The Truest Thing (Hart's Boardwalk 4)

Then she was gone.

His chest ached harder.

Jack’s reaction was an overreaction. But he couldn’t deny it was how he felt.

And for the first time in a long time, Jack got very, very drunk that night.

2

Emery

Hartwell

Nine years ago

* * *

Standing behind the counter of my bookstore café, I gazed in wonder at the space. No one would have believed the compact building that had housed the Burger Shack could look like it did now.

When my grandmother died, leaving me everything, including the rental properties she’d obtained up and down the East Coast, I’d spent weeks poring over it all with her business manager and financial advisor, Hague Williams. Hague was now in his late fifties, sharp as ever, and as devoted to me as he was to my grandmother.

I knew I didn’t want to live on her estate in Westchester. The house was too big and lonely

. I’d had dreams of opening a bookstore since I was a child, and I wanted as far away from society life as I could get. Like my grandmother before me, I had to trust in other people to run the Paxton Group so I could pursue my own passions.

My grandmother’s interest had lain with real estate. She liked to travel the country looking for buildings that were unassuming but lucrative. For instance, the Burger Shack in a small beach town called Hartwell in Delaware’s Cape Region. Technically, Hartwell was a city, but it was tiny.

She bought the building to rent out because boardwalk property in the tourist city was worth a lot of money.

When I started investigating her properties, I did it physically. I went out to all the locations that interested me. And I knew as soon as I arrived in Hartwell that it was the place for me. I gave the tenants of the Burger Shack three months to make other arrangements and included a hefty compensation for their troubles, against Hague’s advice. I had to soothe my guilt somehow, though. I was kicking someone out of their business so I could launch mine.

“You own the building, Emery,” Hague had said, exasperated. “It belongs to you. Not them. It’s in the rental contract that you can end the contract with only six weeks’ notice.”

I knew that. But still.

After that, I began the hunt for a place to live. By sheer luck—or at least it seemed like luck—a beach house, minutes’ walk from what would become my bookstore, came up for sale. It was a sizable beach house with an open-plan living space, a wrap-around porch, and three bedrooms. I fell in love immediately. Mostly because the previous owners had attached a stunning porch swing that was almost like a bed. I could sit curled up on it every morning with coffee in hand and watch the sun rise above the ocean.

Perfect.

It cost a lot of money.

But it was worth it.

And now, I was actually here.

As you entered the store, to the left was a large counter and behind it, coffee machines. To the right, the bookstore, its walls painted in a soft gray against the white woodwork. Ahead and up a few steps was a seating area filled with cute little white tables and chairs. To the left of those, comfortable armchairs and sofas were arranged near an open fireplace. I’d placed some Tiffany lamps from the house in Westchester around the store to give it a cozy vibe. Behind the counter was the door that led to my office and a private restroom. The customer restroom was behind a door on the opposite wall of the fireplace.

I bit my lip as I took in the store—my store. The gray was exactly the sedate color my grandmother would’ve chosen. Maybe when it needed refreshed, I’d go for something punchier—like teal or turquoise. I was also thinking about selling sandwiches for people to enjoy with their coffees. I could make them up in the morning before the store opened. I’d have to get a permit for that but it was worth considering.

Emery’s Bookstore and Coffeehouse had been open for a week.

That first weekend had been very busy with tourists and locals. It was an extremely difficult few days in which I’d wondered if I’d made a colossal mistake. I was a shy person—there was no getting around that. Not only did I find small talk uncomfortable but I had trust issues a mile long, which made it hard for me to make myself vulnerable enough to befriend most people.

Since moving to Hartwell two months ago, I’d befriended Iris and Ira Green. They owned Antonio’s, the boardwalk pizzeria. I’d trusted them almost immediately. There was just something so genuinely good about them, even if Iris was blunt. She reminded me of my grandmother a little, minus the cold ruthlessness. She’d even aided me with the tradesmen that helped create the look of the bookstore and coffeehouse. She tried to teach me how to be more assertive with them, to tell them exactly what I wanted done.

I think she saw how panicked I was when she popped into the store that first weekend. Her brief pep talk calmed me down when she reminded me it wouldn’t be like this all the time. People were just curious about me.

And she was right. By the end of the week, the store was quieter. Most people who popped in were tourists and since it was hot, they were usually there to buy a beach read and iced tea. I had some regulars already appearing in the morning for coffee, but today’s caffeine rush had just ended.