Alice put her head in her hands. She closed her eyes against the aching throb in her brain.
Too much had happened over the past twenty-four hours: the wedding, her escape, and then coming to Blithedale, which had been an act of desperation.
The bookstore held more than memories. It seemed to contain the last vestiges of her mom and the person Alice ought to have been.
But now that she’d found her hideaway, the bookstore had been closed down, and the only hope of saving it—the Oriels buying and fixing it up—had come crashing down.
She’d watched Kris, stony-faced with shock, follow the Oriels out of the diner on their way to look at a house. Before she could leave, Alice had grabbed the realtor’s hand and asked her if there was anything they could do. But Kris had simply shaken her head, staring emptily out into the air.
“Nothing,” she’d said. “There’s nothing more we can do.”
Now Alice was left sitting in the booth wondering if that was true. Alice knew about bookstores—she’d worked in them for years. What could she do?
A hand on her shoulder made her look up. Becca stood over her, her eyebrows bunched together in concern.
“I remember now. I remember who you remind me of.”
She put a plate of pancakes in front of Alice with eggs. It was on odd choice of food at this time of day. A small bowl of blueberries sat on the side. Blueberry pancakes with blueberries on the side? A memory stirred. No, not blueberry.
“Cranberry pancakes with blueberries on the side,” she whispered, her heart swelling.
Becca smiled. “They were your mom’s favorites. My grandma, who ran this diner before I did, used to make them for her. I’ll never forget your mom. She was a divine person. So full of love.”
Alice stared at the pancakes and felt the tears rising again.
Becca, as if knowing, leaned across the table and pulled several napkins from the dispenser. “Here. Let those tears loose. No point in keeping them locked up.”
“You knew her,” Alice said, dabbing at her eyes.
“I did,” Becca said. “And I knew you. You were such a sweet kid. I used to serve you mango juice. You were crazy about the stuff.”
A memory flashed across Alice’s mind. “Rebecca!”
Becca laughed. “That’s right. Twenty years ago, I had this fascination with my birth name, and it wasn’t until I got older and felt more respected that I settled into my natural nickname.”
“You used to let me sit at the counter and watch you work.”
“Your mom dropped you off sometimes, and I’d keep an eye on you. We all would. All of Blithedale. When your mom—” Becca let out a long, mournful sigh. “Well, it broke everyone’s heart. Enough of my reminiscing, you go ahead and eat your pancakes.”
Alice did as she was told. The tartness of the cranberries counterbalanced the sweet maple syrup perfectly. The fried eggs were perfect, too.
“Sunny side up,” as her mom liked to say, “because every morning ought to start with sunshine, even if it’s raining outside.”
That memory led to another, one of Becca, the waitress who had treated a nine-year-old Alice so nicely.
By the time Becca had made the rounds, refilling coffee cups and taking orders, and returned to Alice’s booth, Alice had a question.
“Did you once tell me that you were related to a Dickens character?”
Becca laughed. “Nothing wrong with your memory. That’s right. Through my maternal line, I can trace my ancestry to Inspector Bucket in Bleak House.”
“You mean Inspector Bucket was real?”
“Sort of. He was based on a real person. Inspector Field of the Scotland Yard. My grandma always said we had a dash of the inspector’s blood in our veins. Now, I have no idea which detective your mom descended from, but I can tell you, she sure had a nose for sleuthing.”
“She did?”
“She did. But that’s a story for another time. Right now, you’d better go to the inn and get some rest.”
“I wish there was something I could do,” Alice said with a sigh, settling back into her despair. “But my brain is too tired to think.”
“You’ll think of something,” Becca said. “I suspect you’re a lot like your mom, and she always figured out how to solve problems.”
Alice nodded. A clock on the wall told her it was already 7 pm. It had been a long, long day.
She dug into her clutch for money, but Becca tsk-tsked. “Your money is no good here. This is my treat.”
Too tired to protest at this sign of generosity, Alice simply thanked Becca. Then gathered up the folds of her dress and her clutch and slid out of the booth, the leatherette creaking beneath her. Her heels click-clacked as she hobbled toward the exit and tried hard not to feel bothered by the people staring at her.
As she reached the door, Becca called her name and caught up with her.
“I want you to have this,” she said, pressing an envelope into her hands. “Don’t open it until you get to the inn. And remember what Charles Dickens wrote, ‘The most important thing in life is to stop saying “I wish” and start saying “I will.”’ Now go get some rest.”