Chapter Fifteen
Emery practically flew down the street, her hair a wild nest of curls after running her fingers through it repeatedly during the interview.
She'd managed to answer the blogger's questions with her usual Emerald Pearl charm, but her mind had been half at the bookshop the entire time.
She checked her watch, just past one. She was supposed to have been back an hour ago.
She burst through the door of The Turned Page, the bell jangling frantically above her head. “Sorry I'm late!” she called out. “The, um, surgery took longer than expected. My aunt's elbow was… more complicated than they thought.”
Zara looked up from the counter, her expression concerned rather than accusatory. “There you are. How's your aunt?”
“She's fine,” Emery said, feeling a fresh wave of guilt at how easily the lies came now. “Recovery’s going to take some time, but she's tough.”
She glanced around the shop, expecting to see Eveline's disapproving gaze, but the Frenchwoman was nowhere to be seen.
“Where's Eveline?” she asked, shrugging off her jacket.
“In the back,” Zara said, lowering her voice. “She's worried. Abe hasn't come in today.”
Emery frowned. “That's not like him. He never misses his morning tea.”
“Exactly. She's called him twice, but no answer.”
As if on cue, Eveline emerged from the back room, her phone in hand and her forehead creased with worry. She looked up, and Emery's heart did its now-familiar flip at the sight of her.
“You're back,” Eveline said. “How's your aunt's… tennis elbow?”
There was enough skepticism in her tone that Emery knew she hadn't completely bought the flimsy excuse, but there were more important matters at hand.
“Is everything okay? Zara says Abe hasn't been in.”
Eveline shook her head. “It's not like him. I've just tried calling a third time, still no answer.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture Emery now recognized as a sign of anxiety. “I'm going to go check on him.”
“I'll come with you,” Emery said immediately.
Eveline looked surprised, but nodded. “Thanks. I'd appreciate the company.”
She turned to Zara. “Can you manage for an hour or so?”
“Of course,” Zara said confidently. “Take your time. I've got it covered.”
Outside, the autumn air had a sharp edge, and Emery pulled her jacket back on as they walked. Eveline moved with purpose, her strides long and determined.
“You know where he lives?” Emery asked.
“I sometimes have books delivered to him when he can't carry everything he wants to buy,” Eveline said. “He lives in one of those old Victorian houses by the railway, it’s only ten minutes or so from here.”
They walked in silence for a while, their steps naturally falling into rhythm. Emery stole glances at Eveline's profile, noting the tight line of her jaw.
“You're really worried,” she said softly.
Eveline sighed. “He's eighty-four, lives alone since Agnes passed, and has a heart condition he thinks I don't know about.”
“He means a lot to you.”
“He was my first regular customer,” Eveline said. “When I opened the shop, I had no idea what I was doing. I barely spoke English, had no business experience. Abe came in every day, bought a book, gave me advice.” She smiled at the memory. “He's… family.”
Emery felt a lump in her throat. This was a side of Eveline she rarely showed, the one who cared beneath her cool exterior.
They reached a street lined with imposing Victorian houses, their facades weathered but elegant. Eveline stopped in front of a blue door with a brass knocker.
“This is it,” she said, climbing the steps. She knocked firmly, then waited, her tension visible in the set of her shoulders.
No answer.
She knocked again, louder this time. “Abe? It's Eveline from the shop. Are you there?”
Just as Emery was about to suggest calling emergency services, they heard shuffling from inside. The door opened slowly to reveal Abe, looking pale and disheveled in a faded dressing gown.
“What's all this noise about?” he grumbled, but his voice lacked its usual vigor.
“Abe,” Eveline said, exhaling with relief. “You didn't come to the shop. You didn't answer your phone.”
Understanding dawned on his tired face. “Ah, I've worried you. I'm sorry, my dear. I woke up feeling a bit under the weather and decided to stay in bed.” He stepped back from the doorway. “Come in, both of you. No sense standing out in the cold.”
They followed him into a narrow hallway lined with bookshelves.
Emery wasn't surprised. She would have expected nothing less from Abe.
What did surprise her was the grandeur of the house's interior.
High ceilings with ornate moldings, antique furniture that looked genuinely valuable, and artwork that had the patina of true age.
“You should see a doctor,” Eveline was saying as they entered a cozy sitting room dominated by more bookshelves and a large fireplace. “You're pale… comme une linge.”
“White as a sheet, you mean. And I’ve already phoned him,” Abe said, lowering himself carefully into an armchair. “He's coming round this afternoon. Just a bit of a spell, that's all.”
Emery watched as Eveline fussed over him, straightening cushions and checking if he'd eaten. There was such tenderness in her actions, such care. It made Emery's chest ache.
“I'll make some tea,” she offered, slipping out to find the kitchen.
When she returned with a tray, she found Abe regaling Eveline with a story about his youth, some of his color returned. He looked up as Emery entered.
“Ah, there you are. I was just telling Eveline about the time I nearly burned down my school's library trying to read by candlelight after hours.”
“A true book lover's crime,” Emery said, setting down the tray.
“While we wait for the doctor, why don't I show you my library? The real one, not these scattered shelves.” And despite Eveline's protests that he should rest, Abe insisted. “Nothing cheers me more than showing off my books.”
He led them upstairs, moving slowly but with determination. At the end of a hall, he opened double doors to reveal a room that made Emery gasp.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered every wall, with sliding ladders to reach the highest shelves.
A magnificent desk sat beneath a stained-glass window, and comfortable leather chairs were arranged around a smaller fireplace.
The room smelled of leather bindings, old paper, and the faint citrus of book preservation wax.
“Abe,” Emery breathed, “this is incredible.”
He beamed with pride. “Sixty years of collecting. Every book has a story beyond what's written in its pages.”
He moved to a glass-fronted cabinet and carefully removed a small, leather-bound volume. “This was the first gift I ever gave Agnes,” he said, his voice soft with memory. “A first edition of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's sonnets. Cost me three months' wages back then.”
Emery glanced at Eveline, whose eyes were fixed on Abe with such tenderness that her heart squeezed.
“She was studying literature when we met,” Abe said, carefully opening the book. “I was just a clerk with big dreams. Everyone said she was too good for me.” He chuckled. “They were right, of course, but she didn't seem to mind.”
Emery stepped closer, seeing a handwritten inscription on the flyleaf: “To my Agnes, whose love has taught me the meaning of these sonnets. Yours always, Abraham.”
“How did you know?” she asked quietly. “That she was the one?”
Abe looked up. “I didn't, not right away.
Love isn't always a thunderbolt, you know.
Sometimes it's quieter, like a feeling of coming home when you're with someone. Of being your true self and being valued for it.” He smiled at both of them.
“When I realized I wanted to share every book I read with her, discuss every idea, hear her thoughts on everything… that's when I knew.”
The doorbell rang, interrupting the moment.
“That'll be the doctor,” Eveline said, blinking rapidly as if perhaps she might have been about to cry. “I'll get it.”
Left alone with Abe, Emery found herself being examined carefully.
“She cares about you, you know,” Abe said quietly.
Emery's heart skipped. “We work together. She's my boss.”
“Mmm,” Abe hummed, unconvinced. “And I'm Jack the Ripper.”
Before Emery could respond, Eveline returned with the doctor, a brisk man with a kind smile. They retreated to let him examine Abe, waiting in the kitchen where Emery made fresh tea.
“He'll be okay, won't he?” she asked.
Eveline nodded. “I think so. He's stronger than he looks.” She wrapped her hands around her mug. “Thank you for coming with me today.”
“Of course. I care about him too, you know.”
Their eyes met across the kitchen table, and Emery felt that now-familiar electricity between them. For a moment, she thought Eveline might say something more, but then the doctor appeared in the doorway.
“Just a minor arrhythmia,” he said. “I've adjusted his medication. He needs rest, but he'll be fine. He won’t come into hospital for a night, but to be honest, I don’t think there’s a need, he’s on the mend now.”
Relief washed over both women. After making sure Abe was settled comfortably with a book and a promise that he’d ring if he felt any worse, they reluctantly took their leave.
The walk back to the shop was quiet, both lost in their own thoughts. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows, and there was a biting chill in the air that hadn't been there earlier, winter wasn’t that far away now.
As they turned down a narrow side street, their hands brushed accidentally. Neither pulled away. After a moment, Emery felt Eveline's pinky finger tentatively hook around her own. Not quite holding hands, but not quite not. Her breath caught in her throat.
They walked like that, connected by the barest touch, until they reached the busier street where the shop was located. Eveline slowly pulled her hand away, but when Emery glanced at her, there was a soft smile on her face that hadn't been there before.
That night, long after she'd left the bookshop, Emery sat at her laptop, words pouring out of her in a torrent.
The scene she wrote was simple, two women walking home at dusk, fingers barely linked, hearts beating in a wild rhythm neither was ready to acknowledge.
Yet somehow it felt more intimate, more passionate than any love scene she'd ever written.
She wrote until her eyes burned and her fingers cramped, until the sky outside her window began to lighten with dawn. When she finally fell into bed, exhausted but exhilarated, she knew with absolute certainty that this was the most honest thing she'd ever written.
Because for all her books about love, about passion and desire and happily-ever-afters, she'd never truly understood what it felt like to fall in love. Until now.