By the Book (Foxport #1)

1. Ivy

Chapter 1

Ivy

T here is nothing more wonderful than a crisp October day in New England. All along the coast, an explosion of red and orange foliage creates a vibrant contrast against the pale blue sea. Then there are the farm fresh seasonal goods just steps away from the seafood we’re famous for. And it’s not just my opinion. People flock to our quaint town of Foxport, Massachusetts to indulge in lobster rolls between leaf peeping hikes and sailing charters.

The strip of town that reaches the sea is lovely. I’ll give them that. Personally, though, I prefer being here—nestled in the Brick District. There’s something comforting about the historic buildings and mature trees.

Pulling the collar of my chestnut herringbone topcoat higher on my neck, I step off the brick paved sidewalk into the street. Across the way, the warm glow of Café Around the Corner is like a beacon in the overcast morning. With a pale blue door located on an angled corner and glass windows that line the cross streets it sits on, the coffee shop is a Foxport institution.

Nearing my destination, I already know where my friends are seated. The same table that we occupy at least once a week, pressed up against the window in a quieter corner. Wren catches my eye through the glass and smiles as she licks the frothy residue of latte from her upper lip. Poppy and Stevie turn in unison to follow her gaze, smiling as well. Apparently, I’m the last to arrive despite living the closest.

I pull the café door open, careful to not let it slam in the autumn breeze, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, caramel, and spice greeting me as I cross the threshold. Inhaling deeply, I let the heavenly scent waft straight to my soul. And then there is the subdued sound of Phoebe Bridgers, the music carrying above the chatter of patrons as I make my way to the counter. Her folksy melody is fitting amongst our quiet, unhurried town.

“A pumpkin spice latte, please,” I tell the barista, Vanessa, as I unwrap my cashmere scarf from my neck.

“Two pumpkin spice lattes!”

I turn, coming face to face with Wren. Her dark hair cascades over her shoulders, framing her green eyes and olive skin. I lean back on the white granite counter and raise an eyebrow.

“How many coffees does that make for you this morning?” I ask.

“Too many,” Vanessa calls from behind me.

“Never enough,” my best friend counters as Nessa approaches with the drinks.

“I’m making your next one a decaf,” she says with authority, setting the white paper cups on the counter and pointing a perfectly manicured finger at my friend.

“You wouldn’t,” Wren objects, snatching up both of our drinks and passing me a cup. “That’s just cruel.”

“Bartenders are granted the right to cut off an overly intoxicated person. Baristas should be allowed to cut off an overly caffeinated person… so enjoy this one,” Vanessa offers, her decaf threat lingering in her tone.

I hide my snicker behind the stack of books cradled in my arm. This isn’t the first time Nessa has threatened Wren with decaf, and it surely won’t be the last.

We cross the black and white penny tile mosaic floor to the wooden table at the front window, Stevie and Poppy glancing up from their conversation as we approach.

“Ivy, tell Poppy that there are plenty of places she could open her bakery around here and it would be amazing,” Stevie offers as I take a seat beside her.

“Still locked in battle with our favorite fireman over the building?” I ask, taking a sip of my latte.

“I don’t want to talk about Hayden ,” Poppy scoffs, flipping her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder as her eyes land on the stack of hardcovers I’ve set on the table. “Are those the new releases?”

We started our book club junior year of high school. More accurately, as the bibliophile, I started it. But we’ve kept the tradition alive through college, all attending the same university near town, and into the recent years following graduation. I pass a copy to each of them and watch them inspect my choice for this read.

“Ooh, I heard about this one,” Wren starts, flipping open the cover to read the dust jacket. “I read somewhere that at the end?—”

“Wait! Don’t ruin it,” Poppy whines.

Wren takes a loud slurp of her coffee in response. And after taking a much quieter sip of my own, I ask, “Were there any updates on the bakery space?”

“Not yet, I have a meeting with Fitzy today though. It’s just that there are plenty of other spots closer to the fire station for his new project . Or whatever he wants it for. He’s just trying to be a pain.”

I personally thought Hayden was nice, and the idea of a rescue team admirable, but it didn’t seem like the time to share that. Poppy has a solid business plan and has worked hard to move her bakery operations out of her home’s kitchen. She deserves the building, and if I was a betting girl, I’d put all my money on her edging out her fellow bidder.

“Shoot! I actually need to go now,” Poppy says eagerly as she stands and collects her copy of our book club read.

Headed to see Mayor Fitzgerald, affectionately known as Fitzy, she probably has a color coordinated three ring binder in her bag. One that outlines in abundant detail why the space is best suited for her business. It will be flawless, and I know because it’s thanks to Poppy that I have a solid enough business plan to run my own shop.

“I’ll go with you, I’m headed to the greenhouse,” Stevie says, rising as well. “See you at the roast,” she adds before walking away.

Wren slides over into Stevie’s abandoned chair beside me and props her chin in her hand. “Speaking of the roast,” she starts, tilting her head at me.

I can feel the smile bloom across my face. My older brother, Wes, has been gone for nine months as a part of a Doctors Without Borders alternative program. “I’m so excited for Wes to be home. But oh gosh, our parents have gone over the top. I’m surprised they aren’t trying to get Fitzy to host a parade in his honor.”

“Ruth and Howard Taylor have impeccable taste, I’m sure it would have been an amazing parade. I’d be there with bells on.”

“I forgot who I was talking to.” I roll my eyes. “You wanted to celebrate when we got a stoplight down by the harbor.”

“And that would have also been amazing,” she shrugs. “Is there anything I can do to help with the party?”

“Just keep me company and don’t let me spend all night making pleasantries with my dad’s work associates.”

“Done. Obviously,” she replies, studying the latte before her. “Do you think Nessa will top this off for me to go?”

“If she’s smart, she won’t.” I sip at my own rich pumpkin drink and check my watch. My shop is only a block down the street, but Wren has a drive to the next town over for the inn she manages. “Ready?”

Rising, we don our scarves and coats to head out into the brisk autumn morning. Vanessa is busy helping another customer, making it significantly easier for me to steer Wren away from the counter and straight towards the door.

“How long is Wes home for?” she asks, pulling on the handle and leading the way out.

“I’m not sure. Hopefully longer than the last few times. We all miss him, but it’s really getting to Dad, I think.” I don’t share why our father is struggling with Wes’s absence, I haven’t been able to share it with anyone. She nods rather than pressing for more details. That’s the thing about our friendship, it’s supportive without conditions. Same with Stevie and Poppy.

Stepping onto the brick sidewalk, our boots click in unison as we walk. Every so often, one of us catches an especially crisp leaf with a satisfying crunch sound. But other than that, we walk in silence like many mornings, years of comfortable quiet between us.

I stop in front of a brick storefront with an olive-green stained door and a matching olive-green sign that reads The Open Book in brass lettering. The large potted mums on either side of the door are the first signs of fall décor. And they’re perfect. There is also an antique brass fox for a handle on the door—I found the sly ornament a year before opening the shop and held onto it with hope. That hope paid off.

“Let me know if anything comes up before the roast? I’m happy to swing by early,” Wren offers as a black cat bounds across the street towards us. He doesn’t belong to me, it’s quite the opposite actually. Catsby acts as if my shop belongs to him. He appeared not long after opening day, opting to spend his days with me but always disappearing back into the night whenever I try to take him home.

“I will, thanks,” I say, waving goodbye and unlocking the door to my shop. Holding it open, I wait for Catsby to lead the way inside. He stops at the bowls I keep for him at the entrance while I continue into the open space that acts as a lobby of sorts. In it sits a row of vintage wooden tables pressed up against the windows, piled high with books that I know will catch people’s attention. As they come in, the hope is to draw them deeper into the store, towards the floor to ceiling wooden shelves.

Peppering the display tables are white ceramic vases overflowing with the fresh flowers Stevie brings me from her shop. I reach out and adjust the stems, a smile on my face. The arrangements always perfectly compliment the muted Persian rugs covering aged hardwood floors, the perks of having a friend with an impeccable eye for detail.

Stepping around the track ladders running down the outer facing shelves, I move behind my carved wood checkout counter. The sprawling windows provide ample daylight on brighter days. But with the heavy cloud coverage today, I flip on the light switch behind the counter. Black dome pendant lights illuminating overhead.

I pull my own copy of the new book club selection from my office beside the checkout and collect my coffee cup. Novel and latte in hand, I move to the corner of the shop where I have floral upholstered seating for visitors. Settling in, I take a sip of pumpkin spice and open the book for the first time, a satisfying crackle sounding from the hardcover’s spine.

Brushing my black curls over my shoulders to better see the pages before me, I wait for Catsby to claim his spot in the chair with me. With him comfortable, I bring my focus to the first page. And I’m happily ensconced when the chime above the door rings out.

“Reading on the job again, Sis?”

Wes stands in the doorway, a familiar crooked grin forming across his deep bronze face.

With a squeal, I abandon my post and rush to meet him in the center of the shop. He catches me in an embrace, and we sway side to side. Everything feels right when Wes is home, my little world here is complete.

“You’re early . We were supposed to pick you up at the airport, I even let Wren make me a sign,” I pout.

“I thought a surprise would be more fun,” he replies, turning to take in the shop. “You actually did it. The place looks great, V.”

“Thanks, yeah you haven’t really seen it fully up and running. Have you?”

It’s odd that someone so close to me could be so behind on my milestones. Growing up, Wes had made it his duty to watch over me, support me, and protect me. He was there to pick me up a town over after Poppy and I tried alcohol for the first time. He was there when my boyfriend cheated on me days before my birthday in college. And when the time came, he was there to move me to New York. It was the moving home Wes missed.

“I was surprised when you decided to settle in Foxport. You always talked about a different life. But this shop is so you. It’s perfect.”

“It might not be what I planned, but I think it turned out well too.”

He had meant it as a compliment, but a weight settles in my gut, nonetheless. Wes is right, this wasn’t my plan. And as someone returning from Guatemala, he knows a thing or two about following through.

We had talked about adventures together all our lives. Wes chose to go. But when the time came, I couldn’t bring myself to do the same.

I love Foxport, and I love the comfortable sense of belonging I feel here. And yet, my brother’s presence never fails to stir up my doubt.

“Seriously,” Wes says, turning to face me. “This is the coolest place. I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you,” I say, compelled to accept his support. “Wait. Does anyone else know you’re in town yet?”

“Nope, you were my first stop. I figured we could hang out; I could help you around here.”

“So, you’re hiding from Mom’s party preparations here because you can’t hang around a sheriff’s department or fire station?”

Wes laughs. “Pretty much.”

I smile and roll my eyes. “I’m sorry your friends don’t have jobs as cushy as mine. But it’s nice to see that being a fancy, globetrotting humanitarian hasn’t changed you. Just try not to let it go to your head when the plaque is hung at town hall next week.”

“No promises,” he replies, plucking at the flower arrangement beside us. “Wait, am I really getting that?”

Wes looks up with amusement and my heart swells from the ease of having him home. “You might have to stick around awhile to earn that.”

“I swear, between you and Tripp,” he mutters, shaking his head.

I turn away to flip the sign on the door to open, hoping that he didn’t catch the hitch in my breath at the mention of his best friend.