Chapter Six
Rosalia
I look around Novel Idea, taking in the quirky shelves and lovingly stacked books. These walls hold so many stories—stories that might soon fade into silence, along with my dream of expanding the reading and working here until I’m old and gray.
A long, weary sigh escapes from me. Setting my cell on the beautiful counter made with love and books, I run my hand over the smooth wood top.
Each grain is a testament to the hours my dad spent sanding and varnishing it.
We built the rest together. When I left Michigan and moved here, our weekends were spent at thrift stores and digging through free bins for old books to build this counter.
I’d told him about the lease issue, but downplayed how serious it was. He’d offered to help again, but I couldn’t let him. Dad’s heart might be bigger than Kentucky, but his house is already on the line for my first loan. There is no way I’d ask or take more.
At least I had the sense not to tell him about Thorne’s offer. It was not an option. Instead, I pretended to have options to keep my father from worrying and doing something drastic.
Quitting isn’t on the table. At thirty-two years old, I shouldn’t still need to ask my parents for money.
And Dad has already done more than enough.
I could ask Mom for a modest loan to get a small shop somewhere off the beaten path that will be a lot cheaper than this place.
But the thought of asking her made my stomach churn.
I knew exactly what would happen. She’d swoop in, take over, and manage every aspect of my life again.
My inbox is full of unanswered emails to banks, and my call log shows a dozen outgoing calls with no returns.
It’s been two days since Thorne’s visit, and I’ve reached out to every financial institution within fifty miles, but so far, I’ve received nothing but silence.
Surely one of them would see the potential in my bookstore and get back to me?
Tapping my phone against the counter, I watch dust motes drift through the afternoon light. The peaceful scene mocks me. Time to stop stalling.
I dial Mom’s number. “Is everything okay, sweetie?” she answers, her voice tinged with perennial worry.
She is kind and caring, but her love is a suffocating embrace. Normally, I respond to her catastrophe-ready greetings with sarcasm and jokes, but today the words catch in my throat, heavy with unspoken fears. “No, things aren’t good.”
“What happened? Let me help.” There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, the telltale pause that her anxiety is growing .
A knot forms in my stomach. She’s probably mentally packing her bags to rescue me because that’s who she is, a first responder to my every crisis. But at thirty-two, I should be handling this alone, not feeding her anxiety.
Yet, I’m only two years into my business venture and I’m begging for help.
But asking for a small loan is better than returning to Michigan a complete failure, so broke I’d have to move back in with my mom.
It’s so easy to picture myself hunched on the fold-out couch in Mom’s basement, surrounded by cardboard boxes and childhood memorabilia, while she calls down the stairs each morning to ask what I want for breakfast.
“Rosalia? Are you still there?”
I swallow the lump of desperation lodged in my throat. “Sorry, Mom. It’s the bookstore…” I give her the edited version—lease troubles, financial strain—and hint that I might need help.
“Let me see what I can do, honey. But I’m not sure there’s much. We haven’t talked in a while, so you don't know this…” She sighs, and I hear what’s unsaid: I’m all alone and my daughter rarely calls.
“Mom, we talked last week.”
She hums, then continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’ve decided to leave the school. I told them on Monday. The last few years haven’t been great, and, with no need for free tuition, I figured it’s time for a change. I’ve applied to places closer to your grandmother.”
“That’s exciting,” I tell her, meaning it. She needs a change.
“I thought you’d be upset.”
“Why?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Mom thinks I loved that school.
The Hayek sisters and our volleyball team were amazing, but the rest of my classmates could suck it. I straighten a stack of books on the counter, the familiar movement grounding me.
“I’m happy if you’re happy,” I say. “Where have you applied to?”
“All the public schools in Ann Arbor. Two have called me for an interview. ”
I love the joyous lilt in my mother’s voice. “I bet grandma is thrilled. I’m so happy for you.”
“Thanks, honey, and she is, but I feel awful. I’m not sure any bank would give me a mortgage loan, knowing I’ll soon be temporarily unemployed.”
The familiar edge of financial worry in her voice takes me back.
Some things never change. Money was always tight in our household, every dollar stretched thin.
Even now, the phrase stings the same way it did when I was the charity case kid at Michigan’s most exclusive private school.
While my classmates casually discussed their European vacations, I’d felt the burden of every dollar my parents struggled to provide.
The stark economic divide had been a constant, painful reminder that I didn’t belong.
“That’s okay. And I hope you get the job. A2 is such a great school system.” I say cheerfully, not wanting her to hear the old hurt. She’d worked so hard and had been so proud to have me in that school, never knowing about the jerks who made fun of my second-hand uniforms.
“You know…” There is a world of suffocating hope in her pause. “They have a posting for a librarian at one of the high schools too. You should apply for it.”
“I live here.” I inhale deeply, letting the familiar scent of old paper and binding glue fill my lungs with a sense of reassurance.
“Come home. I’ll take care of you.”
A tightness squeezes my chest. “Kentucky is my home now.”
“Your dad can’t take care of you like I can.”
“I’m thirty-two, Mom,” I tell her, unable to hide the subtle undertone of exasperation. Inhaling deeply, the air fills my nostrils with the musty fragrance of fresh pages. “Don’t you think it’s time I take care of myself?”
“Nonsense. We’ve always taken care of each other. Even before your dad and I divorced.”
That wasn’t true. She, not I, had managed and handled everything in our lives. That needs to end.
The bell on the door chimes and I glance in that direction.
The knot in my chest loosens at the sight of Paige, her arrival a welcome interruption to my spiraling thoughts.
Her blonde pixie cut is a little flat from the long morning and afternoon hours in her bakery’s kitchen.
In contrast, the smile on her generous mouth is as vibrant as the rest of her.
My lips form their first genuine smile since before Thorne’s visit. “Mom, I have a customer.”
“Okay, sweetie. Call me later. Let’s talk more about you coming home.”
I make a non-committal sound before hanging up. Paige places a wrapped sandwich between us, and I shake my head. Moving around the counter and hugging my friend, I pull back and wag a finger. “Like I’ve told you a million times, you don’t need to feed me.”
Though there’s no denying my mouth is watering. I might have eaten a few hours ago, but Paige’s food is paradise for the taste buds.
“And, like I’ve said, I enjoy feeding people. It’s my job,” Paige replies.
And she’s very good at it. Customers from all over Kentucky flock to her bakery that’s just three doors down from my store. She leans on the counter while I unwrap the sandwich. “When does your next book club arrive?” she asks.
“Cozy Mysteries will be here in an hour.” I look around at the empty table, the expensive reading chairs—all the pieces of my dream that might soon need new homes. An ache spreads through my chest.“What’s wrong?” Paige asks.
“It’s been a rollercoaster of a day.”
“Do you love or hate the ride?”
My stomach turns. “I despise them.”
Paige looks at her watch. “I’ve got an hour until I need to get back to prep for tomorrow’s baking, and you, surprisingly, don’t have any customers. Spill. What happened?”
I hesitate, but next to the Hayek sisters, Paige is my closest friend. I tell her about her lease issue and then Thorne’s deal. By the time I finish, her eyes are as big as serving plates. “No joke?” she asks.
Nodding, I pull Thorne’s card from a drawer and hand it to her. “No kidding.”
“Wow. I’ve heard about those two, but damn…” She flips the card over. “So Sebastian shows up, invites you to coffee, then his la wyer—”
“A Blackstone lawyer,” I correct.
She rolls her eyes. “Isn’t he a Blackstone? And he asks you out right before the lawyer calls… The timing is suspicious, don’t you think? It could be a red herring to make you think he’s not involved with the eviction.”
“Maybe, but even if that’s true, it goes against who I am to do something that could harm him or his career. Plus, I can’t see what Sebastian would get out of all this.”
She shrugs. “ I heard they compete over everything, from work to women. The rumor is that Sebastian’s marriage ended because of some rivalry between him and his brother.”
I absorb this information, letting the weight of it settle alongside everything else. Marriage destroyed by family rivalry makes me wonder about Thorne’s offer. But dwelling on their mess won’t save my store.
“I’ve thought about getting a second job,” I admit.
“But who would run the store while I’m gone?
And would I make enough money fast enough to secure a new lease somewhere else?
This feels like a waking nightmare. But then I imagine the looks on the kids’ faces when they come for story time and find the doors locked, and I realize the real nightmare would be letting them down.
Everyone who comes through these doors isn’t just a customer, they’re my community.
My family. How can I walk away from that? ”