Chapter Eight
Emery arrived at The Turned Page earlier than strictly necessary, clutching a bag of still-warm croissants from the bakery by her flat.
She'd been working at the bookshop for a week now, and she was starting to understand its rhythms, the quiet mornings when Abe would shuffle in for his tea, the mid-afternoon rush of students seeking reference materials, and the peaceful evenings when she and Eveline would close up together. She’d worked every day, though she didn’t strictly have to, only rushing home at night to start work on her manuscript.
She breathed in the familiar scent of books and polish as she let herself in with the spare key Eveline had grudgingly provided ‘for emergencies only.’ This wasn't exactly an emergency, but Emery did want to get a head start on organizing the new shipment of poetry collections that had arrived yesterday.
The shop was peaceful in the early morning light. Emery moved quietly toward the back room, where she'd left the inventory list. She'd just reached for the light switch when a voice from the darkness nearly scared her out of her skin.
“What are you doing here so early?”
Emery yelped, jumping backward and sending the bag of croissants flying through the air. They landed with a soft thud on top of a stack of boxes.
“Eveline! God, you scared me half to death.” Emery clutched her chest. “Do you always lurk in dark corners, waiting to terrify your employees?”
Eveline emerged from the shadows, a steaming mug of coffee in her hand. Her dark hair was pulled back in its usual knot, though a few rebellious strands had already escaped to frame her face. Even at this ungodly hour, she looked unreasonably put-together in a blouse and pencil skirt.
“I wasn't lurking,” she said with a sniff. “I was inventorying.”
“In the dark?”
“Alright, I was thinking.” Eveline's gaze fell on the paper bag that had landed on top of the boxes. “What's that?”
“Breakfast,” Emery said, retrieving the bag. “I thought I'd come in early to sort out those poetry collections, and I then I thought it might be hungry work.” She pulled out a slightly squashed croissant and offered it out. “They were a bit more impressive before their flight across the storeroom.”
To Emery's surprise, Eveline's lips twitched into something close to a smile. “I suppose they'll taste the same,” she said, accepting the offer. “Thank you.”
They sat on boxes in silence, munching on croissants and sipping coffee as the morning light gradually brightened the shop. Emery couldn't help sneaking glances at Eveline, noticing how the sunlight caught in her dark hair, giving it almost auburn highlights.
“You're staring,” Eveline said without looking up from the inventory list she was reviewing.
Emery felt her cheeks flush. “Sorry. I was just… thinking.”
“A dangerous pastime.”
“Ha ha.” Emery brushed croissant flakes from her hands. “Actually, I was wondering about your system for categorizing the poetry collections. It seems… unique.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, she had been wondering. It just wasn’t the only thing she’d been wondering about.
Eveline looked up, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Emery began cautiously, “most shops organize by author or time period, but you've got this whole… emotional taxonomy thing going on.”
“It's not emotional,” Eveline said. “It's thematic.”
“You've got a section labeled 'For When Everything Feels Hopeless But Maybe It Isn't,'” Emery said. “That's pretty emotional.”
Eveline's cheeks colored. “It's practical. People don't come in asking for 'early modernist poetry'. They want something that speaks to what they're feeling.”
Emery grinned, delighted by this unexpected glimpse beneath Eveline's carefully maintained exterior. “I like it. It's personal.”
“It's efficient,” Eveline corrected, but there was no real bite to her words.
They worked side by side for the next hour, organizing the new collections according to Eveline's peculiar system. Emery was surprised at how easily they fell into a rhythm, passing books back and forth, occasionally debating the proper category for a volume.
“This one definitely belongs in 'Words to Whisper to the Moon,'” Emery said, holding up a slim volume of nature poems.
Eveline snatched it from her hands, flipping through the pages with a critical eye. “No, no. It's clearly for 'When the World Is Too Loud.'”
“How can you tell?” Emery protested. “They're both about quiet and reflection.”
“Yes, but this one,” Eveline tapped the book, “is about finding stillness within chaos. The other section is for poetry that celebrates solitude.”
Emery blinked, then sighed. “You've really thought this through.”
“Of course I have,” Eveline said with a soft snort. “It's my shop.”
As they continued working, their hands occasionally brushed, sending little jolts of electricity up Emery's arm.
She tried to focus on the task at hand, but found her mind wandering to the growing list of observations she was mentally cataloging about Eveline for her novel. Or perhaps for other reasons.
The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was concentrating. How her French accent became stronger when she was tired or annoyed. The gentle way she handled the books, as if each one contained some precious secret.
“Emery?” Eveline's voice broke through her daydreaming.
“Hmm?” Emery looked up, realizing she'd been staring blankly at the same book for several minutes.
“I asked if you could help that customer.” Eveline nodded toward a shy-looking teenager hovering near the back of the shop.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Emery hurried over, grateful for the distraction.
The boy was lanky with acne-spattered cheeks and nervous eyes, standing in front of the LGBTQ+ fiction section, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Can I help you find something?” Emery asked with a smile.
“Um…” the boy mumbled, looking around as if afraid of being overheard. “I'm looking for a book. For a… friend.”
“What kind of book?” Emery asked.
Before the boy could answer, Eveline appeared beside them.
“Perhaps your friend would enjoy this one,” she said, pulling a book from the shelf.
“It's about a young man discovering his identity.
It's beautifully written, and the author has a wonderful way of capturing those first, confusing feelings of self-discovery.” Her voice was soft, matter-of-fact, without a hint of judgment.
The boy took the book, his eyes darting between the two women. “Is it… um, is it obvious? You know, what happens? What it’s about?”
“The cover is quite discreet,” Eveline said. “And we can put it in a bag, if you'd prefer.”
Relief flooded the boy's face. “Yes, please.”
After ringing up the book and carefully putting it in an unmarked bag, Eveline gave the boy a small smile. “Your friend is lucky to have someone who cares enough to find him good stories.”
The teen ducked his head, mumbled a thank you, and hurried out of the shop.
Emery looked at Eveline. “That was really kind.”
Eveline shrugged, suddenly absorbed in straightening a stack of bookmarks. “It's nothing. Books should be safe spaces.”
“I didn't have you pegged as a softie,” Emery teased gently.
“I'm not,” Eveline said firmly. “I simply believe in the right book at the right time. That's all.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of more customers, and the morning passed in a blur of recommendations and sales. During a quiet moment, Emery found herself alone with Eveline behind the counter, watching as she carefully wrapped a first edition in acid-free paper.
“How did you end up here?” Emery suddenly asked. “Owning a bookshop in London, I mean.”
Eveline's hands stilled for a second. “That's a rather personal question.”
“Sorry,” Emery said quickly. “I didn't mean to pry.”
Eveline was quiet for a long moment, her fingers resuming their careful work. Just as Emery was certain she wouldn't answer, she spoke.
“I studied literature at university,” she said, her voice soft.
“I always loved books, the way they could transport you, reveal truths about the world, about yourself.” She tied the string around the package with a neat bow.
“But life had other plans for a while. I came to London to start over.” Her voice caught slightly on the last words.
“And the bookshop?” asked Emery.
“A happy accident,” Eveline said with a small smile. “Or perhaps not an accident at all. Books have always been my refuge. It seemed fitting to create a refuge for others.”
Emery felt her chest tighten. “That's beautiful.”
Eveline looked up, her dark eyes meeting Emery's. For a moment, something unspoken passed between them, a recognition of shared understanding.
Then the bell above the door jingled, and Maya burst in, shattering the moment.
“Emergency!” she announced dramatically, flour dusting her apron. “Emergency! Café Lila down the street has flooded, and the Romance Book Club needs a meeting place. It’s for tonight!”
“That's hardly an emergency,” Eveline said dryly.
“It is to Mrs. Hampton,” Maya countered. “You know how seriously she takes these meetings. Ten years they've been gathering, and they've never missed one.”
“And this concerns me because…?” Eveline raised an eyebrow.
“Because you have a perfectly good space right here,” Maya said, gesturing around the shop. “And because you're a good person beneath all that French snootiness.”
Emery bit back a laugh at Eveline's affronted expression.
“I am not snooty,” Eveline protested.
“Prove it,” Maya said. “Let us meet here tonight. Just this once.”
Eveline sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine. But they'd better not leave romance novel bookmarks in my first editions.”
Maya beamed. “You're an angel. I'll bring wine and pastries.”
Maya swept back out of the shop as dramatically as she'd entered, and Eveline turned to Emery with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“Since you know so much about books and romance,” she said with a smirk, “you can help run it.”
Emery froze, her heart sinking into her stomach. “Me? Run the Romance Book Club?”
“Why not?” Eveline's smirk widened. “Unless there's some reason you'd be uncomfortable discussing romance novels?”
Emery swallowed hard. If Eveline only knew. “No reason at all,” she managed. “I'd be happy to help.”
“Excellent,” Eveline said, looking far too pleased with herself. “Tonight at seven, then. I'm sure it will be… educational for us both.”
As Eveline walked away, Emery leaned against the counter, wondering how she'd managed to get herself into this predicament. A romance novelist, hiding her identity while having to host a Romance Book Club, in a bookshop owned by a woman who despised romance novels.
Jax was right. Her life really had turned into a bad rom-com.
But as she watched Eveline help another customer, her dark hair falling across her face as she leaned down to retrieve a book from a lower shelf, Emery couldn't bring herself to regret it. Not yet, anyway.