Oh Little Town (Angel Mountain Christmas #3)

Chapter 1

TAYLOR

Exactly how small is this small town?

The question starts as just a whisper in my mind as I drive out of the city and into miles of suburbs, heading for Angel Mountain, Pennsylvania.

At first, I’m passing nice apartment buildings and townhomes packed in tightly between gas stations and shops. Then those melt into brick cape cods and colonials, which eventually spread out into manicured golf courses and subdivisions of sprawling McMansions.

But I’m not even close yet, so I just keep driving.

After a while, the houses thin out and the trees start to push in closer on either side, like the forest wants to take the road back, and the long, straight stretches of asphalt start to wind and climb.

By the time the sun starts to sink, my little MG is hugging the curves of a serious mountain without a house in sight, and the question in my head is louder and more urgent.

How small a town can this be?

The answer doesn’t matter. I’m out of choices.

Well. I have one more option, but I’m not that desperate.

Yet.

Sure, I’ve been humiliated and publicly fired, and now I appear to be moving to some kind of ghost town in the Pocono Mountains.

But it’s still better than being an accountant.

A pang of guilt squeezes my heart at that thought. My dad is an accountant, and he runs what he always hoped would be a family firm. Dad loves crunching numbers and solving tax and finance dilemmas. He’d be thrilled if I gave up and moved home to use the sensible degree he and Mom made me get.

The accounting degree was for them, but I actually double-majored with English, so I could pursue my real dream—finding the next great story.

Stories have been pretty much my whole world just about as long as I can remember. Most of my friends spent their summers at camp or working at the ice cream shack, or maybe doing sports or traveling.

I spent mine at the library.

In my opinion, there’s nothing better than treasure-hunting your way through an endless pile of books.

Of course, there were hundreds that I read and loved.

But the real fun was in that zap of electricity I felt only three or four times, opening the cover to find a story that sent a tingle straight up my spine from the very first sentence, and pulled me in like a riptide.

Wow.

Those are the books that change you, and sometimes, they’re the ones that are capable of capturing the imagination of the whole world, if they appear at the right time.

When I found out that discovering new authors and getting their stories out in the world was an actual job, I was enchanted. Years of accidental practice made me sure that I was destined to work in the publishing industry and find just the right book for the next generation of kids to grow up on.

When I landed an internship right out of college, I instantly knew I was in the right place. I would come in early every morning, the only intern at our tiny publishing house who was excited to attack the slush pile.

I didn’t resent starting at the bottom, and I was thrilled when I quickly moved up the ranks until I was just one promotion away from being in the power seat to do what I had always wanted to do—choose and commission manuscripts for publication myself.

The day I finally got that promotion to commissioning editor was the happiest day of my life. All my dreams were coming true. I was eager to discover the next great, generation-changing young adult novel.

But I guess I was a little too eager.

Anyway, there’s no use thinking about it now. I burned all my bridges and that’s that.

The tiny bookstore I’m headed to tonight is my lifeline. I might not get to discover the next great story, but at least I’ll live a life surrounded by books and book lovers, even if it’s in a remote mountain town.

I turn the radio on for company, and to keep my thoughts out of the past.

“Snow is coming,” the deejay chirps happily. “Let’s kick things off this hour with something to suit the occasion.”

When Bing Crosby starts crooning “Winter Wonderland” through the speakers, I can’t help smiling.

I really do love Christmas—always have. And I’ve been thinking that moving to the mountains in December when it’s about to snow really is the perfect backdrop to start the next chapter in my life.

Sure, some of my friends might tease me for being a little too optimistic from time to time. But I really will do whatever it takes to make the bookshop a success. I’m going to turn the lemons life handed me into a delicious lemon drizzle cake.

Houses begin to appear between the trees here and there just as the pink of twilight deepens into the velvet blue of night. And when I reach the foot of the mountain in full darkness, I’m reassured by the shimmer of streetlights and then the glow of storefronts as I get closer.

As I follow the signs and turn onto Celestial Lane, I can see now that this place isn’t such a ghost town after all. It might be small, but it looks nice.

There are twinkling lights and holiday decorations on almost every storefront, and some of the shops actually look interesting.

There’s a knitting store, some kind of museum, an old-timey candy shop, a thrift store, and a couple of fancy boutique looking shops.

Maybe the people in this town really will be interested in having their bookshop reopen.

Even though it’s late and a lot of the stores don’t seem to be open anymore, there’s a trickle of shoppers heading to their cars, and even a young couple walking hand in hand down the street, maybe heading to one of the restaurants.

It’s as picturesque and romantic as something out of the Christmas movies Mom and I used to watch, and I feel my heart getting lighter and lighter as I drive.

I’m humming along with “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” on the radio when I spot the jewelry store that’s supposed to be next to the bookshop, and pull up in front.

I park carefully, then grab my suitcase. It’s good that I didn’t have much space in my New York apartment. Packing up took no time at all, and the bag fit in the MG, which isn’t really great when it comes to cargo space.

As I step onto the sidewalk, I notice a small, round woman in a green woolen coat hurrying in my direction. She has long, curly gray hair, a pair of dark-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose, and an enormous pocketbook slung over one shoulder. A faint jingling sound accompanies her movements.

“Taylor Greer?” she asks, peering at me over the glasses.

“That’s me,” I say, realizing who this must be. “Mrs. Perkins?”

“Guilty as charged,” the property manager replies with a merry little smile. “I hope your trip was okay?”

She asks the question in a hurried way that tells me she’s cold and wants to get inside.

“Yes,” I say. “Thanks.”

“That’s nice,” she replies automatically. She seems to be mostly concentrating on fiddling with a set of keys.

It’s only as she applies one to the lock that I think to look up at the bookshop.

Even in the dark, I can see that it has character. The huge plate glass windows have wood panels below that look almost like wainscoting. Smaller, mullioned windows above the big panes add some old-fashioned charm.

The bookcases visible from out here are pretty plain looking though. And a single strand of white Christmas lights is strung across the front of the building, as if in a half-hearted nod to the lavishly decorated shops all around it.

Well, almost all around. This is mostly a block of attached stores, but the bookshop is only attached on one side.

On the other is a grassy lawn that looks like it’s being used as a Christmas tree lot.

Oddly, it’s the only spot on the whole block with no decorations at all, just rows of trees and a hand-painted sign that says Closed.

As if there could be any doubt with the space completely empty and a chain hanging across the front.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Mrs. Perkins mutters to herself as she tries what must be the fourth or fifth key on the ring.

“Should we call the owner?” I offer.

“No,” she says right away, turning to make eye contact. “You never want to call the owner.”

She turns back to her work, leaving me to blink at the back of her head and try to decide how freaked out I should be. Aunt Jessie told me that the owner was local. If he or she isn’t friendly, that could be uncomfortable.

“Here we go,” she says, with obvious relief.

“Why should I never call the owner?” I ask.

Mrs. Perkins peers worriedly around the street, as if spies for the owner might be crouching behind the parked cars or the potted arborvitae that flank the bookshop doors.

“It’s cold out here,” she says. “We can talk inside.”

But when she opens the door and flicks on the lights, I’m too distracted to remember what I was worried about.

The first thing I notice is that the building is obviously well-maintained. There’s not a stain on the ceiling or even a crack in the paint. This shop has to be over a hundred years old, so someone has taken real trouble to keep it in good order.

But it’s as vanilla as an insurance office.

The floor is covered in flat commercial carpet in a depressingly faded blue.

The bookshelves are all lined up without anything to differentiate between the sections other than yellowed index cards that look like they were labeled with an actual typewriter, possibly shortly after the typewriter was invented.

I can work with it, though, I remind myself happily. I have almost no budget, but I’ve got imagination and energy. And this place has plenty of space and some beautiful woodwork—good bones, as my dad would say.

And just like that, I’m feeling good about the move again.

I’m examining the sparse stock, which puts this place maybe half a step above an airport kiosk when Mrs. Perkins clears her throat.

“Sorry,” I say, jogging back to her.

“Do you want to see the apartment?” she asks.

“Of course,” I reply.