Carol’s jaw went slack, as if she’d just picked up a rock and found a $1 million scratch-off ticket underneath. “You’d really be interested in my little store?”
Christy-Lynn was as surprised as Carol to realize that she really was interested. In fact, she was nearly giddy at the thought. “I guess everyone who loves books thinks about it at some time or other, but I actually worked in a bookstore when I was in college and loved it.”
“Could you make a go of it, do you think?”
Christy-Lynn eyed the place again, this time more critically. It would be a huge undertaking, but it wasn’t like she had anything else to do with her time. “I think so,” she said at last, the wheels already turning. The renovations would be extensive; new flooring, lighting, shelving. She’d have to gut the café and start over, not to mention hiring a barista who knew how to make a decent latte. The stock was in serious need of updating, and there was nothing to appeal to children, but the place definitely had potential.
“I have a few ideas, some things I think might drive new customers through the door.”
Carol shook her head, still trying to digest the sudden reversal in her fortunes. “Well, this is certainly unexpected. I never thought anyone would actually want to buy the place. I have no idea how much it might be worth. It’s the property mostly and a little bit of inventory. Can you . . . do you think you’d be able to get a business loan?”
Carol was clearly uncomfortable with having to be so blunt, though it was a perfectly valid question. How to answer was the conundrum. No worries, my dead husband left me millions was likely to raise a few eyebrows, not to mention a whole spate of questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.
“I think it’s doable,” she said carefully. “I have some money saved, and there was a little life insurance. I’m not trying to push you one way or the other, but if you’re really serious about this, why don’t you work up what you think the property and inventory are worth, and we’ll get the ball rolling.”
Carol nodded slowly, her eyes slightly glazed. “All right then. I guess I’d better go call my daughter and tell her to clean out the spare room.”
An hour later, Christy-Lynn wandered into the lobby of the Fife and Feather feeling almost as dazed as Carol had looked when she left the Crooked Spine. Missy appeared with a smile and a plate of freshly baked cookies at the front desk.
“There you are. I was wondering where you’d gotten to. Mama’s taking the boys to the movies tonight, and I was thinking of grabbing some pasta. Interested in—” Missy paused midsentence, cookie plate hovering. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Christy-Lynn shook her head numbly. Was it wise to share her news? Carol might change her mind. Or her daughter could squash the idea of her mother becoming a permanent fixture in her home. The thought brought a pang of anxiety, because at some point during the walk home, she had decided she wanted this very much.
Missy set down the plate and came around to the front of the desk. “Honey, say something. You’re scaring me.”
“It’s fine,” Christy-Lynn said quietly. “In fact, it’s very fine.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you’re going to be losing a guest.”
Missy’s expression morphed from concern to disappointment. “You’re leaving Sweetwater?”
Christy-Lynn couldn’t help grinning. “No, but I’ll be needing somewhere permanent to live. I think I just bought a bookstore.”
THIRTEEN
Sweetwater, Virginia
December 31, 2016
The lunch crowd had already descended on the Fickle Pickle, but Christy-Lynn managed to snag a table near the window. She eyed the sky as she sipped her tea and waited for Missy to arrive. The Weather Channel was predicting a whopping three inches of snow, the equivalent of a spring shower for Mainers, but the report had sent locals scurrying for bread and milk.
The timing was unfortunate, almost certain to put a damper on the evening’s festivities. Not that she had any plans of her own. When it came to useless holidays, New Year’s had always been at the top of her list. Something about the forced gaiety and tedious resolutions, the pinning of one’s hopes on a single stroke of the clock, had always seemed stunningly naive.
But not this year.
For the first time in her life, she was actually looking forward to the stroke of midnight and was chomping at the bit to get to work on the store. And soon she’d have a place of her own to live. She’d been thrilled to learn that along with the shop, Carol Boyer was looking to sell her house, a small bungalow built in the 1920s that backed up to Sweetwater Creek. The inn was lovely, and Missy’s friendship had been an unexpected boon, but it was time to put down some roots.
Both deals were set to close in a few weeks, and she hoped to open the store sometime in April, sooner if all went well. She liked the idea of a spring opening. It felt symbolic, a season of growth and renewal. A time for closing old chapters and writing new ones. She glanced at her wrist, at the trio of moon-shaped scars that had been with her for more than twenty years, a permanent part of her backstory. Was a fresh start—one shaped by choice rather than catastrophe—too much to hope for? She didn’t know, but she was willing to find out.
She tucked the thought away, waving as Missy arrived. She looked tired and more than a little frazzled as she unwound her scarf and dropped into the chair opposite Christy-Lynn.
“Sorry I’m late. The dishwasher blew a gasket or a hose or something. I spent my morning coping with a flood. So much for a day off. Oh good, here comes our waitress. I’m famished.” She wagged her brows mischievously. “I’m thinking a tuna sandwich with a big old side of pasta salad. Last chance to carb up before the diet starts tomorrow. Speaking of which, what are you up to tonight? Got anything fun planned?”
Christy-Lynn couldn’t help smiling. Missy’s boundless energy never ceased to amaze her. She was about to answer when the waitress appeared with her order pad and a harried smile. When they were alone again, Missy picked up right where she’d left off.
“So, tonight?”
“No plans. I’ll probably just read or work on the café menu.”
“You should come over and spend it with us. I hated that you turned me down for Christmas at Mama and Daddy’s. No one’s supposed to be alone on Christmas.”
“I told you, I felt funny about horning in on you and your folks. And Christmas has never really been my thing.”
Missy shook her head as if bewildered. “I don’t get it. How can you not like Christmas? Everything’s so beautiful and festive. The music, the decorations, all the yummy food.”
Christy-Lynn kept her eyes averted as she spread her paper napkin in her lap. “Let’s just say the ghost of Christmas past and I have never been terribly close.”
“Sorry,” Missy said quietly. “Sometimes I forget how painful the holidays can be for some people. I didn’t mean to drag up unpleasant memories.”
“Forget it,” Christy-Lynn said, fiddling with her silverware. She could feel Missy studying her, waiting for her to say more, and it made her uncomfortable.
It wasn’t the bike or the Easy-Bake Oven that had never materialized under the tree—not that there had ever been a tree. It was about other things, intangible things like mothers and daughters sipping cocoa and baking cookies, stringing lights and hanging stockings. The moments most people took for granted.
Her own memories were of frozen dinners or boxed mac and cheese, eaten alone in front of the TV while her mother spent the day at the local bar, slinging drinks for tips and then coming home to pass out on the bathroom floor. They didn’t write carols about those kinds of things or put them on Christmas cards either.
“Say you’ll come tonight.” Missy prompted again. “It’ll be fun.”