Chapter One

The dream was fading fast. Clara snuggled into the warm sheets and clung to the last wispy echoes of Jared’s touch. His strong, warm hands slid up her thigh, traced the curve of her hip, glided between her legs, igniting a silvery shiver of pleasure. His lips whispered against her throat. His sleepy-soft fingers gently cupped her breast…

With a groan, she rolled over to his side of the bed.

Empty. Cold. Jared still visited her dreams. But the break of dawn carried him away like drifting smoke.

Nearly a year since that horrific day, she still woke every morning aching for him—a widow at thirty-nine, her husband slaughtered by a teenaged driver checking her phone. Seventeen years of love wiped out by one careless act. All that remained were memories, echoes, dreams.

She reached for the framed photo on her nightstand. Astride his racing bike, Jared grinned at her behind mirrored glasses. His triathlon T-shirt stretched tightly over his muscular chest, and shiny Spandex shorts hugged his powerful thighs. He’d told her once, on his bike he felt invincible.

He was wrong.

She pressed her lips to the photo, wiped the smudge off the glass with her satin nightgown, then sat for a long time on the edge of her big, empty bed, her gaze unfocused. A pair of little black-headed juncos hopped on the linden branch near her window. Jared loved that tree’s perfume when it blossomed in early summer. On mornings like this, he’d leave the window open so they’d wake to its fresh scent.

Just two more weeks until the anniversary of his death. At least she had work to occupy her thoughts during the daytime. She pushed herself up and trudged to the bathroom, let her nightgown drop to the floor, and stood under the massaging showerhead Jared installed. Near-scalding water pummeled her shoulders and trickled down her cheeks, making it easier to pretend she wasn’t crying.

Places where they had been most intimate were where vivid memories snuck up on her, leaving her breathless and shaky. Just a few months before he died, Jared finished this bathroom remodel, expanding the shower stall and adding grab bars for those hot, slippery moments they shared beneath the steamy spray.

Another memory flashed to life: Jared’s tall, muscular body pressed against hers, warm water flowing over and between them while his soapy hands slid over her skin, clutched her hips, lifted her thigh—A spray of cold water broke the spell. Once again, she’d stood there dreaming too long and exhausted the hot water supply.

She wiped steam from the mirror. Dripping wet and still flushed from the steamy shower and hotter memories, she hardly showed her age. It showed, though, in the dark circles beneath her eyes, etched by time and sorrow.

She yanked a comb through her snarled hair, long overdue for a trim—but why bother? Her customers at the bookstore didn’t care about her ragged locks, her pale, unpainted face. She picked up a lipstick, squinted at her reflection, sighed, and dropped it back into the drawer. It would take more than a swipe of color to bring back the beauty Jared once cherished. Grief dulled her senses and killed her appetite. Her collar bones jutted, sharply defined, and her breasts—she ran her fingertips over her skin, appraising. Age hadn’t affected them much, since she’d never been pregnant, never nursed a child. And now, she never would.

They’d been trying when he died, and for a few weeks she clung to the hope she might be pregnant. But no, it was just grief knocking her body’s rhythm out of whack. No baby with Jared’s lake-blue eyes, his shiny chocolate-brown hair, his warm laugh. Yet another layer of regret to weigh her down.

Dressed in a worn satin blouse and jeans, plus Jared’s vintage tweed vest, Clara gulped down a cup of scalding coffee and gathered her things for work. The bookshop opened at ten, but she arrived at least an hour beforehand to take care of paperwork, deliveries, and special orders. She and Jared had opened Book Nirvana the year after they married. Even though she sensed his presence strongly there, the memories were reassuring, gentle, easier to take than at home—maybe because she was seldom alone at the shop.

There was Harry, their silver-haired part-time sales clerk who chatted with the customers and handled used book purchases. His crooked smile always lifted her spirits. And there was Margot, their twenty-year-old, tattooed helper who worked around her classes at the University of Oregon. And there were the customers who came in to browse, sell used books, and pet Lulu, their friendly orange tabby who kept the mice at bay.

She couldn’t afford to lose inventory to mice. In fact, she could barely afford to keep the shop running with just two employees. Since a major chain bookstore opened just a few miles away, her stream of customers thinned to a trickle. Jared would’ve known what to do. He was the one with business training and networking skills. Clara’s specialty had been the arrangement of the shop itself, the furnishings, organizing the books. Now, sole responsibility rested on her shoulders—hard work, endless worries and decisions—but she was determined to hang onto what she and Jared had started together, even if she had to carry on alone. The shop was all she had left.

****

The brass bell over the doorway jingled as Clara let herself in. She paused for a moment to breathe in the sweet, musty scent of books, old and new: warm notes of paper, a faint hint of vanilla. Books were her passion long before she met Jared, and they comforted her now.

An hour before opening, the shop was quiet and warm, an oasis of tranquility. Clara set down her bag on the glass counter, then examined the round oak table where they displayed books by local writers. As usual, Lulu had tumbled the books during the night. After righting them, Clara checked the yellow vase of daisies in the table’s center—good for another day, at least. Relishing the stillness, she checked the aisles for loose or misshelved books. When she reached the rear wall, she trailed her fingers over the red door, its shiny lacquer smooth and cool.

Jared. She leaned her forehead against the painted wood and closed her eyes. She gripped the door knob, then let her hand drop. Too soon. I can’t.

Lulu trotted over, twined around her ankles, and purred.

“Good morning, puss-face.” She scooped up the cat and buried her nose in its silky, book-scented fur.

After refilling Lulu’s water dish, she turned her attention to the wheeled cart of new books waiting to be shelved. She enjoyed this work, tucking new acquisitions into their proper place, setting everything to rights. The cart held a half-dozen copies of a local writer’s latest mystery, several new cookbooks, and a stack of slender graphic novels: anime, vampire tales, and post-apocalyptic urban fantasies.

With all these nestled into their spaces, Clara returned for the last new book on the cart. Margot had stuck a bright-pink Post-It to the front cover, a warning. This book was bound for their special collection, behind the red door.

Even though she was alone, Clara glanced over her shoulder before hefting the big coffee-table book of African erotic art. She opened the cover and flipped through a few pages. A photo glared at her, a stern warrior with an elaborate headdress and a huge, erect phallus. She slammed it shut it with a bang.

The special collection was Jared’s baby. He’d curated hundreds of volumes of erotica and arranged them in an artfully decorated room at the back of the shop, safely hidden behind the red door. Visitors who crossed its portal found beautiful books of paintings, photographs, traditional sculptures, Victorian erotic stories, and more. Clara kept the back room locked. The key hung on a velvet cord behind the counter, given only to respectable-looking adults.

Book Nirvana had developed quite a reputation among collectors of erotic stories and art. But since Jared’s death, Clara hadn’t set foot behind the red door. She wasn’t ready to face the intensity, the tumble of memories, the sharp echoes of lost passion. Images of beautiful people caught in moments of ecstasy sped her pulse and ignited a tingling warmth between her legs, a reminder her body was still very much alive. But those books, those feelings also made her ache with sorrow over what she’d lost.

Jared used to bring home books from the adult collection, and they’d page through them together, curled up on the couch. They never made it through an entire book before setting it aside and tugging off each other’s clothing. Overcome by a memory, she closed her eyes. Jared’s deep voice reading an erotic story by Anaïs Nin, his free hand inside her blouse, stroking her breast…

The doorbell tinkled, jerking Clara from her reverie. Harry backed into the shop, his arms laden with a bulging plastic storage bin. She blew out a deep breath, set down the book, and trotted over to help.

“Good morning, Boss Lady. Glorious weather, eh?” He beamed, then peered closely at her face. “You okay? Your cheeks are flushed.”

“I’m fine. I, uh, overslept. Had to rush. What’s in the bin?”

“Why, we talked about this yesterday morning, don’t you remember? Margot and I are going to redo the front window display.” He pried off the plastic lid to reveal a collection of seashells. “She’s making a sign, Your Perfect Beach Read.”

“Oh, right.” Clara started toward the counter, then swiveled back to Harry. “There’s no beach in Eugene.”

“Actually, there is, along the river. Anyway, the idea’s what’s important. The beginning of summer break is a great time to grab new customers.”

God knows we need them. Spring had been slow at the bookshop, with barely enough profit to keep the lights on and make payroll. And their lease would expire soon. Their landlord hadn’t raised the rent in years. If he did…Clara tried not to think about that.

“I’m sure it’ll be beautiful, Harry.”

“Damn skippy!” He set the bin down behind the counter and rubbed his bony hands together.

Before he came to work for Jared and Clara, Harry was a postman, which accounted for his trim, wiry build and deep tan, now maintained by his daily run. If she were thirty years older, she could fall hard for handsome Harry. His dazzling white hair gleamed in the morning light streaming through the front window. He shed his denim jacket and pulled on his Book Nirvana apron.

The aprons were Jared’s idea, deep red, emblazoned with Serving up delicious reads since 1973. They bought the shop from an old hippie couple who’d settled in Eugene after the Summer of Love.

Harry got to work on the window display, leaving Clara to concentrate on paperwork and the handful of customers who wandered in. When Margot arrived a little after two, Clara retreated to her office, really just a small desk behind a carved wooden screen. She was ready for a coffee refill when Margot knocked on the screen and peeked around the corner, her eyes twinkling.

“Hey, Clara, there’s a dude here who wants to look in the back room.” She waggled her thrice-pierced eyebrows. “You wanna check him out, or should I just give him the key?”

“What’s he like?”

Margot rolled her eyes heavenward. “He’s gorgeous!”

“Well then, guess I’d better check him out.” After all, who knew what sort of fellow merited that label in Margot’s world.

She’s right. He’s gorgeous.

He leaned one elbow the counter, examining the fliers posted there, so Clara’s first view was the firm curve of his behind, cupped by soft wool slacks. His crisp white dress shirt stretched across broad, muscular shoulders, and his rolled-up sleeves revealed powerful forearms dusted with sleek, dark hair. At her approach, he straightened to greet her, a half-smile on his full lips.

She gulped, and her hand strayed to the locket nestled between her breasts.

Dark eyebrows arched over his espresso brown eyes. His nose was straight and sharp, with flaring nostrils, and his dark olive complexion whispered of strong sunlight. Mediterranean, or Caribbean? A shadow of beard dusted his jaw, and, when he tilted his head to smile down at her, one perfect black curl flopped onto his forehead. The hand he extended was broad and warm and surprisingly gentle. She gazed into his sparkling eyes, stepped in closer—then jolted backward, startled by her own reaction. Not since Jared had she felt so compelled to touch a man.

“You must be Clara. I’m Nick.” He reached into his breast pocket and handed her his card: Nicolas Papadopoulos, Ph.D., Professor of Cultural Anthropology, University of California, Berkeley.

Clara fanned herself with his card, then tucked it into her breast pocket. Her hand lingered over her heart, clutching her locket.

The professor’s eyes homed in on her nervous fingers. “That’s a lovely piece you have.”

A hot blush raced from her belly to the roots of her hair. “What can I do for you, Professor Papa…um?”

“Just Nick.” His slow smile warmed her deep inside.

“You’re certainly the tallest Greek I’ve ever met.” Clara winced. In nervous moments like this, she tended to blurt out whatever came to mind, however silly.

“My dad was Greek. Mom’s part Kenyan, hence the height.”

An image flashed in her mind’s eye: the proud African warrior from this morning’s new book, gazing imperiously into the distance, his oversized phallus at attention. A shiver danced down her spine. She blinked hard and dropped her hand from her cleavage. “Sorry, I just…what can I do for you, Nick?”

“Ah. Yes.” He took a step backward and cleared his throat.

Was he flustered as well? A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Who’d have thought she still had the power to fluster a man—especially one so jaw-droppingly handsome.

“I’m researching for a book project” His gaze flicked toward the back wall. “Your collection is well spoken of in my circles. I hope to find some new books for my project.”

“Anthropology books?”

“My specialty is cross-cultural sexual practices and mores.” He flashed a bashful smile, his eyes cast downward.

Was he for real? He certainly looked the part of a professor, and his business card seemed legit.

“Well, since you’re an expert…” She reached over the counter for the key, the motion tugging her blouse loose from her jeans. When she turned to hand it over, she noticed his gaze flick back up from her behind.

She tugged her blouse back down and hoped he didn’t notice the blush staining her cheeks. “Pull cord for the lights is on your left. Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”

“Or me!” Margot piped up from the children’s section.

She’d been listening, then. Well, who could blame her? Both women watched him stroll languidly down the cooking aisle toward the back room, turn the key, and step inside, pulling the door closed behind him.

Margot fanned herself with a Doctor Seuss book. “What a hot-tay! Mama like!” She waggled her eyebrows. “Why don’t you show him the special collection, Clara?”

Clara froze, her jaw clamped tight.

Margot hurried over, draped her skinny arm across her boss’s shoulder. “Hey, I’m sorry. That was stupid of me.” She gave Clara a sideways hug. “It’s too soon, right? Sometimes I forget. I mean, I don’t forget about Jared, of course not. I just don’t think…God, I’m so stupid.”

“Hey, kiddo, you meant nothing by it. All the same, I think I’ll leave the back room to you and Harry a while longer.”

With the distressingly-handsome visitor safely out of sight, Clara turned her attention back to her work. She filed invoices, cleaned fingerprints from the glass counter, restocked paper bags, but again and again, her gaze flicked back to the red door.