat at a small table with coffee, eggs, toast, and a cinnamon roll large enough to require its own zoning permit.
Maggie slid into the chair opposite her.
“So.”
Clara pointed a fork. “No.”
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“You were about to ask how long I’m staying.”
“I was about to ask if you’ve seen Eli.”
Clara put the fork down.
Maggie grinned.
“You have.”
“At the shop.”
“Of course.”
“Why of course?”
“Because he’s been repairing it for months.”
Clara frowned. “For free?”
“Mostly.”
“Why?”
Maggie’s smile disappeared.
“Because June asked.”
That answer should have been enough.
It was not.
Clara stirred her coffee though it needed nothing.
“What does Eli do now?”
“Mercer Woodworks. Restoration, cabinetry, old houses, commercial work. He has six employees and too much work.”
Clara remembered Eli at twenty-two, drawing house plans in the margins of notebooks. He had wanted to build things that lasted.
Apparently he had.
“Married?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Maggie’s eyebrows rose.
Clara sighed. “Pretend I asked casually.”
“I’m trying.”
“Well?”
“No. Never married.”
Clara hated the small movement in her chest.
Maggie saw it anyway.
“He dated,” she said. “Nothing serious lately.”
“Not relevant.”
“Certainly not.”
“I’m selling the shop.”
Maggie went still.
Clara regretted saying it before she had fully decided.
“There’s an offer,” she added. “A good one.”
“From Hawthorne?”
“You know about it?”
“Everybody knows about it.”
“This town needs a better hobby.”
“We tried bowling. The alley closed.”
Clara laughed despite herself.
Maggie reached across the table and touched her wrist.
“June loved that shop.”
“I know.”
“But she loved you more.”
Clara looked down.
“So if you sell it,” Maggie continued, “sell it because it’s right for you. Not because staying here frightens you.”
Clara pulled her hand back.
“I’m not frightened.”
Maggie gave her the patient look of someone who had known her since childhood.
“Fine.”
“I’m not.”
“Then spending one day there shouldn’t bother you.”
Clara narrowed her eyes. “Arthur talked to you.”
“He talks to everyone.”
By ten o’clock, Clara stood outside the Book Nook again.
Daylight made the shop’s flaws easier to see. The window trim needed paint. One awning bracket had rusted. A row of display books had faded in the sun.
She unlocked the door.
The bell rang.
This time the room did not feel haunted by memory.
It felt neglected.
Clara set down her bag and rolled up her sleeves.
One business day, she told herself.
She would inventory the place, call the developer, and make a rational decision.
At ten-fifteen, someone knocked on the window.
Mrs. Garland stood outside holding a tote bag.
Clara opened the door.
“I heard you were here,” the older woman said.
“How?”
Mrs. Garland smiled. “I walked past.”
That was clearly not the whole answer.
“I’m not open,” Clara said.
“I know. I just need one book.”
Clara should have said no.
Instead she stepped aside.
By noon, seven people had come in.
At one-thirty, Maggie delivered sandwiches and stayed to straighten the cookbook section.
At two, a mother with two small boys asked whether the children’s corner was open.
At three, a retired teacher bought four used mysteries and told Clara that June had saved every note her niece ever mailed from college.
At four-fifteen, Clara found herself behind the register writing a receipt by hand because the computer would not start.
At five, the bell rang again.
Eli entered carrying a toolbox.
He looked around at the customers.
Then at Clara.
“I thought you said you weren’t open.”
“I’m not.”
He nodded toward the woman paying for three paperbacks.
“Clearly.”
Clara gave him a look.
He almost smiled.
For one dangerous second, they were twenty-two again.
Then the customer left, the bell rang, and Clara remembered the folded offer in her bag.
She had come to town to settle things.
Instead, Main Street had begun asking her questions.