CHAPTER 4 DUST AND FIRST EDITIONS
Clara did not accept the development offer on Friday.
She did not reject it either.
Instead she called Hawthorne and asked for ninety days.
The representative, a smooth-voiced man named Preston Vale, said the offer might not remain open.
Clara told him she understood.
Then she unlocked the Book Nook at eight the next morning and discovered twelve volunteers waiting outside.
“I did not ask for volunteers,” she told Maggie.
Maggie handed her an apron. “June did.”
“When?”
“Over the past forty years.”
Clara looked at the people gathered on the sidewalk.
Mrs. Garland from the pharmacy. Mr. Soto, who taught history at the high school. Three teenagers. Two members of June’s church. A young mother named Tessa with her daughter. Retired postal worker Frank Lyle. Eli’s younger sister Anna, whom Clara had not seen since Anna was fourteen.
And Eli.
He stood near the doorway carrying a ladder.
Clara narrowed her eyes.
“Do you take that everywhere?”
“Only when I expect something to be over your head.”
Anna laughed so hard she had to turn away.
Clara pointed at Eli. “You’re on heavy boxes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Yes, Clara.”
She opened the door.
For the next five hours, the shop became a moving, laughing, sneezing machine.
They dusted shelves, sorted damaged stock, hauled old displays into the alley, washed windows, tested lamps, and carried twenty-three boxes from the upstairs apartment into the main room.
Clara discovered that Aunt June had saved everything.
Receipts from 1996.
Children’s drawings from story hour.
Letters from authors.
A stack of handwritten book reviews clipped from the local paper.
A box labeled THINGS TOO GOOD TO THROW AWAY BUT TOO ODD TO SELL.
Clara did not open that one.
At eleven, she was sorting the glass display case near the register when she found a small clothbound copy of Jane Eyre tucked beneath a ledger.
The cover was worn smooth at the corners.
She opened it.
Inside was a bookplate in Aunt June’s handwriting.
For Clara, age 15. Because every girl deserves a story that reminds her she has a mind of her own.
Clara smiled.
A second inscription appeared below it, written years later in a different hand.
For Clara, age 22. Because having a mind of your own doesn’t mean you have to use it alone.
Eli.
She shut the book.
Too quickly.
The motion drew Maggie’s attention.
“What did you find?”
“Nothing.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My face has never been trustworthy.”
Maggie reached for the book.
Clara held it against her chest.
“Absolutely not.”
Maggie grinned and returned to her shelf.
Clara slipped the volume into her bag.
At noon, Eli brought in sandwiches from Boone’s. They ate on the floor because every table was covered with books.
Anna sat beside Clara.
“You look the same,” Anna said.
“That is a kind lie.”
“It’s mostly true.”
“You were fourteen the last time I saw you.”
“I was fifteen.”
Clara winced. “Sorry.”
“Everybody forgets fifteen.”
Anna had grown into a warm, quick-witted woman with Eli’s dark eyes. She was a nurse at the county clinic and had a six-year-old son named Noah.
“He’s with his dad this weekend,” she said. “You’ll meet him next week. He loves the shop.”
“Was June still doing story hour?”
“Every Saturday until spring.”
Clara looked around at the children’s corner.
The faded moon seemed suddenly less decorative and more like a responsibility.
“Did Eli help her often?” she asked.
Anna’s expression changed slightly.
“All the time.”
“Why?”
Anna smiled. “Ask him.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He gave me the serious version.”
“That sounds like Eli.”
“What’s the unserious version?”
Anna leaned closer. “June fed him pie.”
Clara laughed.
Across the room Eli looked up at the sound.
Their eyes met.
For a moment neither looked away.
Then Eli’s phone rang.
He stepped outside.
Anna watched him go.
“He missed you,” she said quietly.
Clara’s smile vanished.
“Anna—”
“I’m not trying to interfere.”
“You are absolutely interfering.”
“Only a little.”
Clara picked at the corner of her sandwich wrapper.
“I didn’t leave because of him.”
“I know.”
That answer surprised her.
“You know?”
“He never said you did.”
Clara looked toward the window.
Eli stood on the sidewalk, speaking into his phone.
“What did he say?”
Anna’s voice softened. “That you had reasons you didn’t know how to explain.”
Clara swallowed.
At twenty-three, she had received an offer for a publishing job in Atlanta three weeks after her mother’s second marriage collapsed and six months after Clara’s own engagement to Eli had begun to feel less like a promise and more like a mirror held up to everything she feared.
She had loved him.
That had been the problem.
Love meant being known.
Being known meant someone could see her uncertainty.
So she had taken the job and left before Eli could persuade her to stay.
She had told herself she was choosing a career.
That had been partly true.
Partial truths could still damage people.
Eli returned inside carrying a paper cup.
“Everybody all right?” he asked.
Anna stood. “Perfect.”
Clara gave her a warning look.
Anna ignored it.
The afternoon passed quickly.
At four, they uncovered the locked glass cabinet in the back hall. Clara found the key taped beneath the counter, exactly where Aunt June had always hidden spare keys.
Inside were old and collectible books—first editions, signed copies, local histories, several volumes Clara remembered being forbidden to touch as a child.
Mr. Soto whistled.
“June had a small treasure room back here.”
Clara examined a signed regional history from 1912.
“These could be worth something.”
“Enough to help repairs,” Eli said.
She looked at him. “You think I should sell them?”
“I think June kept them for a reason.”
“What reason?”
“Could be retirement.”
“Could be sentiment.”
“Could be both.”
Clara set the book down.
Aunt June had left her a business full of decisions with no instructions beyond stand inside it again.
For a woman who loved lists, it was maddening.
By six, the volunteers had gone.
The shop looked better. Not finished. Not close.
But sunlight reached the floors again.
Clara stood in the middle aisle, hands on her hips.
Eli was packing tools.
“Thank you,” she said.
He glanced up. “For what?”
“Today.”
“Town did most of it.”
“You were here first and last.”
He shrugged.
She almost let the moment pass.
Then she took the old copy of Jane Eyre from her bag.
Eli saw it.
His hands stopped moving.
“I found this.”
“I wondered where it went.”
“You remembered?”
“I wrote in it.”
“Thirteen years ago.”
“Some things stay.”
Clara looked at the inscription.
“Were we really that serious?”
Eli’s face changed.
She wished immediately that she could retrieve the question.
“We were engaged, Clara.”
“I know. I didn’t mean—”
“Yes,” he said. “We were that serious.”
The shop seemed very quiet.
Clara closed the book.
“I’m sorry.”
Eli lifted his toolbox.
“For leaving?”
She could not answer fast enough.
His mouth tightened.
“No,” he said. “Don’t answer that tonight.”
He walked toward the door.
“Eli.”
He stopped.
She looked at the shelves, the dust, the old inscription, all of it.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
He nodded once.
“That, I believe.”
Then he left.
Clara stood alone with the first editions and the book he had once given her.
For the first time, she understood that reopening the shop might be easier than reopening the past.