Chapter 6 Eli
Eli
The bell above Vinyl & Verses tinkles as I push open the door, and the scent of old books and vinyl hits me like a welcome embrace.
It's exactly the kind of shop that makes small towns magical—shelves crammed with books reaching toward the ceiling, vintage album covers decorating the walls, and that indefinable atmosphere of possibility that comes with places where treasures wait to be discovered.
I’ve spent a good portion of my adult life seeking stores like this along the East Coast. It’s how I’ve found a few of the gems in my book collection.
Most small shops don’t differentiate between dusty over-printed classics and the rare, forgotten treasures tucked into back shelves.
A bit of digging and knowing what to look for, though, and you’re suddenly holding a first edition, or a copy with penciled notes from a professor who is now as famous as the original author.
Those are the finds that make it worth the hunt—books with their own stories woven in, waiting to be discovered.
I run my fingers along spines, scanning titles methodically.
My colleagues back at the university would call this a fool's errand.
No one's ever found one. I hear Dr. Chen’s voice again.
But I know better. Cyrus Whitlock spent a decade in Magnolia Cove.
There has to be something here, some trace he left behind.
The shop owner, a woman with silver-streaked hair and kind eyes, points me toward the folklore section when I ask about Whitlock's works. "Good luck," she says. "That's a popular shelf."
I lose track of time as I search, carefully examining each book.
My fingers are dusty, but I don't care. This methodical work, this treasure hunt—it’s what drives me.
Or at least, it was until recently. Lately, though, everything’s shifted.
Mark’s death has a way of echoing even in quiet rooms. This three bold moves idea was supposed to shake something loose.
But it’s not the books pulling me anymore.
It’s Rhianna.
Rhianna Wilder, with her sticker-covered journals, her impossible laugh, and her maddening ability to make me start questioning everything I thought I wanted.
My attention drifts to the vinyl section visible through the gap in the shelves.
Just a quick browse, I tell myself. Five minutes, tops.
But the moment I step into the music area, time slips away again.
There's something meditative about flipping through albums, the soft whisper of cardboard against cardboard, each cover a piece of art in itself.
My fingers pause on a pristine copy of Queen's A Night at the Opera.
The corners are barely worn, the sleeve still crisp.
I carefully slide it from between its neighbors, examining the cover with the reverence it deserves.
Getting lost in record stores was my salvation during grad school—the one place where precision and passion met perfectly.
The bell chimes again, and familiar laughter floods the shop.
I peek around the corner of a bookshelf, and my heart does that strange stutter-step it's started doing whenever I see Rhianna.
She's with Zoe from the bakery and another woman I don't recognize, her hands animated as she talks, familiar quirky pins on her cloth bag catching the light.
Today's say, "Reading is Lit" and "Bookworm & Proud. "
I should focus on my search. I have a date tomorrow with Claire, after all.
A date I agreed to because... well, because Rhianna suggested it, which in hindsight was the worst reason to say yes.
But watching Rhianna wander into the shop, pulling out an earbud—she’s probably listening to some carefully curated Spotify playlist even while hanging out with friends—it's impossible to look away.
The group breezes in together and it’s exactly the friends I’d imagine Rhianna having—Zoe with striking purple-streaked hair and tattooed arms, the other laughing uninhibitedly at something Rhianna whispered, completely unbothered by the fact that she’s wearing an oversized cardigan during summer.
I wish I could have heard whatever Rhianna said, could catch that easy warmth that seems to follow her.
They’re all talking at once, gesturing animatedly, practically vibrating with energy.
They’re the kind of people who make playlists called things like Summer Vibes or Main Character Energy. The kind of people who probably go to music festivals and could understand the slang my students speak.
The kind of people who would find my methodically organized record collection—and me—absolutely horrifying.
Rhianna’s gaze flits around the shop and she drifts away from her friends before she disappears behind a row of shelves. I glimpse her through the gaps—pausing here, tilting her head at something there, her lips parting slightly as she studies something that’s caught her attention.
When she finally reemerges, it’s as if she’s in her own world, her fingers trailing along the record spines in a slow, deliberate way that makes my pulse kick up.
There’s a gentle intensity in her movements, and I can’t help but follow the line of her hand, the delicate curl of her fingers.
It’s impossible not to notice her, or to ignore the way my gaze keeps returning to her, like she’s a mystery I suddenly, desperately want to solve.
“Found anything good?” Her voice snaps me back, and I startle. I hadn’t even realized she’d spotted me.
"Just browsing." I hold up the Queen album, trying to look casual despite the way my pulse picks up when she moves closer.
"Queen?" She peers at the cover. "And in a vintage format. Very hipster of you."
I can't help but laugh. "There's nothing hipster about appreciating classic rock in its original format."
"If you say so." She's grinning now, reaching for the album. She flips it over and scans the song list. “Now this is the real Queen. Not like that 80s stuff you went on about.”
"You're joking." The words come out more horrified than I intend. “Have you ever heard ‘Another One Bites the Dust’? ‘Under Pressure’?”
She hums the chorus of their iconic duet with David Bowie then does a little shoulder shimmy like it’s the most natural thing in the world. "Those make excellent commercial jingles.”
“First, how dare you.” We both laugh, and it hits me again just how easy this is—how easy she is to talk to.
I pull another album free from its case and flip it so she can see the track list. "And second, may I present ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’? The greatest rock opera ever written?"
“‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ is a masterpiece.” Her slim fingers accept that album from me as well. She studies it with an intensity that makes my chest feel tight. “But I bet you only like it because it’s popular.” She smirks, glancing up at me with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
I pretend to be scandalized and place a hand over my heart. “You wound me. I’ll have you know that’s the first time I’ve ever been accused of following the crowd. Besides, I’ve ruined this album forever. I once made my students do a comparative analysis of it with Hamlet.”
“You did not.”
“I did. They never forgave me. The dean called it an interesting departure from traditional literary analysis.”
“Of course he did, you pretentious academic.” She bumps my shoulder with hers, and the casual contact sparks all my nerve endings. “I’m guessing you’re one of those people who can’t hear a love song without turning it into a metaphor for mortality.”
“I have opinions about everything.”
Rhianna’s laugh makes something warm unfurl in my chest. “Color me shocked.” She slides the Queen albums back into their places with careful precision. “So what other opinions are you hiding behind your terrible music taste?”
I laugh, and when she walks, I follow. I should walk away.
There’s work I need to do—research to complete and articles I need to write before I return for the fall semester.
Instead, I follow her down the aisle as she trails her finger along album spines, trying not to think about how she’d nodded encouragingly at me yesterday, her expression brightening when Claire suggested we get together.
Opinions, though, I have plenty of those. It’s practically a job requirement for a liberal arts professor. “Well, I think vinyl is superior to digital in every way.” She rolls her eyes and I can’t help my smile as I continue. “The Beatles are overrated—”
“How dare you!”
“—and anyone who says they don’t like ABBA is lying to themselves.”
She stops so abruptly I almost run into her. “‘Dancing Queen’?”
“Undeniable classic.”
“‘Mamma Mia’?”
“Changed musical theater forever.”
She spins to face me, and we’re standing much closer than I expected. Close enough that I can see the tiny silver compass charm on one of her necklaces, and the flowing curve of her lips.
“Professor Lancaster,” she says solemnly, “I think we might actually be friends.”
The word ‘friends’ hits like a bucket of ice water, reminding me of how I ended up agreeing to the date.
Because Rhianna’s expression had brightened when she’d suggested it, and I’d nodded along like an idiot just to keep that smile going.
Because Rhianna Wilder is everything I’m not—effortlessly outgoing, beautiful in a natural way, and magnetic to everyone around her.
The kind of person who shines in any crowd, while I…
Well, I’d rather be buried in a stack of books than face any attention.
In short, she’s exactly the kind of woman who’d never fall for someone like me.
I take a step back, putting distance between us. “My research calls. I should return.”
Something flickers across her face—disappointment?
Relief? But her smile doesn’t waver. “Yeah, of course.” She turns away, then pauses.
“You know, if you’re interested in local work, talk to Marcus at A Novel Idea.
He’s got an incredible collection of local history stuff tucked away in the back room. ”
I hesitate. I’ve passed A Novel Idea a dozen times since moving in, but I wrote it off as another small-town shop catering to tourists—the kind that stocks overpriced paperbacks and novelty mugs. I never thought to look beyond the curated front displays.
But a hidden section of local history? That’s different. That’s interesting.
A nagging curiosity tugs at me. If Marcus really has rare or forgotten records tucked away, there’s a chance something valuable—something connected to Whitlock—might be buried there.
I nod slowly, filing the name away. “Didn’t realize he carried local archives,” I admit. “I’ll check it out.” I try to ignore how my pulse picks up when she beams at me.
“Good luck!” She gives me a little wave and practically bounces away, rejoining her friends who’ve clustered near the front counter.
I watch her go. The tightness in my chest is just anxiety about tomorrow’s date, about this entire moving and taking bold actions thing.
It’s probably just the lingering tension that never really left after Mark.
It has nothing to do with the warmth that bloomed between Rhianna and me, or the way she makes me feel like I’m something more than I am, or how much I want to know what other charms she’s wearing on those delicate necklaces.
I turn back to the folklore section with determination.
I’m here to find Whitlock’s work, write a few papers I can get published to maintain my academic credibility, and maybe shake up my life a little.
Not to develop inconvenient feelings for the woman who’s enthusiastically trying to set me up with someone else.
But as I pull another book from the shelf, her laughter floats to me from the store’s front, bright and musical as a favorite song.