Alice Hartford stepped into Blithedale Books, gripping her silver-sequined clutch in one hand and the train of her white wedding dress in the other.
Behind the counter stood a pasty-faced man in his fifties. When he caught sight of Alice, he scowled.
“We don’t do weddings,” he grumbled.
“I’m looking for something…”
“A groom?” The man snorted at his own joke, though he seemed incapable of smiling, his mouth constantly turning down in a fish-like frown.
Alice didn’t laugh. She was barely able to hold back her tears.
“A book. I’m looking for a book.”
She had no desire to tell this man the truth. She wanted to be left alone in her special place. Her hideaway. She only hoped it was still there.
“Books I’ve got,” the man grumbled, and he waved dismissively at the bookshelves that dominated the store. “But don’t expect a pity discount.”
Alice scanned the bookstore. It was nothing like she remembered.
Long ago, when her mom had run the little bookshop, it had been cozy and welcoming, decorated with posters of famous covers. Bean bag chairs for readers to sit in. Colorful cardboard mobiles dangling on thin wires from the ceiling—ladies in frilly dresses, fire-breathing dragons, rocket ships, all turning slowly in the breeze from the open windows.
But the bookstore she moved across now bore no signs of that happy past.
The rows of bookshelves sagged. Below her pearl-lined wedding flats, the linoleum floor looked shabby. Tiles had come undone, exposing bare concrete.
What did she expect? That Blithedale Books hadn’t changed over the past twenty years? She’d been nine years old when her mom got the diagnosis—a death sentence, really—and the bookstore had been sold. A year later, her mom was cremated, her ashes scattered on her favorite beach, and Alice moved in with her pleasant but somewhat indifferent aunt and uncle.
All these years, she thought sadly, and I wait to come back now. When it’s probably too late.
She approached one of the shelves and pretended to browse, aware that the owner was watching her with interest.
It was impossible to look inconspicuous in a wedding dress. Yesterday, Sunday, she’d missed the last bus to Blithedale, slept on a bench at the station, and then caught the first departure in the morning. On the bus to Blithedale, she’d stood out like a sore thumb. Arriving in town at noon, she’d felt even more conspicuous—in the city people weren’t easily surprised, but a wayward bride appearing on Main Street in the middle of an ordinary Monday turned a lot of heads.
At least as she moved deeper into the stacks, she’d be alone. The owner would lose sight of her, and there were no other customers in the store. The only other person was a handyman. He stood on scaffolding at the very back, crouching slightly under the ceiling as he tapped at the brick wall with a hammer and chisel.
She continued to peruse the books.
Many paperbacks on the shelves had yellowed and warped. None of the spines had that glossy, promising look of a new world worth entering. She spotted classics as well as bestsellers from a couple of decades ago. Had this guy even restocked since buying the bookstore from her mom? If so, he seemed to have put in repeat orders, relying on her mom’s sense of what was worth stocking. And sold few copies over the years.
Could this mean that Alice would find her old favorites on the shelves?
She looked through the Cs. Cervantes. Chesterton. Christie. But no Carroll, the author she was looking for.
She moved down the aisle between the bookshelves, her dress sweeping up dirt behind her. She didn’t care. After bolting down the church aisle, she hadn’t stopped running until she’d reached the bus station. That was a mile of city grime she’d swept up. Even after the bus dropped her off in Blithedale, she’d only held up the train to keep from tripping. The dress was ruined.
Rich would be shocked. But then he had other things to worry about right now—like his bride leaving him at the altar.
She fiddled with her engagement ring, turning it. It fit perfectly. Yet it felt too tight.
She pushed her thoughts aside. None of that mattered right now. What mattered was whether, after twenty years, the red door was still there.
Her clutch buzzed, as if she’d trapped a colony of bees inside. That would be Rich calling her for the 100th time. She ignored him.
Twenty years had passed, she reminded herself as she came to the end of the row of shelves without finding anything. Any sign of her mom’s creativity, her love for books, and the joy she got from sharing that love was gone. Of course the red door would be gone too.
At the back of the store, she reached the scaffolding. She turned left, continuing her search. She turned yet another corner among the stacks. And came to a standstill.
Her hands tingled. No bookshelves stood along the brick wall. Instead, boxes stood heaped in a makeshift stack. She crept closer. In a crack between the boxes, something red caught her eye.
Is that it…?
She reached out to pull the boxes aside, when someone spoke behind her.
“You are either very engaged,” the man said, “or very single.”