The Forgotten Book Club

Chapter One

A year was a long time to keep a door closed, especially when she walked past it at least ten times a day. Now, on the first anniversary of Frank’s death, Grace stood in front of the door to his study in the hallway next to her basement kitchen, willing herself to put her hand on the knob and turn.

No. It was too hard. She pivoted, marched towards the foot of the stairs, got halfway up, then stopped.

Maybe it was the spectral glow of the light from the first floor that made her pause.

It shimmered through from the glass rooms Frank had built onto the back of their Victorian house, like a message from him, showing her he was still there in the brightness he’d meticulously designed to flow through the house.

The thought caused a blockage in her throat.

With his glow guiding her, like a supporting hand, she turned and made her way back to the door of the room Frank loved so much.

She took a gulp of air, turned the doorknob and felt the mechanism click open.

The darkness inside made her start. She had a vague memory of her daughter, Rosie, telling her she’d closed the curtains to protect the books, and that made sense, but it also meant the room had been cloaked in shadow for twelve months, and Frank would have hated that.

Guilt propelled Grace across the room to the window.

Her shin caught on the edge of the coffee table she’d forgotten was there.

She yelped in pain. Swearing, she gave it a quick rub then took hold of the heavy brocade curtains and yanked them wide open.

Sunlight flooded the room, momentarily blinding her.

She turned, waited for her eyes to adjust, then allowed them to rest first on the pair of winged armchairs, with plump cushions in the same blue and gold fabric of the curtains.

When the emptiness of the chairs threatened to overwhelm her, she turned her gaze to the wall opposite and to her left, where shelves painted in the same creamy grey as the walls heaved with books from floor to cornice.

Frank collected books with a passion bordering on obsession, keeping the ones he loved most down here, relegating others to bookcases Grace sourced through her work, which were scattered throughout the rest of the house.

He used to say marrying an antiques dealer was a strategic move on his part.

How else would an architect get the best deals for their beautiful home?

He always said it with his trademark sparkle, but Grace just rolled her eyes because she knew as well as he did that there was nothing strategic about the way they fell for each other.

It was a lightning bolt they’d both felt at the same moment on meeting, and the heat of it never left them.

She crossed the room to the walnut desk against the wall by the door.

The dappled wood was still as glossy as it had been when she and Frank ran their fingers over it in Simpson’s Antiques almost thirty years ago, when they first renovated this house and filled it with the antique furniture Grace loved.

Thanks to Frank’s hard work and professional talent, a decade later they’d saved enough money to build the two-floor extension on the back made entirely from glass.

It was Frank’s dream project and just like him it was innovative, quirky and full of light.

Grace picked up the framed photo from the desk and took it over to the chair near the window.

Light shone on the dusty glass, and the picture blurred as Grace viewed it through her tears.

She wiped her eyes, then pulled the sleeve of her linen tunic down over her hand and rubbed it over the glass.

She stared at it then, the faces of her small family smiling back at her from the frame.

Jude, Grace’s grandson was in the centre, sandwiched between his mum and dad, Rosie and Paz, looking incredibly handsome in his graduation gown, his cap balanced precariously on his soft twists.

Rosie’s arm rested around Grace’s shoulder, and Frank stood on the other side of Paz, with a grin that couldn’t have been wider.

Grace examined the photograph, scouring Frank’s face for any sign that twelve short months later, he’d have a heart attack that would end his life far too soon.

He appeared pale, but anyone would standing next to Paz, and gorgeous Jude.

In the picture Rosie was looking up at her son with a pride Grace recognized, because that’s how she felt about Rosie.

Grace let out a sigh. Poor Rosie. The last year had been incredibly hard for her.

Instead of grieving herself, Rosie put all her energies into helping Grace.

And to her shame, Grace – shattered by her own grief – had let her.

Recently, she’d decided it was time to put Rosie first. Grace would be seventy next year.

She was fit and well and both too old and too young need caring for.

To stop her worrying about her, Grace made sure she was out when her daughter usually called around.

She spent hours meandering through the woods up to the common, walking the routes she and Frank had once taken together, until her legs ached, then sitting on the bench overlooking the common, before wandering home for a meal for one.

It worked, in the end. Rosie and Jude believed she was busy and stopped calling in to check on her as much.

It was what she wanted. It was the right thing to do.

But the hours and the days now stretched endlessly out without the bright interruptions from the people she loved, and Grace had never felt so utterly alone.