CHAPTER 6 SATURDAY ON HONEYSUCKLE STREET
The first unofficial story hour happened by accident.
On Saturday morning, Clara arrived at eight to find Anna Mercer and Noah sitting on the front steps.
Noah was six, missing one front tooth, and holding a dinosaur book against his chest.
“Aunt June said Saturdays were story days,” he announced before Clara could say hello.
Clara unlocked the door.
“The shop is not technically open yet.”
Noah considered this.
“Can stories be technically open?”
Anna covered a smile.
Clara looked at the boy.
“That is an unfairly strong argument for someone who cannot reach the top shelf.”
“I can with a chair.”
“No chairs for climbing.”
“Aunt June let me.”
“Aunt June broke several rules.”
“She said rules should know why they exist.”
That sounded exactly like June.
Clara let them in.
By nine, three more children had arrived.
By nine-fifteen, Maggie showed up with mini muffins.
By nine-thirty, Eli was repairing a shelf in the children’s corner while seven children sat on the rug waiting for Clara to read.
“I didn’t advertise this,” Clara whispered to Maggie.
“You put a handwritten sign in the window yesterday that said ‘Opening Soon.’”
“That does not mean story hour.”
“In Honeysuckle, it apparently does.”
Clara looked at the expectant faces.
Then at the shelves.
She selected a picture book about a stubborn little train and sat beneath the faded moon.
The children leaned closer.
Her voice was rusty at first.
Then it wasn’t.
She remembered how Aunt June changed voices for characters, how she paused before turning a page, how she looked up from the book more often than down.
Clara did not imitate her.
She found her own rhythm.
Halfway through, she glanced toward Eli.
He had stopped working.
He stood beside the shelf with a screwdriver in one hand, watching her.
Something in his expression made her lose her place.
Noah pointed. “You skipped a sentence.”
“Thank you, editor.”
She found the line and continued.
After the story, parents browsed while the children colored at a low table.
Someone bought three books even though Clara still did not have the computer working properly.
She wrote another receipt by hand.
At noon, the sidewalk outside the shop had become a small gathering place. Maggie set up a tray of samples. Mr. Soto brought a stack of donated local-history books. Anna taped paper stars to the inside of the children’s window.
Eli disappeared for twenty minutes and returned carrying a wooden bench.
Clara stared.
“What is that?”
“A bench.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why ask?”
She ignored him. “Where did it come from?”
“My shop.”
The bench was simple and beautiful, made of warm oak with gently curved arms. A small line of carved honeysuckle leaves ran across the back.
Clara touched the carving.
“You made this?”
“Yes.”
“For June?”
He nodded.
“When?”
“Last winter.”
“Why didn’t she put it out?”
“She wanted it in the reading room.”
Clara looked toward the unfinished rear room.
“Then why are you putting it here?”
“Because people need somewhere to sit today.”
She looked at him.
That was Eli in one sentence.
He had always been able to see what was needed now without losing sight of what something could become later.
When they were younger, Clara had admired that.
Later, she had feared it.
Eli positioned the bench beneath the front window.
Noah climbed onto it immediately.
“Perfect,” he declared.
Clara laughed.
Around two, an elderly man Clara did not recognize entered carrying a cardboard box.
“You June’s niece?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Walter Dean. She held these for me.”
He placed the box on the counter.
Inside were thirty western novels, each with a small handwritten price on the first page.
“She let me trade,” Walter explained. “Bring two back, take one. Been doing it ten years.”
Clara looked at the box.
“That is a terrible business model.”
Walter nodded. “June said the same thing.”
“Then why did she do it?”
“Because my wife was sick and books kept me company at the hospital.”
Clara’s expression softened.
Walter pushed the box toward her.
“I don’t need the trade anymore. Thought you could sell them proper.”
Clara looked at him.
“How is your wife?”
“She passed in March.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded.
“She liked June. They’re both with the Lord now.”
Clara rested a hand on the box.
“You can keep trading here.”
Walter blinked.
“The shop isn’t open yet,” Clara added. “But when it is.”
His eyes brightened.
“Thank you.”
After he left, Clara wrote on a sticky note:
WALTER — TWO FOR ONE TRADE. DO NOT CHANGE.
She stuck it beneath the counter.
Eli had seen the whole exchange.
“Terrible business model,” he said.
“Be quiet.”
He smiled.
By five, the sidewalk emptied.
Clara sat on the new bench, exhausted.
Eli lowered himself beside her.
For a while they watched traffic move slowly past the windows.
“This town is exhausting,” Clara said.
“You forgot?”
“I underestimated it.”
“Common mistake.”
She leaned her head back against the window frame.
“I made eighty-six dollars today.”
“Not bad for a closed store.”
“I also gave away twelve muffins that weren’t mine, promised an old man he could continue an unprofitable exchange program, and ordered dinosaur stickers.”
“Business is booming.”
She laughed.
Then quiet came.
Eli traced the edge of the bench with one finger.
“June would have liked today.”
Clara nodded.
“I keep expecting her to walk out of the back room and tell me I shelved something wrong.”
“She would.”
“You know she organized fiction by author, except for four writers she claimed ‘didn’t belong near each other’?”
“I asked why once.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she had reasons.”
Clara smiled.
They sat without speaking.
It felt strangely natural.
Too natural.
Clara straightened.
“I should go.”
Eli nodded.
But neither moved.
Finally he said, “Why didn’t you come back?”
The question was quiet.
Not accusing.
That made it harder.
Clara looked at her hands.
“For June?”
“For anything.”
She could have given him easy answers. Work. Distance. Her mother moving away. Busy years. Short vacations.
Instead she said, “Because every year I stayed gone made coming back harder.”
Eli absorbed that.
“And after a while,” Clara continued, “I didn’t know who I’d be here.”
“You’d be Clara.”
She smiled sadly. “That was the problem.”
He turned toward her.
Before he could ask more, the front door rattled.
Maggie stood outside holding two iced coffees and pointing dramatically at the lock.
Clara laughed.
The moment broke.
Eli stood and opened the door.
As Maggie came in talking, Clara remained on the bench for another second.
She ran her fingers over the carved honeysuckle leaves.
The town was pulling at threads she had spent years knotting closed.
And Eli, without even trying, was finding the loose ends.