39. Alice
ALICE
I turn in a slow circle, taking in the moment.
Today is the Fall Festival, and I’m standing in the center of my finished bookstore.
With so much at stake, my heart should race, my pulse should quicken, but instead I am perfectly calm, like I’ve been holding my breath my whole life and can finally exhale.
I’ve never been this happy. It’s a crystalline joy that could shatter if I speak too loudly, and yet it’s moored by the weight of a thousand books.
What used to be the downstairs of my childhood home is a transformation I can’t believe we conjured.
White oak shelves stretch floor to ceiling—giving the space a bright, airy feel—crowned with elaborate molding.
The front window dominates the street-side view, and morning light pours in buttery bright, igniting the gold-leaf book spines and turning the pale blue rug into a shallow, sunlit pool.
Colt leans against the wall, thick arms folded across his chest. He wears blue jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt, pushed up to reveal corded muscle in his forearms. He smiles from the corner of his mouth, watching me soak in the moment with a look that’s half pride, half hunger.
I return his smile, chest tugging at the sight of him there, standing amidst what we built.
Behind Colt is the blue and white landscape wallpaper I chose.
It covers the stairwell wall and embraces the front window.
Above us hangs the crystal chandelier that took ten weeks to arrive, an explosion of frozen raindrops that catch the light.
My fingers trail along the shelves, brushing softly over the rolling ladder, brass wheels gleaming against the rail.
I glance back at Colt with a mischievous tilt of my head.
He lifts his eyebrow in warning before the playful sternness melts into a devastating grin.
After everyone left last night, I hardly slept.
I lay in the dark, vibrating with excitement, my future singing through the floorboards beneath my bed.
Outside, the town is waking up for the Fall Festival.
Soon, sidewalks will fill with tourists and my door will be thrown open, ready to welcome our first customers.
But right now, in this final, quiet moment, I stand on a bridge—one that stretches between the girl who dreamed this, and the woman who did it.
For years, I battled the idea that I didn’t have the fortitude to follow through on a dream until the very end. But it turns out, even though it was far more challenging than I ever could have imagined, I had it in me all along.
I continue my lover’s caress of the bookstore.
My bookstore. My fingertips reach the checkout counter.
It’s a long, inviting slab of wood, with plenty of space for customers to set down their books.
A glass jar housing June’s cookies perches on one end, Maggie’s flowers on the other.
Behind the counter, floating shelves wait patiently, ready to collect pickup orders.
And then there’s the framed chalkboard.
In careful calligraphy, I’ve written out this week’s book recommendations. By next week, the list will consist of customer favorites along with a hidden gem, all featured like rotating ice cream flavors at a parlor.
Leather armchairs sit in a spill of light from the staircase window, appearing well-loved though they’re new, and against the far wall, a sapphire-blue couch is joined by more leather chairs and a coffee table.
Through the archways, what used to be the downstairs guest room and office are now additional library nooks.
Their ceilings are adorned in shimmery blue wallpaper and miniature chandeliers, and each room has its own leather chair and matching side table.
The seating, sprinkled throughout my shop, is an invitation to linger, to disappear into a book and forget the time.
I’ve returned to the front window, gazing outside when I hear Colt moving behind me.
The pumpkins that dress my porch steps catch my eye, and I smile at them as his strong arms wrap around me, pulling me close.
My bookshop—and every last miraculous detail of it—recedes into the background when I turn and face him.
Colt leans down, lips grazing my ear. “Are you ready, Alice?”
“I’m so happy, Colt,” I admit, my eyes slipping closed.
And I am, but I also find that I’m rattled.
Because I almost didn’t do this. In another life, I didn’t take the leap, and I’m not standing in the bookstore that I dreamed of, fought for, and cried over for months.
In another life, I don’t realize just how much the hard work pays off.
And that thought—far more than anything else—is what’s terrifying.
Because here’s what I’ve learned—
Chasing a dream is messy, the progress nonlinear, the self-doubt merciless.
And the end result is rarely what you envisioned.
But the end is still an end. And you can hold it to the light, turning it this way and that, saying quietly to yourself, Look.
Look at what I created. It was very hard and very messy. But here it is.
He pulls back just enough to soak in my expression, and then he kisses me.
His lips are eager, his hands sliding up my back.
Our tongues touch, a slick heat that has me bunching the fabric of his shirt and whimpering into his mouth.
Desire pools between my thighs, and already I imagine the things we will do when this day is over.
Colt breaks the kiss, but keeps our foreheads pressed together.
“Open your bookstore, Alice,” he encourages me. “Show the world what my girl did.”
“What we did,” I clarify.
He gives me one last squeeze, a silent acknowledgement, and steps back.
I walk toward the door, so giddy with excitement that my hand trembles.
What if no one comes? What if they do, but I don’t get enough sales to prove the shop’s viability?
I glance over my shoulder at Colt and see the unwavering belief in his eyes.
My hesitation vanishes.
I flip the sign from Closed to Open and let out a squeal of exhilaration.
Five hours later, the sanctuary of this morning is long gone.
And so are any doubts I held. Because the shop is a symphony of sound and motion, and the door hasn’t stopped chiming since nine o’clock.
It’s a success so absolute that the last iota of uncertainty I carried lifts from my shoulders, floating away.
People meander through the room, sinking into chairs and pointing out the rolling ladder and raindrop chandelier.
A woman pauses under Maggie’s flower arch to capture a photo, and another patron rocks on the front porch swing, engrossed in the book she bought while her son devours one of June’s cookies.
Behind the counter, I ring up purchase after purchase. Not just for books, but for river attraction tickets too, something Maggie insisted upon. And she was brilliant for doing so, because it’s lured in customers who might not have otherwise visited.
“These flowers are incredible,” a customer sighs, leaning in to smell Maggie’s arrangement.
He turns to his husband while I ring up his books.
“I saw a woman selling flowers on the sidewalk. Let’s get some for our room.
” The man’s husband nods and, even though I’d decided on one free cookie per transaction, I slip the happy couple an extra one when I notice them eyeing the jar.
Then, before they go, I explain how to get to Maggie’s street setup from here.
In the middle of the rush, June slips through the door, her dress dusted with flour. She weaves through the crowd and pulls me into a rib-crushing hug. “Alice, look at this!” she cries. “It’s a raging success. I told you, didn’t I?”
“You did tell me.” I squeeze her back. “And the cookies are a hit! People are going crazy over them.”
“I know that too,” she grins. “I’ve already had a half-dozen customers come in asking for more.” Her eyes dart around the shop, landing on a figure in the romance section. “Is that Mrs. Devonshire?”
I lower my voice. “She’s been there an hour.”
June waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Mrs. Devonshire is freaky. I like it.”
At that exact moment, a group of teenagers meanders too close to Mrs. Devonshire and, though she looked as if she might actually make it to the register this time, she quickly reshelves the book. Then she ducks her head, smooths her sensible coat, and scurries out the door.
“Damn,” June says. “Almost had her.”
A moment later, the door chimes again, and Harold stomps in. He pulls his cap low over his eyes, ignoring the crowd, and marches straight to the counter. “Loretta come in yet?”
I exchange a knowing look with June. “You just missed her. She left not two minutes ago.”
Harold’s face falls. “She said she was gonna come by around two.”
“She did,” I explain. “She was browsing for a while, but I think the crowd scared her off.”
Harold’s bushy eyebrows rise hopefully. “She buy any books?”
“No,” I lean against the counter for the first time all day, grateful to give my feet a break. “But it looked like she wanted to.”
I point out the romance section to him, gesturing to the particularly steamy shelf where Mrs. Devonshire spent the most time. Harold plucks a title off the shelf and starts flipping through it.
June and I stand shoulder-to-shoulder, lips pressed together to keep from laughing. Harold’s eyes slowly widen, brows migrating toward his hairline. “You sure it was these?”
“Hmm, hmm.” I nod.
Harold grunts, examining the shelf a beat longer.
Then, with two hands, he seizes the length of books, removing the entire row, and sets them on the counter.
I ring him up, unable to halt the smile on my face, and catch Colt’s attention so he can restock the empty shelf.
When Colt sees who’s buying what, he tips an imaginary hat in Harold’s direction.
“Oh, take this too.” I bag one of June’s cookies and hand it to Harold. “On the house.”