Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Florence, Now
Florence sat in the front seat of Owen’s truck, fuming.
After so many failed attempts, she’d finally made it home, only to have her sister drive her away.
She almost asked Owen to stop and turn around so she and Evie could sort this out.
But there was no point. Evie wasn’t going to help her put an end to things.
“I cannot believe her,” Florence said. “I came to fix this, to break the curse, and all she wanted to do was tell me how I failed her.”
Owen tapped his hands against the steering wheel, stealing glances at Florence. “Did you ask the house about your great-grandparents?”
Florence turned back in her seat, watching the house disappear behind them. “I never had the chance. And now we have nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” Owen said gently. “Your shop helped us figure out where that photo was taken, and it showed us something that it thought was important enough for us to know. We just have to figure out why.”
“Where the photos were taken …” Florence trailed off. With everything that had happened, she’d forgotten about the tie to Grey’s Gifts and the idea she’d left half formed the night before. She pulled out her phone and started to dial.
“Who are you calling?” Owen asked.
“The woman who sold me the bookstore,” Florence said, hope taking hold once more.
After a few moments a person picked up on the other line. “Hello? Florence?”
“Mary Louise,” Florence said with a certain softness in her voice.
Before she’d used her inheritance to purchase the shop, Florence had worked for the woman for almost nine years, starting as a teenager and eventually becoming a manager.
She’d kept her distance these past thirteen years to protect her from the curse, but it didn’t change how much Mary Louise meant to her.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Mary Louise asked. “Are you finally going to stop by for a game of backgammon?”
Florence could hear the smile in her voice.
“Unfortunately, this isn’t a social call,” Florence said.
“No worries, my dear.” Sadness had crept into Mary Louise’s words; Florence wished things had been different. “What do you need?”
“I know this is a long shot,” Florence said, “but do you have anything from the bookstore from before your family opened up shop?”
The older woman laughed softly. “That was a long time ago. I was only twelve when my parents moved to Burdock Creek and bought it.”
Florence tried to keep the disappointment from her voice as she said, “Sorry to waste your time.”
“Now wait a minute. Just because I was taking a trip down memory lane, doesn’t mean I can’t help. I never came across anything from the owners, but I did receive a letter back in the 70s addressed to their son.”
Florence’s heart stuttered. “Is there any chance you kept it?”
Florence and Owen sat inside the sitting room of a small colonial home. Lace doilies covered almost every visible space, and a very old, very tired-looking dachshund lay snoring in the middle of the room.
A warm, elderly voice came from down the hallway along with a significant amount of rummaging. “Are you sure I can’t get you something? Coffee? Tea?”
Despite Florence’s efforts to hold Mary Louise at an arm’s length, the woman would come in from time to time to pick up a book and drop off cookies or brownies or cake. Apparently, retirement brought with it a lot of baking.
“We’re alright,” Florence called. “Just in a—”
“—hurry, I know.” The older woman stepped into the room with a yellowed envelope in her hands.
She had silver hair that hung in a long braid down her back and eyeglasses perched on the tip of her nose.
Her deep crow’s feet spoke to years of laughter.
“I can’t believe I still have this. My husband was always trying to talk me into getting rid of my old files from the bookstore before he passed last year.
‘It’s been over a decade, Mary Louise. No one is going to come looking for your parents’ taxes from the eighties.
’ Now, I’m no hoarder, mind you. But there are some parts of history that are worth holding on to. ”
She crossed over to Owen and held the envelope out to him. “Seeing as this letter was addressed to your grandfather—and he’s no longer with us—I suppose it belongs to you.”