Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Florence, Now
Florence did not make it to Honeysuckle House the day it burned.
As soon as she had her breathing under control, she wiped her tears and drove in the opposite direction, afraid her sister would see her sitting helpless on the side of the road.
She’d gone home; taken Ink up to her apartment, where she washed herself clean of the lines of mascara making marks down her cheeks; and drank a cup of chamomile tea.
Then, because she had no excuse not to, she went back downstairs to the shop and reopened the doors.
She hadn’t heard a word from Evie, and that was just as well. After her panic attack, Florence wasn’t sure she could handle any further reminders of what she stood to lose when her birthday rolled around.
Things at the shop were even slower than they’d been before Florence left.
Not a single customer came in search of a book.
At five minutes before close, Florence took a deep breath and reached for her phone.
Nothing from Evie. But with her sister staying at Angela’s, there was still a chance Florence could be there for her, even if she knew it would likely end in another fight.
That was a risk she was willing to take if it meant keeping her sister alive.
As she walked toward the door to flip the sign and lock up for the evening, she started to type out a message to Angela.
Have you had dinner yet?
She erased it.
How much does Evie hate me right now? If I bring over some kind of dessert do you think she’ll talk to me?
She rested one hand on the door as she looked the message over before she erased that one, too.
Room for one more for dinner?
With a small nod, she hovered her thumb over the send button, but before she could hit it, the door opened under her hand. She let out a surprised yelp, and her phone slipped from her grip, hitting the floor. She looked up to find Owen standing in front of her.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “I tried waving through the glass, but you didn’t see me.” He knelt down and picked up Florence’s phone then handed it to her.
“I was about to close up,” Florence said.
“Mind if I grab a book before you do?” As if on cue, a paperback fell off a nearby shelf. He grinned. “Maybe that one?”
“You don’t even know what it is yet,” Florence said.
Owen shrugged. “I’ve yet to have a book fall at my feet in this shop that I didn’t love.”
“Even the rom-coms?” Florence asked.
“Especially the rom-coms,” he said.
She laughed, gave the wall by the door a little pat, and said, “All right, let’s ring you up.”
Owen jogged toward the book laying face up in front of one of the end caps.
Ink had already beat him to it and sat swiping at the spine with his paw.
Owen scratched him between the ears before he held up the paperback, revealing one of Florence’s favorite magical realism novels about the Flores sisters—three witches in a small Appalachian town.
“I know what you’re doing,” she murmured under her breath to the shop. The bell over the door tinkled in response, and it took everything in her to suppress her smile.
“What was that?” Owen asked.
“Just that I love that book,” she said.
“Then I’m definitely buying it.”
Her lips curled upward against her will as she went to meet him at the register.
“How was the house?” she asked.
“You couldn’t even tell it burned.”
Florence worried at her lip. Evie, eternal optimist that she was, would probably take it as a sign that her efforts to break the curse had worked and there was nothing to worry about.
“And the festival?” Florence asked. “Is it still on?”
“The grounds seemed fine. The bees weren’t at all bothered when I went to check on them,” Owen said.
“Though I hope Evie would’ve told me if she was planning to cancel.
There aren’t any vacant rooms left in town, so I’ll be spending the night in my car, which is why I need reading material. ” He held up the book.
Florence looked from Owen to the book and back to Owen. Something in her almost offered up a spot on her couch, but if Evie really was going to move forward with the festival, that would put Owen at Honeysuckle House on the thirteenth. She didn’t want to endanger him anymore than she already had.
“If I had a spare room …”
Owen held up his hands. “Oh no, I didn’t mean …” He shook his head. “If the car ends up not working, I can drive the hour to Knoxville and grab a room there.”
Florence flushed and rubbed at the back of her neck. “Maybe you should get a second book. Just in case.”
“Not a bad idea,” Owen said. He did a quick turn toward the shop, when the lights winked on and off in the far corner. “What’s back there?”
Florence followed his gaze. It was past the children’s book section, where she most often found Clara disappearing when she came to visit the shop.
“Picture books,” Florence said.
This time, all the lights in the shop winked out except for those in the children’s corner, including the power to the register. Owen and Florence stared at each other in the dark, his pupils growing as he took her in. Florence was the first to break eye contact.
“I better go check the breaker,” she said, even though she knew the shop was up to something. “You can take the book and pay for it later.”
“Picture books aren’t really my thing, but maybe they could be. First books start falling at my feet every time I come in here, now the lights are leading me to the back of the shop. I’m starting to think this place has more in common with Honeysuckle House than you let on.”
Florence winced, and Owen responded with a grin. He set the paperback down on the counter and headed off in the direction of the lights. Florence followed, her unsent message to Angela forgotten.
“It’s much safer here than at Honeysuckle House. Or it should be,” she said, making a dig at the shop.
Owen glanced over his shoulder. “No attics catching on fire?”
“Not yet,” Florence said.
They rounded the corner past the wall of children’s characters, the lights leading them beyond the last shelf. Owen stopped short, and Florence had to come up beside him to see what he was staring at.
In front of them stood an open door that usually lay hidden behind a shelf of books. Today it had transformed into a small room, complete with a daybed, a kitchenette, and a love seat situated in front of a coffee table, where a pot of tea sat with steam rising from the spout.
Florence held a hand over her face. She’d told this man she didn’t have a spare room, and now the shop made her out to look like a liar.
“I didn’t know this room was back here,” Owen said.
Florence had tried to keep from oversharing when it came to Owen, but this was something she couldn’t simply explain away. With a heavy sigh she said, “It usually isn’t, but it seems the bookstore doesn’t want you to spend the night in your car.”
And Florence had learned, long ago, when the shop wanted something, it was better not to get in its way.