Chapter 2
After we’d put away the chairs and stacked the signed copies in the window, I poured two tiny glasses of the untouched wine and waved Fletcher over.
He gave me a grin as he took the glass from me. “Are we toasting something, Annie? Because I don’t think that was an event to celebrate.”
I shook my head, acknowledging the abysmal turnout. I was glad Hal wasn’t working tonight to see it. “Tonight was a disaster, but it did get me thinking… We love this place. We have to do something to save the bookstore. You agree on that, right?”
“I don’t know if I like the sound of we.” He swirled his wine glass, examining it like he was studying to become a sommelier, and winked. “No, joking aside, I will do whatever is necessary to remain in steady employment. What’s your plan?”
“I don’t know yet.” I tapped my forehead with the tip of my finger, willing myself to come up with something clever.
“My brain is working overtime. It has to be something more than this.” I swept my hand across the empty ballroom.
The Secret Bookcase wasn’t a cookie-cutter bookstore.
It was equal parts bookshop and living museum.
People should see this. Readers should be curled up on the soft benches next to the massive windows, taking in the pastoral views of the open grassy field surrounding the bookstore.
“Are you thinking more cerebral? Lectures on Sherlock or the classics, perhaps? I’d be happy to offer my services for that.
” Fletcher discovered a discarded paper napkin tucked beneath one of the plush chairs.
He picked it up with the tips of his index finger and thumb and tossed it in the trash like it was a biohazard.
“I don’t know. It has to be unique and geared toward younger readers, too.
” I finished the last sips of wine and helped Fletcher stack the unused folding chairs in the storage room.
“The author mentioned her publicist had suggested she needs a hook to get readers to show up for signings. That’s what we need—a hook. ”
“I can introduce you to the coat rack in the foyer. It has ample hooks,” he replied with a cheeky grin.
I rolled my eyes. “That’s bad, even for you.”
“What say you, Annie? The night is still young. Shall we continue this brainstorming session? I’d suggest State of Mind Public House, but they’re closed tonight, so it will have to be the Stag Head if you’re up for it?
” Fletcher asked. He tried to sound casual, but his eager eyes were a dead giveaway that he was lonely and hoping for company.
Fletcher was a good friend and I’d come to appreciate his quirks—like his massive collection of Sherlockian memorabilia that took up half of our shared office.
However, after a long day in the bookstore, socializing with him wasn’t exactly at the top of my list. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy hanging out with Fletcher.
It was just that he could spend the better part of an hour offering a lecture on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s years at the University of Edinburgh Medical School, and I wasn’t sure I had the energy for a deep dive into Sherlockian lore.
But I was hardly one to judge when it came to obsessions, and I felt like the solution to our problems at the bookstore was within my grasp, so I agreed. “Sure, but I only have time for a quick drink. I promised Pri I’d meet her for dinner.”
“A drink it is.” He circled his hand like he was rolling out a red carpet for me and waited for me to go in front of him.
We locked the bookstore and took the pressed gravel pathway from the manor house to the town square.
One of the challenges of getting customers inside the Secret Bookcase was foot traffic.
The estate sat at the end of the single-lane drive.
Cute, bookish signs posted at the gateway pointed readers our way, but they weren’t enough to draw tourists off Cedar Avenue, the main street that ran through town.
In town, the sinking sun illuminated red-tiled roofs and gave the buildings lining the square a fiery hue. As always, the town’s prettiness took my breath away and reminded me again how much I loved the place.
I couldn’t leave Redwood Grove. Where else would I go?
We had to figure out a way to save the shop.
My mind couldn’t let it go as we neared the Stag Head at the edge of the square across from the park.
The pub was housed in a single-story brick building painted white and then intentionally distressed to give the building a weathered look.
A wooden hand-painted sign depicting a stag’s head hung above the door.
Inside, the rustic vibe continued with old, creaky wooden floors and whitewashed wood paneling dotted with cardboard cutouts of stag heads, like a crafter’s hunting trophy display.
The bar had bare bulbs hanging over the hand-carved wood, casting a mix of shadows and light throughout the room.
Historical trivia and board games were stacked on heavy oak shelves.
Framed black-and-white photos of Redwood Grove throughout the decades were interspersed amongst the deer heads.
The vibe was warm and comfortable; the pub could have been my favorite spot in town, but it was owned and managed by Liam Donovan, my least favorite person in Redwood Grove.
We found a free table in the middle of the busy pub, next to a group playing what appeared to be a very involved World War II board game.
“Shall I get you a drink?” Fletcher offered, waiting with his hands folded together while I studied the menu.
Unfortunately, my eyes landed on Liam, pouring shots behind the bar like he was being filmed for an artsy indie film. He held a stainless-steel shaker above his head and waved it like a tambourine, showing off his muscular frame and the sleeves of tattoos on both his arms.
Liam was a few years older than me with dark wavy hair, matching dark eyes. He could have been attractive if it wasn’t for his highly disagreeable personality.
He tilted his head and met my gaze with a slight raise of his eyebrows. Then he poured a shot into a cocktail shaker and twisted it to the rhythm of the country music playing overhead.
My neck felt hot. I put my hand on my chest and concentrated on the menu. “I’ll have a glass of the Chardonnay.”
“Your wish is my command.” Fletcher bowed and strolled up to the bar.
I got us the empty table and tried to avoid Liam’s steely eyes while I waited for Fletcher to return.
Liam always managed to find a way to get under my skin, usually by making passive-aggressive comments about my love of crime fiction.
He was a history buff who exclusively read non-fiction as if that somehow made him superior.
Fletcher came back empty-handed. “Liam offered to deliver our drinks. What a guy.” He made a face and rolled his eyes. Fletcher had about as much love for Liam as me, thanks to Liam’s unashamed interest in the bookstore as real estate.
I shushed Fletcher as Liam approached.
“There’s no mystery in your drink orders.” He set a glass of wine with a very generous pour in front of me. “Annie.”
“Thanks.” I kept my gaze glued to the table.
“And, Fletch, I presume this whisky sour is for you.” Liam handed him a chilled glass with a lemon twist and a fresh sprig of rosemary.
“It’s Fletcher,” Fletcher mumbled through clenched teeth as he took the drink from him.
“Sorry, habit.” Liam clapped him on the shoulder. “What brings the bookish crew in tonight?”
Fletcher lifted the drink to his lips and motioned to me. “Annie has a great idea for a new event.”
I wanted to kick him under the table. Fletcher might think that he was helping, but he wasn’t.
“Really, what kind of an event?” Liam brushed his hands on the black apron tied around his waist and looked at me with newfound interest.
Was he pretending to care? Doubtful. Liam only cared about himself.
“We’re brainstorming. Nothing is fleshed out yet.” I hoped that would get him to stop asking questions and leave us alone. Whenever Liam was around, I could feel my blood pressure spike.
“Fleshed out. You always have to find a way to work in a pun, don’t you?” Liam shook his head and smirked.
I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny or just mean. Either way, I didn’t need his input.
“We could partner with you,” Fletcher suggested, holding his whisky sour at his lips. “Maybe a books and brews night.”
“I think that’s probably a better match for State of Mind Public House,” Liam said, not even bothering to entertain the idea. “I’ll let you two get to the brainstorming. Good luck.” He shot me a brief look I couldn’t decipher and left.
“Why would you suggest he participate in whatever we come up with?” I hissed when Liam was out of earshot. “He’s so condescending about fiction, especially mysteries.”
“I don’t know. Keep your enemies close, I guess. I thought maybe if he participated, he’d see how cool the bookstore is, but I’m kidding myself. He’s a guy’s guy, if you know what I mean?”
“No. What do you mean?” I tried not to look in Liam’s direction but could feel his eyes lasered on me.
“He’s into history. The man hosts a Roman Empire trivia night; you know his type.
” Fletcher ran a bony finger along the rim of his glass.
“I understand that he’s not a hunter, and we live in progressive Northern California, but put Liam in Montana or Wyoming, and those cardboard stags on the wall could easily be his taxidermy trophies.
He makes me feel like I need to revisit my masculinity. ”
I chuckled. “Revisit your masculinity? Oh, no, please don’t do that, Fletcher, especially for Liam Donovan. The guy takes pleasure in making everyone around him feel inferior. It’s not just you.”
“You think?” He grinned and flexed a thin arm. “And miss out on these guns?”
“I’m sure of it.” I reached across the table and patted his hand. “Fletcher, you’re a good guy. Don’t change that.”
He cleared his throat and dabbed his chin with a bar napkin. “Thanks, that means a lot coming from you.”