“This Rachel Mills might surprise you.”
Atticus pictured Rachel with her blonde ponytail, Levi’s jeans, and funky Vans and knew that Troy was right. “She’s already surprised me,” he said gruffly. “She’s not at all who I thought she’d be.”
Troy lifted a black eyebrow. “You don’t make that sound like a good thing.”
“It’d be easier if she was who I expected. Now I’m just conflicted.”
Chapter Three
Main Street was still asleep when Rachel drove to the bookstore early the next morning, fortified with coffee, her laptop, and her phone—which she intended to use as a Wi-Fi hot spot later since the old brick building didn’t have internet—and a large quantity of cleaning supplies.
A few cars were on Main Street, and warm yellow shone from within the Java Café and Main Street Diner, but nearly all of the other stores and restaurants were dark. Unlocking the front door of the bookstore, she flicked on the overhead light and stood on the threshold, soaking it in, appreciating it even more this morning, and how Lesley had thoughtfully placed upholstered armchairs here and there, creating inviting spaces to sit and read.
The irony hit her all over again—she didn’t get the promotion, but she did get a bookstore in Montana. It would have been laughable if she hadn’t poured herself into her career, working tirelessly to become Novak & Bartley’s first female partner. She saw what was required and she took on more accounts, and asked for more responsibility, and worked longer hours, earning the firm more money, certain that eventually her loyalty would be noticed and rewarded.
But that hadn’t happened, and she’d been at Novak & Bartley for almost eight years. If she wasn’t going to be promoted now, when would she?
Was it time to choose a different path? Time to set new goals?
Was there a future here in this corner bookstore?
After tying her hair into a knot on top of her head, Rachel dusted, and then swept and mopped, tackling the downstairs before moving to the second floor. Once all the wood gleamed and the store smelled fresh from the lemon polish, she noticed how the spines of the books added warmth, color, and texture.
Rachel hadn’t ever spent much time thinking about bookstores until now. In her mind, they were just another store, and she’d been raised to take advantage of the library, and not spend money on books of her own, but knowing all of this—the books, the reading nooks, the high ceilings and crown moldings—filled her with a pleasure she hadn’t expected.
Curious now to see the attic apartment, Rachel unlocked the door in the back room, and climbed the stairs, turning on lights as she went. At the top of the landing she discovered the stairwell divided the apartment in half, with a living room and kitchen at one end, and a bedroom and bathroom at the other. Sky lights had been cut into the roof, and an oval window above the bed had a stunning view of the Gallatin Range and Copper Mountain.
Someone had been clever enough to turn the narrow hallways into functional space, with one side having built-in closets and dressers, and the other side bookshelves and a small desk. A framed bulletin board hung above the desk, but the steep slope of the rafters meant there wasn’t tremendous headspace. Fortunately, Rachel wasn’t tall and she liked the coziness of the apartment, and thought she could be quite comfortable here once she took her dust cloth and broom to everything. She’d thoroughly enjoyed Bramble House—they served a lovely, hot breakfast every morning—but this was free, and she hated spending money when it wasn’t necessary, so she’d give the bed and breakfast notice that tonight would be her last night with them.
Using her phone, she created a new to-do list, making notes of what was in the apartment, and what she’d need to purchase. Happily, she discovered linens, quilts, and pillows in zipper storage bags tucked in a cedar-lined stairwell closet. Opening the bags, she sniffed the linens and they smelled of lavender and vanilla thanks to little sachets tucked between all the layers. The small kitchen had everything she’d need from dishes and silverware, to baking sheets and pots and pans. All she really needed was to grocery shop and carry everything up.
With one last glance at her notes, she returned downstairs and went through everything behind the front counter, including the binders Zane had mentioned. Lesley’s organizational system was baffling. The book titles appeared to be added as Lesley purchased them, and then marked off as the books sold, all done in Lesley’s neat penmanship, but there was no alphabetical list of titles, or organization by subject matter.
Opening her computer, Rachel created a brand-new spreadsheet entitled Paradise Books—Used Book Catalog, and then retrieved a box of books from the back room, and picked up the first hardback, a dusty caramel color embossed in hunter green, The Oregon Trail. Opening the book cover, she typed the title, author’s name and 1912 copyright into Google search and immediately the book popped up, editions being sold by different bookstores, and the editions ranged from four hundred dollars for a signed first edition, to forty-four dollars for a book almost identical to the one resting on the counter next to her computer.
She was surprised that the book was worth as much, but also aware it’d take a unique buyer to purchase the book for forty-four dollars. “You’re rather special,” she said to the book, creating her first spreadsheet entry by inputting the title, the author name, the year published, the book’s condition, and then placing the book in a “keep” stack.
She reached for the next book, a small relatively slim blue hardbound book titled Wilderness Ways. It was published in 1901, and an inscription was written on the first page, For my dear Stanley, merry Christmas. With love from your grandmother, Evelyn Camfield December 25, 1902.
Rachel felt a little pang as she traced the delicately penned inscription with the tip of her finger. The letters were slanted, and somewhat quivery, and yet she could feel the love in the inscription. But typing the book’s info into the search engine, she discovered that the book wasn’t valuable, with prices ranging from just ten dollars to sixteen, and yet, to her, the book took on significance as, once upon a time, it had meant something to someone. She closed the cover and studied the book a long moment before adding the book to her database.
Rachel didn’t know how long she’d been working, sitting on the stool, hunched over her computer on the counter, going through books, researching history and value, when the front door opened, making the little bell ring.
It was Atticus coming through the door and today he’d dressed more appropriately for the cold by at least wearing a jacket.
“Good morning,” she said as he closed the door behind him.
“It’s the afternoon,” he answered. “It’s nearly two.”
“Is it? I had no idea.” She sat up taller and stretched.
“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning on the counter, invading her space.
She ought to be annoyed. Instead she felt a quickening of her pulse, her heart beating a little faster. She didn’t want to respond to him but energy seemed to crackle around him, making everything come to life. “Trying to sort through books and figure out which ones to keep, and when I find a keeper, I add it to the spreadsheet I just created. But the storage room is filled with books. It’s taken me a couple hours and I’ve gone through only one box of the books in the back room. I still have another twelve boxes to go.”
“Progress is progress.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. His expression warmed as his gaze met hers. “Find any keepers?”
That half smile of his had her heart racing. Did Atticus have any idea that he was playing havoc with her sense of control? “These,” she said, touching a tall pile. “And those are the rejects,
” she added, indicating a much smaller stack.
“You’re saving most.”
“So far, but there might be boxes that are just yellowed paperbacks.”
He glanced around the store with the shelves of warm, colorful spines. “Lesley’s books are in good shape. I have a feeling she’d only acquire books she thought might have value.”
“She does have a lot of good books,” she answered. “In one of the boxes, I found a set of The Five Little Peppers, and each one is worth fifty dollars or more, and she has six from the series, and they’re all in excellent shape.”
“What about this one?” he asked, picking up a mustard-yellow book with red-and-black art. “The Red Cross Girls?”
“That one isn’t worth very much. Maybe seven dollars.”
“But you have it in the keeper stack.”
“I know, because look,” Rachel said, opening the cover and turning to the first page where it had been inscribed. “To Bessie, on your twelfth birthday, from Grandma Sterba.”
“And this one?” he asked, holding up a battered copy of Little Men. “The cover has come completely off. The pages are falling out.”
She leaned over and opened the book. “It’s to Bessie again,” she said.
“Who is Bessie?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but most of the books in this box seem to have belonged to Bessie—or Elizabeth—and they were all well-loved. A few of them more loved than others.”
“Surely you can let go of the ones that were overly loved.”
Rachel returned the copy of Little Men to the tall stack and nudged them so they were perfectly straight. “Elizabeth saved these since she was a little girl, and she took good care of them. It’s hard to be ruthless now.”
“But it’s practical,” he answered. “You can’t keep everything. There isn’t room for them all.”
She said nothing, because he was right. She couldn’t keep everything, and if she did sell the store to him, he’d keep nothing.
“You’re getting attached, aren’t you?” he asked, but his tone was kind.