Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Two weeks until reopening, and the air smells like late winter—clean and a little sharp. I sit on the floor, spine against the end of the poetry shelf. The floorboards are cool through my jeans, and light filters through the ivy on the window, striping the counter with pale green.
The shop’s been closed since we received the call.
Six months ago, Carol was given a terminal diagnosis.
She didn’t tell anyone. No treatment, no hospital visits.
She just wanted to live out the rest of her days here, surrounded by her routines and her books.
From what I can tell, she kept working right up until the end.
Even hosted a book release party the night before.
Everything is in order, stocktake completed, invoices all filed. She even balanced the till on the last day of trade. She left nothing unfinished.
She had called me the night before she passed.
Her voice had been calm and steady. She’d said she’d felt like it was her time, that everything was sorted and she had no loose ends.
She’d told me she wanted me to have the bookstore.
I didn’t know what to say. She’d just laughed softly, and had said, ‘Don’t overthink it, Lucas. You’ll do fine.’
Now I am here, trying to live up to that. The inventory list lies face down on the counter. Boxes of new stock fill the back hall. The open sign hasn’t moved in over a week, and no one has complained.
My phone buzzes.
JASPER: Open up. I’ve got decent coffee and your favourite cinnamon scrolls. Don’t make me yell through the ivy.
I haul myself up. The bell gives its usual half-hearted rattle when I crack the door. Jasper’s standing there, hair a mess, with two takeaway cups balanced in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.
‘You look like a bloke who just found out his favourite character dies in the sequel,’ he murmurs, voice softer than his grin.
‘She did.’
He hands me a cup without comment.
I lean on the counter and take a sip. The heat lands in my chest and stays there. Jasper glances around the shop, taking it in—the half-unpacked boxes, the dust, the sign still flipped to CLOSED.
‘Figured you’d be here,’ he sets the bag down. ‘Didn’t know if you’d gone full hermit or just partial.’
‘Somewhere in-between.’
He nods towards the door. ‘There was something on the step. Figured it looked important.’ He hands me the letter, ‘Also, have you seen the cute cat on the bench outside? She’s been posted up like a tiny ginger security guard.’
I blink. ‘A cat?’
Jasper jerks a thumb towards the window. I try not to look too interested but fail immediately.
‘Is she… okay? Healthy?’
Jasper grins at my expression, and I roll my eyes.
‘What? If she’s going to hang around, she should at least have something to drink.’
Before he can tease me again, I glance down at the letter he handed me. It has my name written across it in Carol’s looping hand.
My throat tightens. Jasper stays where he is, giving me space without making a show of it. The paper is cool between my fingers. I break the seal and unfold the letter.
Lucas,
If you’re reading this, I’ve done the one thing I swore I wouldn’t, and left you holding the books. If you’re sitting there with dust in the sun and a list in your pocket, you’re where you’re meant to be.
This town hums when the right people listen. Let it. The service is sorted, no program, just stories. Wattlewood Ridge knows how to say goodbye. Show up. Wear something without holes in the elbows.
Take care of the shop. Take care of yourself. There’s more here for you than shelves. Be open to it.
Always,
Carol
P.S. Rename the old girl. Fresh start for both of you.
The letter shakes, as I fold it back along its creases.
Typical Carol. Clear, simple, no fuss. Even when saying goodbye, she managed to sound like she was just stepping out for milk. I set it on the counter and press my thumb to her handwriting, half expecting the ink to smudge.
The shop feels smaller somehow, like it’s listening.
Jasper doesn’t ask what was written in the letter. He’s already wandered to the window, pretending to study the street. ‘She always did know how to get the last word,’ he adds quietly.
‘Yeah.’ My voice comes out rougher than I intend. ‘And she’s still bossing me around.’
He huffs a small laugh, and it breaks something loose in my chest.
I glance around at the chaos—the boxes, the dust, the empty shelves. The air smells like old paper and coffee grounds. Carol’s words echo in the back of my mind: Be open to it.
I’m not sure what it is yet.
Jasper nudges the bag. ‘Eat before you get poetic and pass out.’
I tear a piece of scroll, the taste of sugar and cinnamon grounding me. ‘Where’s this from? It’s ridiculous.’
‘Brew & Bloom, across the road. The goblin barista will fight anyone for the last tray.’
‘I don’t know how to do this without her,’ I say. It comes out small.
‘You don’t have to.’ He taps the counter. ‘She left breadcrumbs everywhere. The shop. The town. That weird tea blend in the break room that tastes like a garden.’
‘She said the place is… magical,’ I say. ‘That it hums if you listen.’
He looks around, serious for once. ‘Then we start listening.’
We stand there for a while, neither of us saying much. The light shifts across the floorboards, thin and steady. Nothing feels fixed, but the next thing’s clear enough: show up, let the town hold her, keep the work moving.
Jasper claps his hands. ‘Alright. Lists. What’s the plan for today?’
I glance at the whiteboard behind the counter. ‘Change the bulbs, sand the counter, oil the hinges. Trim the ivy before the council sends another email. If there’s time, start the local-author shelf.’
‘Good. I brought the drill, a square, and the level you never use.’
‘I use it.’
He smirks. ‘Sure you do. Also brought two more scrolls, for morale.’ He heads towards the back, calling over his shoulder, ‘Please tell me you ordered the paint.’
‘Warm white,’ I say. ‘Looks cream in the morning, and a bit more honey in the evening. Deep blue for the door.’
‘Sexy door.’ He grins. ‘What about the sign?’
‘Hand-painted. Script with a serif under. Gold leaf if the budget survives.’
‘Name?’ he asks.
I look down at Carol’s postscript. ‘Inkwell & Ivy.’
Jasper nods once, like it settles something. ‘Yeah. That’s the one.’
He shrugs off his coat and rolls up his sleeves. ‘Alright then. You do the bulbs so you don’t electrocute me. I’ll handle the hinges.’
We get to it. Tools come out, the tin of wood oil opens. I swap out a flickering globe and the hum dies down. The room feels lighter already. Jasper hums off-key while he works the pins loose. Sawdust collects under the counter, and the grain wakes up beneath the sander.
We don’t talk much. Don’t need to. Every so often he slides me a fresh sheet of sandpaper without looking. Every so often I refill his cup. It’s ordinary work. It helps.
By two, he straightens and rubs his shoulder. ‘Break,’ he throws out, like a ref calling time. He wipes his hands on a rag. ‘Eat your scroll, Lucas. Then we’ll put the ‘Reopening Soon’ sign back up.’
I look at Carol’s letter one more time and then slip it into the ledger. Some things deserve altitude. When I stand, the shop still looks the same, but it feels steadier.
‘Alright,’ I sigh. ‘Let’s get back to it.’
‘Attaboy.’ He taps the counter twice. ‘Bulbs, hinges, then ivy. After that, beer.’
‘Beer,’ I echo.
Outside, the ivy shifts in the breeze and settles again. Inside, the silence hums, soft and alive—if you know how to listen.
We knock off when the light goes thin. Jasper wipes his hands on a rag and jerks his chin towards the street. ‘Beer?’
‘The Mossy Pint?’ I suggest. Knowing full well that is the only place in town.
‘Yeah, let's do it.’
When we step outside, she is still there—the ginger and white cat, curled neatly on the bench like she owns it. Her tail flicks once as she assesses us.
Jasper grins. ‘Your security guard’s still on shift.’
I hesitate, for a moment. Then—‘Hang on.’
I duck back inside, fill a small bowl at the sink, and return to set it beside the bench. The cat leans in and drinks immediately, like she’s been waiting for someone to notice.
I crouch and give her a cautious pat between the ears. She purrs instantly—loud and unapologetic, like she’s decided we’re friends now.
Jasper snorts. ‘Congratulations. You’ve been adopted.’
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. ‘Come on. Beer.’
He claps me on the shoulder. ‘Beer.’
We turn towards the pub, the cat settling back onto the bench as if keeping watch.
Inside The Mossy Pint, it is warm with old timber, ferns, and the footy on mute. The chalkboard sign on the bar reads: Parmy’ Night. The bloke behind the bar looks up, sleeves shoved to his elbows. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘Pale ale. Whatever’s local,’ I say.
‘Dark lager,’ Jasper adds.
He pours clean and sets them down. ‘Kitchen’s open in twenty.’
We take a corner table. My shoulders drop a notch as I sit.
Jasper checks his phone, then puts it face-down. ‘Good day,’ he declares.
‘Yeah mate, we got a lot done.'
The bartender brings over laminated menus, covered in more stains than fonts. ‘You eating?’
‘Parmy,’’ Jasper doesn’t hesitate.
‘Steak sanga.’’
He nods, clocking the dust at my cuffs and the oil on my knuckles. ‘You’re the one fixing up Carol’s shop, right?’
‘Inkwell & Ivy.’ Saying it out loud feels solid. ‘It will be reopening soon.’
‘Good name.’ He wipes his hands on a towel. ‘Carol used to sit over there with a paperback and roast my music choices. I’m Ezra, by the way.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me at all. I’m Lucas.’ I offer a small nod. ‘This is Jasper.’
Ezra gives a brief nod back. ‘Well, she’d be glad someone’s keeping the place alive.
Tell you what, once you’ve got flyers printed, I’ll stick one up.
’ He jerks his chin towards the noticeboard cluttered with trivia nights and lost-cat posters.
‘Back room’s yours on Wednesdays if you want to run a book thing.
No hire fee. I just hate seeing it sit empty. ’
Jasper waggles a finger at him. ‘You just volunteered yourself for poetry night.’
Ezra deadpans, ‘As long as it rhymes with buying pints.’
Jasper grins. ‘We can make that work.’
Plates hit the table, steam curling in the air. The smell of gravy and fried onions cuts through the noise, and for a while we just eat, the sound of cutlery blending with the low hum of the bar.
‘Okay, get this right.’ Jasper mumbles with a mouthful of his parmy.’ ‘You know that book, The Year Before You?’
‘Ah yeah, you didn’t shut up about it for a week. What about it?’
‘I was at Brew & Bloom the other day, minding my own business, halfway through a cinnamon scroll, right.’ He pauses to take another bite.
‘Naturally.’ I roll my eyes.
‘Anyway. These girls were sitting behind me talking about the book. One of them was holding her phone up with a Tiktok of Marley Quinn, have you seen her?’ He doesn’t pause for me to respond, ‘She is amazing. Apparently, the author’s, quote, “a total recluse.’’ And then the first one says someone in the comments reckons she’s from some small town, maybe even this one.
’ He leans back, grinning. ‘So obviously my brain goes full detective mode. Like, come on, Lucas. A small-town mystery author hiding in plain sight? It’s practically literature fanfic. ’
‘Right, so you think she’s just hiding in plain sight?’
He shrugs. ‘Maybe. Want to help me figure it out?”
‘Um… this sounds like a one person job. Reckon I would get in the way.’
He just laughs and adds, ‘Okay, you just wait.’
When he brings the bill, Ezra taps the table once. ‘Welcome to the Ridge. Let me know when you’re open.’
‘We will,’ I say.
He hesitates a moment longer. ‘You know we’re hosting the wake for Carol on Sunday, yeah?’
I nod. ‘Yeah. She left a note saying everything was organised, just… didn’t share the details.’
Ezra huffs a small laugh. ‘Typical of her. It’s all sorted here, three o’clock. Locals have taken care of it. If you need anything, talk to Nettie over at Brew & Bloom. She’s been running point.’
‘Appreciate it,’ I say, sliding a few notes onto the tray. ‘See you then.’
‘See you, mate.’ He nods and turns back to the bar.