The Unbound Bookshop (Blessings Bay #3)

Chapter 1

ABBY

Abigail Preston stared at the sleek lines of the custom sailboat decorating the glossy auction house brochure, tuning out the raucous bidding war over a sterling silver thimble set. As she studied the photograph, tears stung her eyes like a wayward splash of lemon juice. Would the guilt ever wane?

“Did I miss it?” Sage Harper flounced onto the chair Abby had saved for her, pink-cheeked and breathless, her hair a mass of windswept honey-blond curls.

Her friend’s arrival yanked Abby from her melancholy thoughts, snapping her surroundings into focus. The auctioneer, calling out bids with over-punctuated precision. The stiff wooden chair that left her backside numb. The scent of stale coffee in paper cups and antiques newly released from dusty attics. Each sight and sensation helped shove her self-reproach into the back of her mind.

“I think they’re saving the sailboat for last.” Abby tucked the brochure into her purse and switched the bid paddle from her left hand to her right, ignoring her clammy palms.

“Thank goodness.” Sage’s shoulders slumped with her heavy exhale. “I can’t afford to miss this opportunity. It may be my last chance.”

“I know the feeling.” Abby offered her friend a shaky smile. Although her coveted auction item wouldn’t change her life the same way Sage’s would, she’d been searching for the antique Spode sugar bowl for months—the last remaining piece to complete her set.

As if reading her mind, Sage nodded toward the stage and whispered, “Do you think that’s your sugar bowl?”

The mysterious auction item sat on a small table, cloaked in a black cloth the size of a handkerchief.

Good old Herman Chesterfield sure loved his theatrics. Too bad the auctioneer’s assistant—his ninety-year-old mother, Mabel—didn’t get the memo. Preparing the next item in the auction lineup, the spunky senior wheeled a gilded frame resting on a rickety antique easel toward the stage, abandoning it by the ramp to wait its turn.

Abby tensed. The large photograph of a vintage sailing schooner held her gaze against her will. The same photograph from the brochure. The same photograph that haunted her dreams.

“There it is,” Sage breathed. “The answer to my problem. At least, I hope so. Isn’t she beautiful?”

Abby heard Sage speaking but couldn’t process the words. Her mind reeled backward in time to the day two fishermen discovered the sailboat shipwrecked on an island off the coast of Blessings Bay—to the first thought that had flashed in her mind.

Please don’t let it be Sam Bailey’s boat.

She shivered at the memory, shame slithering up her spine. Her fears weren’t founded in the painful possibility of recovering his remains but in the unlikely chance he’d be found alive.

What kind of foster mom was she? What kind of person ? Her sweet eight-year-old son prayed nightly for his father’s safe return. And even though his dad had been missing at sea for months, Max Bailey’s faith never wavered. Not even once.

Each night, she bowed her head beside him, her prayers drenched in sincerity. She wanted Sam to be found, safe and sound. She wanted father and son to be reunited. Of course she did! She wasn’t a monster.

Or was she? The second she’d heard the word shipwreck , her heart had betrayed her—had betrayed Max. At the miraculous possibility of his father’s rescue—of Sam returning for Max—she’d wanted to cry. Not tears of joy or relief. Tears of grief.

She’d longed to be a mother, from the moment she held her first baby doll wrapped in a pink polka-dot swaddle. Even after discovering her late husband’s infertility, she’d dreamt of adopting a child—a child who needed all the love she had to share.

When Max came into her life last Christmas, he fit so effortlessly. As if she’d had a Max-shaped hole in her heart all those years. She didn’t want to lose him or the family they’d built together.

Only upon learning the recovered sailboat belonged to local legend and eccentric billionaire, Edwin Mackensie, not Sam Bailey, did the relief finally come.

And that had to make her the most selfish person in the world.

“Our next treasure may be my favorite of the day.” Herman broke through her thoughts. Standing tall in a tweed suit, he pinched the black cloth between his white-gloved fingertips. At some point during her self-chastising reverie, he’d moved on from the thimble set.

“While it’s tragically been separated from its family, it’s no less remarkable as a standalone piece.” He overenunciated with the tiniest hint of an English accent. An accent the self-proclaimed anglophile had acquired purely from binge-watching British television. “This exquisite, early nineteenth century, bone china sugar bowl by the irrefutably flawless Great Britain–based houseware company, Spode, would be a coup for any serious collector.” He whipped the cloth away with the dramatic flourish of a matador, eliciting oohs and aahs from the crowd.

“This is it.” Sage gave her hand a quick squeeze.

Abby squeezed back, grateful for the moral support. Time to focus .

“The gold edging is pristine,” Herman continued. “And the delicate floral design featuring blue and purple violets is hand-painted, making this piece one of a kind.”

“He’s laying it on a little thick, isn’t he?” Sage whispered.

Abby scooted toward the edge of her seat, her heart thrumming. She’d counted on not many people coveting a single sugar bowl. Didn’t most collectors prefer complete sets? But the way Herman went on and on about it, she might have more competition than she’d anticipated.

“Let’s start the bidding at a mere fifty dollars.”

“Fifty dollars?” Sage hissed. “For one sugar bowl?”

Abby raised her paddle.

“We have fifty. Do we have sixty?”

Abby held her breath as Herman scanned the multipurpose town hall turned temporary auction house. Since Herman only held these events biannually, there wasn’t an empty seat to be found. Somewhere, in the shoulder-to-shoulder throng, another paddle shot into the air.

“We have sixty,” Herman recounted. “Do we have seventy?”

Abby lifted her paddle, her pulse pounding in her ears.

The same bidder countered, but her contender remained hidden behind a trio of women wearing enormous floral-rimmed sun hats.

She sat a little straighter, reaching her hand higher in the air, as if elevation would somehow grant her an advantage. No such luck. Her opponent pounced before she’d even had a chance to lower her arm.

For the next several minutes, they played an unrelenting round of ping-pong, lobbing bids back and forth until the price rocketed to $150. At this rate, she’d blow through her entire budget in mere seconds.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” Abby confessed in a hoarse whisper. “I brought two hundred, but hadn’t expected to pay anything close to that amount.” She slid the bills from her back pocket, splaying them between her fingers to see if they’d miraculously multiplied.

“Two hundred for a sugar bowl?” Sage matched her hushed tone. “Are you sure you need it that badly?”

Abby swallowed against the uncomfortable dryness in her throat. Did she need it? Not exactly. But from the moment she’d opened her boutique inn a few months ago, she’d longed to complete the set. And now that she’d booked her first bigwig guest at Blessings on State Street, she had even more motivation.

Sadie Hamilton—the fiancée of billionaire philanthropist Landon Morris—had reserved her brand-new Blessings & Blooms package for herself and her maid of honor. The friend also happened to be famous, and her lifestyle YouTube channel, Grow with Lucy Gardener, had recently received praise on a national talk show.

Upon checking in later that week, the two women would enjoy four days of pampering, relaxation, and luxury, starting with a traditional afternoon tea. Abby had her heart set on using her vintage Spode tea set but couldn’t bring herself to substitute a mismatched sugar bowl. Not when Lucy Gardener would be filming every infinitesimal detail of their stay.

After a career ghostwriting cookbooks, making other people’s visions come to life, the inn was the first endeavor to bear her own name. The first undertaking that represented her own accomplishments, her own dreams. She had to get it right.

Of course, there was always a slim chance she’d chosen to fixate on an external goal like buying the sugar bowl to avoid processing her conflicted emotions about Max, but that was an issue for another day.

Before she knew what she was doing, she heard herself say, “Two hundred dollars.”

“Two hundred dollars,” Herman repeated with an expression of equal parts surprise and delight splashed across his sharp, angular features.

A collective hush settled around the room, except for the squeak of folding chairs as everyone turned to glance in her direction.

Heat swept up her neck. What had she done? She had no business spending a small fortune on something so frivolous. Max outgrew his clothes every other day, and even with the stipend she received from the state as a foster mom, raising a rapidly growing boy cost more than she’d ever imagined. Plus, what would Logan think?

Her blush deepened. They’d only been dating a few months, but she already factored her beau/business partner into most areas of her life. Between running the inn and raising Max, they made the majority of their decisions together. Would he understand her impulsive purchase?

With every muscle now knotted and tense, Abby craned her neck to see around the row of derby hat-adorned women who’d thankfully shifted in their seats to gawk at her.

Her breath hitched the second she glimpsed her competition. Archie Higgins, the octogenarian owner of the local grocery store, clumsily tapped a cell phone screen—a cell phone he clearly didn’t know how to use.

What on earth did a widower who considered heavy-duty paper plates fancy dinnerware want with an antique sugar bowl?

To her horror, Archie set down the phone and raised his paddle.

“There you have it, ladies and gentlemen,” Herman remarked with unbridled glee. “The current bid is $210. Do I hear two-twenty?” He twisted the end of his petite handlebar mustache, gazing at her expectantly.

Her heart stopped. Archie had outbid her. For a sugar bowl. It didn’t make sense.

For a millisecond, her thoughts flickered to the money sitting in the bank—the money she hadn’t touched since her husband, Donnie, died over a year ago. Maybe she could ask Sage for a short-term loan and— No . She gave a sharp shake of her head, dismissing the unconscionable idea. She couldn’t use that money. Not even for this.

With painful resignation, she set the paddle in her lap, admitting defeat.

“Two hundred and ten dollars going once, going twice, and sold, to the tea lover in the denim overalls,” Herman announced with unnecessary theatrics since everyone in the room knew Archie by name.

The one thing Abby felt confident everyone didn’t know about Archie was why he’d taken a sudden and expensive interest in fine china.