Chapter Thirty-Five Sophie
Thirty-Five
Sophie
Sophie perched on her newly cushioned window seat, a book in hand, and a steaming mug of Earl Grey at her side. The rain tapping against the glass reminded her of lazy Sundays in her London flat, except here the view was of churning lake water rather than bustling streets.
“Very British weather you’re giving me today, Solace Springs,” she murmured, taking a sip of tea. “Miserable and moody.”
Appropriate really, considering how she felt.
Three weeks since their blowout and she still found herself turning to share a thought with Luke, only to find empty space where his broad shoulders should be.
Three weeks of throwing herself into bookshop preparations to avoid thinking about the hurt in his eyes when she’d mentioned Claire.
She’d spent the night staring at the ceiling beams of her boathouse as, finally, the truth had seeped into her bones, settling like sediment at the bottom of a lake—undeniable, immovable.
Luke didn’t want to be with her. She’d been one of those tourist flings after all, like Natalie said.
She needed to focus on more book ordering, which, she’d discovered, was part science, part gambling addiction.
Would that obscure Finnish crime novel find its audience or would it gather dust until the next millennium?
Should she order five copies of the new celebrity cookbook or twenty?
Each decision felt momentous, even as a voice in her head reminded her that no one would die if she got it wrong.
The reality of running an actual business—not just the romantic dream she’d sold to her crowdfunding backers—was hitting her like a series of small, persistent waves.
There were vendor accounts to establish, sales tax permits to file, insurance policies to decode.
Every day brought a new expense she hadn’t budgeted for, another complication she hadn’t foreseen when she’d been wine-drunk and dreaming of literary success.
Not to mention the unfinished counter. She couldn’t bring herself to ask Luke to complete it and any carpenters she found were all booked out.
Her gaze was drawn to the driftwood shelves Luke had built lining the walls, each one now filled with carefully curated titles.
When he’d installed them, he’d run his hand over the smooth wood with such quiet pride that Sophie had nearly combusted on the spot.
Who knew craftsmanship could be such an aphrodisiac?
Certainly not her previous boyfriends, whose DIY skills had maxed out at assembling IKEA furniture, usually with parts left over.
But now those shelves just reminded her of what she didn’t have.
She dragged her eyes away. This wasn’t about Luke. This was about her. She’d wanted this for so long. Independence. A business built on her terms.
So why did the achievement feel hollow?
Maybe it was because, despite her best efforts, Luke’s ghost seemed to haunt every corner of the boathouse.
The mug he’d used the morning they’d shared coffee on the dock (the one she absolutely did not wash less frequently than the others).
The pencil marks on the wall where he’d carefully measured for shelving, his handwriting so precise it could have been a font called “Stubborn Craftsman Bold.” Even his blasted power drill had memories, like the way he’d patiently shown her how to use it, standing close enough that she could feel the rumble of his voice against her back when he’d murmured, “Not so hard, just let the tool do the work.”
She looked out toward the section of dock they’d sat on one night, talking about constellations.
He’d surprised her by knowing not just the traditional names but all the stories behind them.
“My grandfather taught me about the stars,” he’d said, “told me a man should know his place in the universe.” Sophie had nearly replied that she’d like his place to be right next to her, forever, but had swallowed the words with her wine instead.
And now any chance of forever with him was gone.
There was a knock at her door. She opened it to find Grace standing outside, pink hair drenched from the rain, two coffees in her hand. “In my defense, it wasn’t raining like this when I left the café.”
Sophie laughed, letting Grace in. Grace paused, taking in the interior. “Wow, Sophie. Look how much you’ve done! I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never seen the old boathouse look so good.”
Sophie took a fortifying sip of coffee, trying to ignore the swarm of butterflies performing an interpretive dance in her stomach.
“Thanks. Though I’m not sure the whole town will agree.
I’m expecting at least three passive-aggressive comments about ‘changing the character of the place’ and one direct accusation of gentrification. ”
“Stop it.” Grace bumped her shoulder. “Everyone’s so excited for the opening this weekend! We’ve never had a proper bookshop in Solace Springs; this is major!”
Sophie nodded, trying to shake off the nerves that had been building all day.
Everything was coming along: every shelf now, including the floating ones, filled with books (arranged by genre and color, because she was nothing if not a woman of compromise), café area outside stocked with locally roasted coffee beans, children’s nook complete with a basket of stuffed animals for story time.
The festival bunting she’d ordered specially from an Etsy shop after staying up until 2 a.m. scrolling through seventeen different options while eating biscuits straight from the tin like some sort of festival-decoration-obsessed gremlin had also arrived.
So why did it feel like something vital was missing?
She knew the answer, of course. It was six feet two inches of stubborn, sun-weathered boat captain, and it had been haunting her.
It was embarrassing, borderline stalker territory.
The man had made his feelings crystal clear…
or rather, his complete lack of feelings.
He wasn’t into her. Obviously. She needed to get that man out of her brain and the best way she knew to do that was through books and friendship.
“Come see what I’ve done with the local history section,” Sophie said abruptly, setting down her coffee and leading Grace to the far corner of the shop.
“I finished it last night, which is why I look like something that’s been dragged through a hedge backward and then blow-dried on the wrong setting. ”
The right-hand corner beneath the balcony had been transformed into a tribute to the lake’s heritage.
Shelves of local history books were arranged beneath a collection of framed black-and-white photographs: boats being built, families gathered on docks, fishing expeditions from decades past. At the center was a display case containing what looked like hand-drawn boat plans, tools, and an old leather-bound journal.
“Is that…?” Grace trailed off, peering at the display.
“The Rhodes family collection,” Sophie confirmed, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from the display cloth for the fourth time in as many minutes. “I got most of it from the historical society archives at the museum. Ella really is a demon of research.”
Grace’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. “You’ve created a whole exhibit on Luke’s family?”
“Not just on them,” Sophie quickly said, realizing this might only add to her stalker vibes.
“On all the boat-building families of Solace Lake.” She gestured to the photographs, trying for nonchalance and missing by approximately the distance from London to Edinburgh.
“But yes, the Rhodes family features prominently. They’ve been here the longest, after all. ”
She’d spent hours at the museum with a very talkative Ella, combing through archives for mentions of the Rhodes family. The boat plans had been a particularly exciting find: original sketches by Luke’s grandfather for what would become his signature design.
“And I didn’t realize Luke’s mother’s family have just as deep roots here,” Sophie continued. “The Flores women were basically the lake’s unofficial medical department for about two centuries, weren’t they?”
Grace looked puzzled.
Sophie pointed to a sepia photograph of women in long skirts gathered around what looked like an herb garden.
“Spanish settlers, originally. Luke’s great-great-grandmother was the go-to person for everything from broken bones to difficult births.
The Flores women ran an informal healthcare system.
Herbal remedies, midwifery, even weather prediction, if you can believe that.
” Sophie’s voice grew more animated despite herself.
“Ella found records going back to the eighteen hundreds.”
Grace’s eyebrows rose. “Wow, Sophie. You really went full detective, didn’t you?”
Sophie shrugged. “Needed to keep my mind occupied.”
Grace studied her face. “You did this for Luke.”
“No. I did this for Solace Springs.”
But maybe Grace was half right. Sophie ran a hand along the edge of the display case, remembering how Luke’s face had lit up the first time he’d told her about his grandfather teaching him to sand wood.
How his voice had softened when describing summers spent in the boathouse workshop, learning techniques passed down through generations.
The way his whole demeanor had changed, opening up like a flower to the sun.
Then she noticed something.
She blinked, suddenly focusing on what she’d been absently tracing with her fingertip.
There, in one of the sepia photographs, was something that made her pulse race.
One of the Flores men—Luke’s great-great-grandfather, according to Ella’s notes—was wearing a distinctive belt with an ornate buckle.
Even in the faded photograph, she could make out the design: a compass rose that had been stylized to look like a flowering blossom, with delicate petals forming the directional points.