Chapter 5
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of roses will hang round it still.
—Thomas Moore
Buoyed by her bibliotherapy session, Nora called the Inn of Mist and Roses. When Patty answered, Nora asked after Sheldon.
“Poor guy spent the whole day in his room. He’s hardly eaten, and the rice bags aren’t doing much to ease his pain. I asked if he had medicine, but he said he got in trouble with pills once and won’t go there again.”
“Could I stop by later?” Nora asked. “My friend knits socks scented with essential oil. I’d like to bring him a pair.”
“I’m sure he’d love the company,” said Patty. “Lou and I spent another day stripping wallpaper, so we barely saw him. But the inn’s official bookings start the first week of June, which means we’ll be working night and day to get everything done in time.”
Richard had said the same thing about his deadlines at the Meadows. Though he’d used his lunch break talking with Nora about his daughter, he had a sandwich in his truck and planned to wolf it down before he and his crew spent the rest of the afternoon hanging drywall. Nora hoped that he wouldn’t be too tired to read when he finally got home.
After a full day, Nora thought she’d be tired too. But the combination of sunshine, robust sales, and a positive bibliotherapy session had her feeling good. She called June and asked if she had a pair of men’s socks on hand.
“I do, but they’re unscented. I’ll have to run home to get the peppermint, which is what your friend needs. I could meet you at the inn later.”
Nora used the little time she had to hit the grocery store. She’d just put the last item in her cart on the moving belt when someone placed a bouquet of daisies on top of her box of Raisin Bran. She was about to move the flowers when Jed said, “Ma’am, I paid for these at self-checkout. I just wanted to give them to this lovely lady while I had the chance.”
The cashier beamed at him. “Aren’t you sweet?”
Jed scooped up the flowers and handed them to Nora. She blushed with pleasure and embarrassment. For over five years, her burn scars had earned her plenty of unwanted attention. Stares and whispers followed her everywhere. And though the scars on her face had recently been repaired by a plastic surgeon, making it hard to tell she’d ever been a burn victim, Nora still felt like one. Inside, she would always be scarred. She would always carry around the heat and flames from one fateful night. And she would always shy away from being the center of attention.
Nora thanked Jed and hurriedly paid the cashier. She wanted to get outside. She reached for her cart, but Jed gave her a gentle shove.
“How will you get all of this on your bike?” he asked, pushing the cart toward the exit.
“I’m walking home.”
On the sidewalk, Jed stopped. Nora ran her hand down the sleeve of his uniform shirt. “I’d ask you to come over, but it looks like you’re starting another shift. Have you taken any time off this week? And how is Henry Higgins handling being home by himself?”
Henry Higgins was Jed’s dog. Like Nora, the Rhodesian ridgeback was a fire victim. Like Nora, the memory of fire still haunted Henry Higgins. The dog suffered from anxiety, dry skin, a delicate digestive system, a fear of loud noises, and an aversion to strangers.
“I was off this morning,” Jed said. “My plan was to stop by the shop with flowers, but Mrs. Pickett’s roof leaked last night. The water came down through the attic and flooded her bedroom and kitchen. I moved some furniture and put a tarp over the hole until she could get someone to fix it, but she’s pretty upset.”
“I thought you were keeping your distance because she has you pegged as husband number four,” Nora teased. “Or is it five?”
Jed laughed, and his dimples appeared under the dark stubble covering his cheeks. Nora was tempted to run her fingertips over the bristle, to trace the line of his strong jaw, but there were too many people around. Public displays of affection were not her thing.
“I owe Mrs. Pickett because she’s been helping out with Henry Higgins. She feeds him and lets him spend time in the backyard. Henry really likes her. It’s been good for both of them.”
“It sounds like he’s coming out of his shell a little. That must make you happy.”
“Do you know what makes me even happier? Being with you.” Jed plucked a flower from the bouquet and wove it through the braid in Nora’s hair. “Oh, goddess of beauty, books, and coffee, would you join me for dinner this Saturday?”
As he spoke, Jed ran his hand over the curve of Nora’s neck. He gazed at her as if no one else existed. As if they were alone in a candlelit room and not standing on a busy sidewalk. Nora couldn’t look away from his smiling gaze. She couldn’t think of anything else but the feel of his fingertips sliding over her shoulder. Her skin was electrified by his touch, and she wondered if other people could see how her body glowed with a firefly light.
“I’ll try to fit you in,” she whispered, her eyes moving to Jed’s lips. It had been too long since she’d felt those lips on her mouth. On the inside of her elbow. On the tender skin behind her earlobe. On her breasts and belly.
Jed took his hand off her shoulder. He kissed the end of her braid and flashed her a dazzling smile. “My place. Seven o’clock. Don’t bring anything but your amazing self.”
As Nora walked home, she raised her lust-warmed face to the breeze sweeping down from the hills. She hoped the air would lower her body temperature, but the scent of wet grass and pine only made her think of Jed more. It reminded her of their first kiss. And of what that kiss had led to. That night, they’d curled around each other like storm winds, reckless and passionate, before parting again the next day. Nora knew that eventually, one of them would blow away for good. She had a feeling she knew which one it would be.
* * *
“Come in!” Lou beckoned Nora into a hallway lit with brass sconces. The walls were stripped of all traces of paper, revealing white, pockmarked plaster.
“You finished,” Nora said.
Lou grinned. “And we’re still speaking to each other.”
“Barely,” Patty said, entering the hall from another doorway.
Nora ran her hand over the uneven plaster. It felt as solid as time. She admired the elegant curve of the staircase and the scent of beeswax permeating the space.
“I just finished polishing the banister,” Lou said, as if reading Nora’s mind. “It was my way of apologizing to Patty, of admitting that heat guns were a good investment. I wish I’d gotten them earlier. I won’t be able to lift my arms for a week after this.”
“Are you going to paint or paper?” Nora asked, her hand still on the wall.
Patty shuddered. “Definitely paint. If we can pick a color. Would you weigh in on our top three shades?”
Lou led Nora to the dining room where three pieces of poster board sat on a square table. The room was outfitted with several tables surrounded by Chippendale-style chairs. An antique sideboard held a fruit bowl, a row of tumblers, and a glass pitcher filled with water. Slices of oranges floated in the water.
“These puke-yellow walls will be painted too,” Patty said. “We’re leaning toward this sage green for this room. These swatches are for the hall. What’s your fave?”
When Nora reached out to take the paint chip, Patty’s gaze roved over the burn scars on her hand and locked on Nora’s pinkie finger. Or, more accurately, on the space where the rest of her finger should have been.
“I’m sorry,” she said when Nora caught her looking. “I didn’t mean to stare.”
Nora gave her a reassuring smile. “At least you apologized. Most people just pretend they weren’t looking, which can be more awkward.”
“You and this inn have something in common.” Lou made an all-encompassing sweep of her arm. “This lady was burned too. Twice. And she’s still standing. Just like you.”
“She was the first hotel in Miracle Springs,” Patty added. “Built right on what was once known as the drover’s road. The accommodations were meager, and the inn was notorious for brawls and robberies. Too much booze and testosterone led to the first fire.”
Lou pointed at the window, toward the bookshop. “When the railroad came, this gal was given another lease on life. And she was much grander the second time around. Two stories with high ceilings and formal gardens. The Lattimer family made this their home. They built the lodge and could have lived there, but Muriel Lattimer wanted to raise her children in a normal house. She studied architecture. I was told by my grandmother—she was a Lattimer too—that Muriel designed secret hiding places throughout the house. We’ve found one so far. A false panel in the back of the closet.”
Nora wanted to ask about the second fire, but she was embarrassed by how little she knew of her town’s history.
“How did the inn get its name?” she asked instead.
Patty smiled. “Isn’t it deliciously gothic? Muriel had one son. Colonel Lattimer. He married Rose Blythe and planted a rose garden in her honor. Legend has it that a morning mist came down from the mountains and rolled over the property. That’s when Rose liked to stroll through her garden. Because of the mist and her long skirts, she appeared to float. That’s one legend. There’s another one, but it’s kind of sad.”
“I’d like to hear it,” Nora said.
Patty gestured at Lou, who took up the thread. “When the Civil War broke out, Colonel Lattimer put the property in Rose’s name to prevent it from being confiscated by either side. He then enlisted and died soon afterward from a battlefield injury. Because this house was at a crossroads, both Union and Confederate troops passed it. Rose opened the doors to the wounded, regardless of which side they were on. She ministered many men back to health.
“According to the other legend, the mist is made of the souls Rose couldn’t save.” Lou’s voice was hushed. “They float out from their burial places just before dawn, searching for her. They’re cold and lonely. They miss Rose’s kindness and the light of her beauty. She was a sister to them. Yankee or Confederate, they were all brothers under this roof. ”
Lou’s words filled the spaces around them like the specters of the fallen soldiers. Nora wasn’t a fanciful person, but she believed in the power of stories. This house was a depository of stories. It had seen death. It had been wounded by fire. It kept secrets and survived a war. And its name reflected the beauty and tumult of its history.
Nora looked at the women who now owned it. “Have you seen the mist?”
“We haven’t,” Lou said, sounding disappointed.
“Sheldon has,” Patty added. “He smelled roses too. Just for a few seconds.”
The talk of local legends had Nora thinking about Danny. Looking for a distraction, she studied the three blue-gray shades painted on pieces of poster board. Nora preferred the brightness of Blue Lace over the more tranquil Silver Mist. The third was called Rainy Day, which she immediately rejected based on its name.
She was about to share her opinion with Lou and Patty when there was a loud crash from a room at the end of the hall.
Patty hurried off to investigate the source of the noise with Lou right behind her. Nora was compelled to tag along.
“It’s got to be the chimney,” Patty called over her shoulder.
It was hard to tell exactly what had happened. The empty room was draped in plastic sheeting. Several drop cloths covered the floor. Ladders flanked a stone fireplace and loose stones were scattered on the floor in front of the hearth. Above the mantel were dozens of holes the stones had once filled. Dust hung in the air, and two workmen were staring up at the ruined chimney in bewilderment.
The shorter of the two, a man with a formidable beer belly and a straggly beard, hooked his thumbs under his overall straps and looked at Patty. “It just gave out on us. Tumbled down all at once.”
Nora noticed that the plastic sheeting taped over the mantel had been torn. Through the tear, she could see a deep gouge in the dark wood. Lighter wood showed through the varnish like a wound.
Lou glared at the workmen. “That mantel is original to the house. It escaped a fire and two floods.”
“We can fix it,” Patty said. She gave Lou a pat on the arm before focusing on the men. “Why did the chimney give out?”
“Couple of reasons,” Beer Belly replied. “Mortar’s old as the hills and some knucklehead added more stones to this side of the chimney without addin’ more support. We took out a few loose stones and that was that.”
His partner dusted off his hands. “We’ll tackle this in the mornin’. My wife is making fried chicken for supper and she’ll have my head if I’m late.”
The workmen collected their tools and left. The women stayed in the room, inspecting the ruined chimney and the pile of stones on the floor.
“Was there an earthquake?” came a raspy voice from the doorway. Sheldon stood in the threshold. His eyes looked glassy and his skin was pale.
“More like an innovative method of chimney removal,” said Lou with false bravado. “You just pull out the right stones and the whole thing comes crashing down. Sorry about the noise. Anyway, Nora came to see you. If you’d like, I can bring some tea to your room.”
“I take mine with milk and arsenic,” Sheldon grumbled, and shuffled back down the hall.
Nora followed him. “If you’re not up to a visit, I can go.”
“You need to see the real me,” Sheldon said.
His ascent up the stairs was slow-going. Nora could see the effort it took him to reach the top and lurch toward his room. Once there, he gracelessly dropped on his bed and let out a groan.
“I brought socks,” Nora said, brandishing the peppermint-scented knit socks she’d picked up from June. “I didn’t know how to gift-wrap a morphine drip.”
“I can’t bend over to put them on, so hang them on a mantel. The Easter Bunny can fill them with candy.”
Sheldon wasn’t just grumpy. He was angry. And his frayed emotions were sharpening his words into ice picks.
Nora wasn’t touchy-feely and rarely initiated contact with others. Still, she wanted to help Sheldon. Knowing that touch could distract people from their pain, she sat on the end of his bed and pulled off his thin socks. She then gently replaced them with June’s.
Sheldon wriggled his toes. “They’re soft. Like rabbit fur.”
Nora uncapped the bottle of peppermint oil June had given her and poured a few drops into the small metal bowl she’d brought with her. She then added hot water from the bathroom sink, creating a peppermint-scented steam. Finally, she draped a towel on his lap and put the bowl in the center of the towel.
“Breathe in,” she commanded.
“You’re a bossy Florence Nightingale.”
Sheldon drew in a deep breath. And another. And another. The steam put some color back in his cheeks. His shoulders relaxed. He closed his eyes and kept breathing.
“This is what you warned me about,” Nora said. “Your flip side. I couldn’t give you a regular work schedule because you don’t know when a bad day will come. You’d work when you could and rest when you couldn’t.”
“In a nutshell.” Sheldon’s gregarious personality from a few days ago was gone. This Sheldon was dejected, frustrated, and hurting. To Nora’s surprise, she found that she liked both of Sheldon’s sides. She liked Mr. Hyde as much as Dr. Jekyll. They were equally genuine.
“Why don’t we have a trial week?” she suggested. “You can see if bookstore life suits you and I can see how well I tolerate an employee who begs off work for no good reason.”
This earned her a small smile.
“I know you’re joking, but people do think that,” Sheldon said. “They don’t see a shaved head or a wheelchair. I’m not wearing a brace. I don’t use a cane or crutches. Which means I’m sitting on my ass, not contributing to society, while my fellow citizens pay for medicine for what is probably a psychosomatic illness. If I had cancer, people would pin ribbons to their chests. But fibro and RA? Pffft. Those are in my head.”
Nora held up her hands. “Don’t get mad at me. I’ve never worn a cancer ribbon.”
Sheldon laughed, causing water from the bowl on his lap to slosh onto the towel. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to help me out of my pants.”
“Does anyone?” Nora’s voice was gentle. “What I mean is, would you be leaving someone special to move here? Or would that someone move with you?”
“I don’t have romantic partners,” Sheldon said. “I’m a starfish. Have been my whole life.”
“A starfish?”
“Someone who isn’t interested in sex. If None of the Above were added to the LBGTQ acronym, that would be me. I’d be the N.”
Nora had never met an asexual before. “I came across a term for that in a book I read a few years ago. Was it ‘Aces’?”
“Aces. Ace of Hearts, whatever.” Sheldon rolled his eyes. “I look a bit like the King of Hearts, don’t I? Either way, I live alone. Contrary to the norm, I’m quite content by myself.”
“Me too,” Nora said. She was heading to the door when she spotted a book on the window seat. It was Circe by Madeline Miller.
“Do you have a favorite genre?” she asked Sheldon.
Sheldon gestured at the stack of paperbacks on his nightstand. “I read everything. Books push my pain into the background. I read two or three books a week, and I keep a journal of memorable quotes and ideas. On days I don’t feel well enough to read, I page through that journal and let the memory of those stories comfort me.”
Nora smiled at him. “Sheldon Vega, you’re exactly what I need. I’ve been looking for a person with a heart for books, and here you are.”
“Here I am,” Sheldon said, spreading his arms in a theatrical gesture. The bowl on his lap overturned, soaking his crotch with warm water.
Nora closed the door on a burst of angry swearing. In Spanish.
Downstairs, she found Lou and Patty in a modern white and chrome kitchen. Large glasses of white wine sat on their farm table.
“It’s been a break-out-the-big-glasses kind of day,” Patty said. “Care to join us?”
Nora’s gaze flicked to the wine. Lit by the clear kitchen lights, it looked like the nectar of the gods. She wasn’t even fond of white wine, but she could almost taste its fruity sweetness. She could imagine how it would relax her.
“Another time, thanks. I need to get home,” Nora said.
Of course, no one was waiting there. Other than her books. But they were enough. They had always been enough.
“Wait,” Lou called before Nora could go. “I forgot to ask if you’d look through the trunks of books we found in the attic. We just want to know if they’re trash or treasure. We’ll pay you whatever you think is fair.”
Nora hesitated. Books that had sat for a long time tended to be badly damaged. She’d seen hundreds of books ruined by mold, bugs, and water damage. These issues could be treated, but it was rarely worth the time or effort.
“Any idea how long they’ve been in the attic?”
“Since before the previous owners,” Lou said. “They were an elderly couple and never went to the attic. The books are stored in three steamer trunks.”
At the mention of trunks, a series of fictional characters flashed through Nora’s brain. She saw Harry Potter’s trunk being delivered to Hogwarts. Rincewind and the enchanted trunk from Terry Pratchett’s The Colour of Magic. And Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s particular instructions on how to pack a trunk in Pride and Prejudice. Remembering this scene brought a wistful smile to Nora’s face.
“I’ll take a look,” she said. “And there’s no charge. Just promise you’ll come browse the bookshop when you have some free time.”
Lou saluted Nora with her wineglass. “We can’t wait for that moment.”
* * *
Nora was vacuuming the shop floor the next morning when someone banged on the back door.
Nora opened it, expecting to greet the UPS driver. But it wasn’t UPS. It was Lou.
Lou gestured at the old Volvo wagon idling in the loading zone. The hatchback was open, and Sheldon was bent over, wrestling with one of the trunks.
“I brought the books and your new employee,” Lou said. “He was up bright and early this morning, raring to go.”
Sheldon lifted a trunk by its handles and lumbered toward the door. “Call me Babe. After the ox, not the pig.”
Nora pushed a hand truck over to him. “There’s no sense hurting your back when I have this.”
Sheldon lowered the trunk onto the dolly and turned to get another.
When her car was empty, Lou waved and drove off.
Leaving Nora to the trunks, Sheldon got busy in the ticket agent’s office. He brewed coffee and arranged pastries. Afterward, he tidied the store. When these tasks were finished, he asked if he could fill in inventory and rearrange shelf enhancers.
Nora told him to make himself at home. In the stockroom, she sat on the floor, surrounded by the three trunks. She’d already opened the first, which was the shabbiest. Its leather handles were frayed, its wooden slats were badly nicked, and its metal bore dozens of scratches. When Nora opened the lid, a whiff of old air tainted by honey-scented decay rushed out to greet her.
She saw books. Small hardbacks with black, brown, forest-green, dark-red, and indigo covers. They had been neatly stacked inside the chest. To reach them, however, she had to remove an assortment of personal items. She placed these on the floor and studied them.
There was a pair of satin slippers, a leather case cushioning a pair of wire spectacles, an empty brass picture frame with cracked glass, a watercolor set filled with remnants of dried paint, and a sketch pad with pencil drawings.
Nora turned back to the trunk and pulled out a book. She saw paper sticking out from between its pages and opened the book to find a dried rose. It was brown with age and thoroughly flattened by time and pressure.
The space above Nora’s pinkie knuckle began to tingle.
Danger, an inner voice whispered.
Ridiculous. It’s just a rose, another voice argued.
Nora reached for another book. It was The Mysterious Key by Louisa May Alcott. The cover was in fine condition, but the pages were full of rose blossoms. Though the flowers were sandwiched between sheets of thin paper, moisture from the petals had seeped into the book pages. This kind of damage could not be undone.
A book on European birds was in the same condition, as was a book on constellations, a guide on growing and pickling vegetables, and a dozen works of nineteenth-century fiction. They were all ruined by flowers.
“The petals are all brown now,” Nora scolded the unknown owner of the trunks. “They were never going to last. But the books—they could have lasted forever.”
Thankfully, the smallest trunk held poetry books and no roses. While Nora was examining a book of poems by Christina Rossetti, a tintype photograph fell out from between the pages. Nora picked it up and was immediately captivated by the image of a beautiful woman in a white dress. The ruffled sleeves of her off-shoulder gown enhanced her smooth, milky skin. Her dark hair had been swept off her face, highlighting delicate cheekbones and full lips. Her hands were folded across her lap in a protective gesture. Her left hand was curled around an oblong-shaped crystal or rock.
Nora was riveted by the woman’s expression. She’d been caught on the edge of a smile. There was a naked honesty about her gaze that lent her intelligence as well as beauty and poise. Nora returned the woman’s stare and realized there was a hint of defiance in her eyes and in the tilt of her chin.
On the back of the tintype was the name Rose Blythe Lattimer. Below this was a date, 1862, and the words By sun and candle-light. Forever Yours.
Sheldon entered the stockroom. He picked up one of the dried roses and sniffed it. “I smelled this exact scent at the inn.”
“When?” Nora asked.
“I was on the window seat, reading. I woke up just before dawn, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. The sky was starting to lighten, and the ground was covered in mist.” He reached for the tintype. “I didn’t see this beauty walking in it, though. I saw a black man. I waved at him, but he didn’t wave back.”
Nora’s blood had gone cold. “Was he wearing a white T-shirt?”
Sheldon looked at her in surprise. “He was. He moved like he was angry—all tension and tight fists. I was relieved when he was gone. Maybe he comes and goes with the mist.”
“Like one of the soldier ghosts in the legend about the inn?”
Sheldon shrugged. “In Huckleberry Finn, there’s a line about the sound a ghost makes when it wants to tell us something and can’t make itself understood. But that’s the thing. Loneliness doesn’t make a sound. Which is why that man spooked me. He was totally alone. Totally silent.”
Nora didn’t believe in ghosts.
But as she sat in the stockroom, surrounded by the sickly scent of rotted roses, her pinkie tingling, she thought again of the story about the monster made of rain. Mist was a cloud filled with water droplets. Mist was light enough to hover. It was gauzy. Ghostlike.
The sleigh bells on the front door clanged, signaling the arrival of a customer.
“I’m coming,” Nora murmured, suddenly eager to return to the world of books.