Aunt Violet lifted a huge kettle and set it on the cream-colored AGA range. “I’m sorry you had to experience such a rude welcome,” she said. “Clive popped in on me with those people, uninvited.”
We were in Aunt Violet’s kitchen behind the shop, a spacious room featuring flagstone floors, blackened beams, and a sitting area near tall windows overlooking a walled garden. The fat tiger cat was now ensconced in a green velvet armchair, next to which sat a basket of knitting, pretty pink needles thrust through dove gray yarn. His name was Clarence, we had learned. As for the shop, Aunt Violet had put up a sign that read Gone to Lunch.
“What’s going on, Aunt Violet?” Mum asked, her fingers toying with the silk scarf knotted around her neck. She and I were seated at a long pine table. “What does Clive have to do with the bookshop?”
Aunt Violet turned on the gas then adjusted the flame. “Nothing, really. I’m the owner but—” She broke off, fluttering over to the refrigerator, an older unit with a rounded top. “What would you like for lunch?” She opened the door and poked her head inside. “I’ve got ham and cheese and some lovely crusty rolls…” Her voice trailed off as she began pulling bottles, jars, and packets out of the fridge.
Mum looked at me, her eyebrows raised. Her steady look assured me we’d get to the bottom of this. “Do you want some help?” she asked.
“No, no.” Aunt Violet waved off the suggestion. “You must be exhausted after that long journey.” She clucked her tongue. “Traveling over three thousand miles in a single day. I’ll never get over being amazed by that.”
We sat pinned to our seats in exhaustion while she bustled about, setting stoneware plates laden with thick sandwiches and pickles in front of us, pouring steaming cups of tea, and dispensing glasses of icy, delicious water from a pitcher in the fridge.
I inhaled that sandwich, chasing it with quantities of hot tea. To me, my body clock still set to Vermont time, it was five in the afternoon and I was starving. We’d flown overnight from Boston, crossing five time zones, and landed early in the morning.
Once every delicious bite was gone, Mum wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Thank you. That was wonderful.” She leveled a serious look at her aunt. “Now, spill.”
Aunt Violet told us the story, in between running out to her files for documents and the checkbook. Clive had given her a loan late last year, when Christmas hadn’t been as profitable as usual. She’d been struggling to make payments, so he’d come up with the idea of selling the shop. In fact, he was trying to pressure her into it.
“I’m just devastated,” Aunt Violet said, her expression bleak. She’d propped the eyeglasses up in her hair along with the writing implements, revealing large blue eyes framed by laugh lines. She certainly wasn’t laughing now. “This shop has been in the family forever and I can’t bear to be the one to lose it. That’s why I wrote to you, Nina. I thought you could help me turn it around, modernize things a bit.” She turned to me. “You’re a librarian, Molly, how perfect is that? Plus you probably know all about social media, right?”
“I do,” I said. “I have tons of ideas already.” The shop, even the way it was right now, in total disarray, was a social media dream. I could picture snaps of ancient tomes paired with mugs of tea, the cobblestones of Magpie Lane fuzzy in the background. As for that fat cat, Clarence? He’d be a star. Who wouldn’t want to visit a quaint bookshop in one of England’s most beautiful, historic cities? And if they couldn’t come in person, they could purchase from us online, buying their own piece of Cambridge.
Then my vision expanded. I could take pictures of the books all over the city, themed to the various colleges and local sights. For example, a display of religious texts and Bibles in the Round Church, which was right up the road.
Knowing now was not the time, I forced myself to stop brainstorming and tune back in. “I had no idea Clive would be bringing in those corporate types so soon,” Aunt Violet was saying. Her already pale face had gone even whiter and her lips trembled. “It was so humiliating. They were prodding and prying everywhere, taking notes and talking about the changes they would have to make. All while maintaining listed status, of course.” She waved a hand as if cooling herself off. “What foresight we had to list this place, I tell you.”
In England, I knew, landmark historic buildings were subject to many regulations aimed at preserving these treasures for future generations. Best Books couldn’t just flatten the shop and put up a modern concrete box. That was a small comfort.
Mum was studying the papers, leafing back and forth, reviewing the schedule of payment. “How far behind are you?”
Aunt Violet leaped out of her chair and came around to show her. “I owe these months.” She pointed to several lines on the repayment schedule.
Mum used her phone to tally the numbers up. She stared at the sum then nodded. “I can pay this for you. Get him off our backs for a while.”
Hope and reluctance warred on Violet’s face. “Are you sure? I hate to ask … it’s my responsibility.… Maybe I—”
“I insist,” Mum said. “We really don’t have a choice, do we?”
Well, we did. Mum and I could fold our tents and crawl back to the States, our dream of a new start in Cambridge demolished. But I hadn’t seen her so energized and … alive since Dad died. If it took the challenge of saving a bookshop on the brink of failure to get her excited, then I was all for it.
Aunt Violet stared down at her fingers, which were laced together. “I guess you’re right.” When she looked back up, her large eyes were wet with tears. “But how can I ever repay you? You’re not just saving the store, you’re saving my life.”
“And you’re saving mine,” Mum said. She smiled at her aunt. “Give me Clive’s number. And then we’ll get to work.”
Male voices woke me. Soft, rumbling, English voices. My eyes flew open. Where am I?
I stared up at a low plaster ceiling then at the open diamond-pane casement window beside my bed. That’s right. I was in Cambridge, England.
The events of the day before seeped into my mind little by little the way the sunlight through the curtains was slowly growing stronger. The plane ride. Our arrival at the shop. Meeting George and Aunt Violet. Our plans to outwit cousin Clive.
A roar of laughter punctuated the voices, pleasant laughter that spoke of shared confidences. I bolted upright in the brass bed, pushing aside the thick duvet and reaching for my cell phone. What time was it anyway? Mum and I had crawled up to bed around eight, hoping to sleep off our jet lag and start fresh.
Outside the window—because that is where the voices were coming from—tools clanged, followed by a muffled curse. What were they doing out there? At six bloody a.m., as George might say? And did, a few times when lugging our suitcases up the narrow stairs to our rooms on the second floor, which in England was the first floor, just to make things confusing. “What on earth have you got in here, love?” he’d asked, his face so red and sweaty I thought he might have a heart attack.
“Shoes,” I replied with a wince, glad I’d only brought one book, and a thin one at that. Now We Are Six sat on the bedside table, a reminder of Dad.
Another clatter of tools was followed by the bright bring-bring of a bell. Seriously? Laughter and chatter were fine, but this was definitely annoying. Untangling the white cotton nightgown wrapped around my legs, I pushed myself to my knees and opened the casement window wider, leaning out so I could see the sidewalk. Two men, one with longish dark hair and the other blond with a fade, were bent over a bicycle. The dark one used his thumb to set the bell off again. Bring-bring.
“Do you mind?” I snapped. “People are trying to sleep up here.” I had no idea why they were in front of this building instead of the bicycle shop next door.
Both faces looked up. The blond man was quite good-looking but it was the dark-haired one who caught my attention. His sooty gaze took in my long dangling braid and the lace-trimmed nightdress before roaming back to my face. Our eyes locked.
“What’s this?” the blond man asked. “Juliet on her balcony greeting the sun?”
It was funny. A giggle burst out of me and the dark one cracked a smile, one hand rubbing his square, stubbly jaw. He was gorgeous, with chiseled features, straight brows above those magnetic eyes, broad shoulders and a trim build. He could easily play Romeo to my Juliet, I thought fancifully.
Then he spoke. Straightening those muscled shoulders, he said, “I run a business here, miss.” He shrugged. “Sorry, but sometimes we make a little noise.”
That was it? Surely that was the lamest apology I’d ever heard. “So much for being a good neighbor,” I barked. I reached up and shut the casement windows with a decisive click. Then, for good measure, I drew the curtains fully closed, the curtain rings clashing.
I flopped down on the bed, hoping I could get back to sleep for at least a little while. Out on the sidewalk, the voices murmured, then faded away. Probably the blond one convinced old dark eyes that he should be more considerate. I snorted and rolled over, putting a pillow over my head for good measure.
Remorse soon crept in. To be honest, I had been rather rude myself. The bike shop owner probably hadn’t known I was sleeping right above the sidewalk. Aunt Violet’s bedroom was in the back of the building, on the other end. And no wonder.
I’d talk to him later, I decided, and apologize. Once I was rested.
My phone informed me it was ten a.m. the next time I woke. The grogginess was gone and energy flooded my body. What was I missing on my first full day in Cambridge? I leaped to my knees and opened the curtains again.
All was quiet on Magpie Lane, with only a few people on foot going in and out of Tea and Crumpets across the way. My belly grumbled at the thought of crumpets drenched in butter. And I was dying for my first cup of coffee. A terrible thought halted me as I slid into my jeans. Could I get real coffee, not that instant stuff I’d heard was popular here? In my view, instant was for coffee emergencies only.
Dressed and washed, I made my way down the narrow stairs to the kitchen. Here too all was quiet, gentle warmth radiating from the AGA and Clarence curled in his armchair. Mum and Aunt Violet must be in the shop already. After detouring to pat the cat’s silky head, which he stoically endured, I went through the door into the shop.
No one was at the desk, but I heard Mum’s voice coming from the far corner so I wound my way through a labyrinth of bookcases to find them. For some reason, Mum and Aunt Violet were staring at the back wall, which was covered with shelves like the others, and the men from the bicycle shop were with them.
I froze. What were they doing here? Were they customers? But then the blond man pointed to a beam crossing the ceiling. “There’s your carrier beam. So it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Do you really think so, Tim?” Aunt Violet adjusted her spectacles and stared up at the beam. “I wouldn’t want the place to fall down around our ears.”
As I debated whether to announce myself or beat a hasty retreat, my weight shifted and a board moved under my feet, letting out a heartrending groan. My goodness.
The blond man turned and looked over his shoulder. “There’s our Juliet now,” he said with a grin.
The rest of them turned to look and I smiled wanly, waving my hand and not quite looking the dark man in the eye. No, like the coward I was, my gaze skipped over his face. Just as gorgeous as I remembered. Mum looked puzzled at Tim calling me Juliet but she didn’t ask.
“Hi,” I said. “What are you all up to?”
Instead of answering my question, Aunt Violet said, “Did you sleep well, my dear? I can make you tea or there’s coffee at the shop across the street.” To the men, she said, “This is Molly, my American great-niece. The one I was telling you about.”
I waved in their general direction. “I slept fine, thank you,” I said, trying not to make eye contact. But out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tim grinning and his co-worker watching me with an inscrutable expression. “I think I’ll go get coffee. Would anyone like anything?”
I was expecting them to say no, but Tim glanced at his friend and said, “Sure. Kieran and I will take two orders of crumpets.” He dug around in his jeans pocket and pulled out a banknote. “And two large filter coffees.” He handed me the money. “Thanks.”
So his name was Kieran. Nice. “Be right back,” I said, tucking the bill in my pocket. As I turned to leave, my foot hit that noisy board again, making heat rush to my face. If that kept happening, I was going to mark it with an X or something.
The air outside was cool, scented with something flowering from the gardens beyond the wall. Before walking across to the tea shop, I stopped to take in my new neighborhood: Trinity College’s gate across the road, the jumble of quaint buildings along the lane, the ridges of cobblestones under my feet. A slim black shape darted from the alley next to the bookshop and scampered over to me. “Good morning, kitty,” I said. “How are you today?”
His answer was to dart ahead to the tea-shop door, where he sat and waited. “No, you can’t come in,” I said, edging around him. I pushed the latch, squeezed my body through a narrow crack, and quickly shut the door. My triumph was short-lived when I saw his little triangle face peeking forlornly through the glass.
“Is that cat trying to get in here again?” the woman behind the counter asked. She was about my age, with a head of blonde curls and sparkling blue eyes. She wore a bib apron over a blue shirt, and her figure was pleasantly soft and curvy.
“Yes, he is,” I said, moving across the black and white tiles toward the counter. “It was a struggle to keep him out.” I glanced around, taking in the few patrons seated at the dozen or so little tables, some talking quietly to a companion, others tapping away on laptops. Just like in Vermont. The counter where the woman stood was of carved wood, display cases to both sides and the service area in the middle. On the wall behind her a chalkboard hung above racks holding baskets of bread and shelves of dishes. Coffee- and tea-making equipment was on the counter below.
“Are you American?” she asked, her face bright with curiosity. “Visiting from the States, are you?”
“I am,” I admitted. “I’m from Vermont. But I’m staying at the bookshop. Violet Marlowe is my aunt.”
She gasped. “Well, I never. So you’re the American niece.” She put out her hand for me to shake. “Glad to meet you. I’m Daisy Watson and this is my shop.”
“Molly Kimball. And I’m very glad to meet you too.” Aunt Violet must have mentioned me to everyone on the lane, which gave me a funny feeling. Mum never spoke of Aunt Violet or any of our relatives. There must be a reason, but I couldn’t imagine what it was. Aunt Violet was wonderful. I loved her already.
“What can I get you, Molly?” Daisy asked, leaning on the counter with both hands. “We make everything fresh here, daily.”
“That sounds awesome. But first, I need a cup of coffee.” I scanned the blackboard in confusion. Instead of the familiar coffee lingo, the choices were “cafetière” and “filter.” I had no idea what they were. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I don’t understand. In America we make coffee with coffee makers. Or the espresso machine.” She had one of those.
“You’re not the only one asking,” Daisy said. “Cafetière is what some people call a French press.” She held one up. “Filter coffee means using this cone and a filter.” She showed me the cone. “People are drinking so much coffee now I had to add it. Offering only tea would kill my business.”
That was surprising to hear, since tea was an English tradition. But here I was, ordering filter coffee to go. “An order of crumpets too.” Then I remembered. “Make that three orders of coffee and crumpets.” At her raised brows, I said, “I’m picking up an order for Kieran and Tim. They’re doing something at the bookshop for my aunt.”
A smile tugged at Daisy’s lips, revealing a dimple in one cheek. “Ooh, girl. So you’ve met those two. They’re totally fit, aren’t they?”
Fit? “Maybe,” I said hesitantly. “They look like they’re in shape.” Then I remembered. In England, fit meant “attractive.”
Daisy laughed. “No maybe about it. They’re the best things on two legs around here. And they’re not kids, either, like those college lads.” She leaned closer. “Did you know that Kieran—” The front door opened and a group of chattering ladies strolled in. Daisy whirled away. “Let me get your order. We’ll talk later. At the pub?”
“That sounds fun,” I said, moving aside so the ladies could look at the menu. I couldn’t hold back a smile as I waited by the pastry case for my order. Daisy was nice, and it looked like I had already made a friend. Plus I couldn’t wait to find out what she had been going to tell me about Kieran.
A local paper lay on a nearby table and I picked it up to glance at the headlines. “Cambridge Literary Festival Next Week” read one headline. Interesting. I wondered if Thomas Marlowe participated in any events. But I didn’t find us on the list of participating bookshops. That seemed like an oversight.
“Molly? Order’s up,” Daisy called.
When I returned to the shop with my sack of coffees and crumpets, everyone was in the kitchen, seated around the long table. Aunt Violet was pouring tea into three cups and I noticed a new face at the table, an older woman with beige poodle-permed hair and sharp features, dressed in a neat brown coat. I gave Kieran and Tim their breakfast, Tim his change, and then sat beside the newcomer, eager to dig in.
“Molly, this is Myrtle,” Aunt Violet said, passing around the cups. “She’s an old college classmate of mine from St. Hildegard’s.”
Myrtle cackled. “You can leave out the old part.” Holding her mug in both hands, she regarded me closely with hazel eyes. “So, Molly. You’re a pert one. Do you have a boyfriend?”
The coffee in my mouth threatened to spray out. With an effort, I managed to swallow while everyone around the table, including Kieran and Tim, stared at me. “No, I don’t,” I finally said, knowing the answer invited condescending sympathy from certain people.
Myrtle fulfilled my every expectation when she said, “That’s a pity, that is. Of course it’d be hard managing a long-distance relationship with someone in the States. But a little easier with video, I would think.” She sipped her tea, seeming not to realize how her comment could be construed.
At least in my mind. Certain my face was now beet red, I focused my attention on unwrapping the crumpet. Crumpets resemble English muffins but they’re so much better. This one was toasted perfectly with butter pooled in the tiny holes on top. Yum.
“Nina,” Myrtle said. “Did you have a mansion in Vermont? I’ve heard homes in the States are very large and posh.”
Now it was Mum’s turn to parry an intrusive question. “Um, no, we don’t have a mansion.” She curved her lips in what passed for a smile. “It’s an old farmhouse, quite modest and simple.” Myrtle harrumphed as though she didn’t believe her.
My hunger slightly sated, I asked, before Myrtle could probe further, “So what you were you all doing, talking about carrier beams?”
“We’re knocking out part of a wall,” Aunt Violet said. “Well, these two strong young men are. We’re going to make the old workroom into a gathering space, as you suggested, Molly. We need a way to get in there without going through the back hall.”
That wasn’t quite my idea, although last night I had said that Thomas Marlowe should host book events. The main problem was lack of space in the main bookshop. Aunt Violet had thought of a solution, it seemed.
“Sounds like a great plan,” I said. “Where will the workroom go?” I picked up the second half of my crumpet and licked a drip of butter.
Aunt Violet pointed to the ceiling. “Upstairs in the spare room. Book repair was my brother’s department.” She looked sad. “We lost Tom last summer.”
“Ah, yes, Tom.” Myrtle shook her head. “He was a grand old chap.”
Kieran and Tim grunted assent, their expressions mournful.
Another relative I hadn’t known, I thought with sorrow. It was interesting that Uncle Tom had done book repair, since I had also repaired books on a small scale at the library. But those books weren’t especially valuable. Making a mistake on one worth thousands of dollars would be disastrous.
“There are also boxes of odd lots in there. Mostly children’s books.” Aunt Violet rolled her eyes. “Tom never could resist those. He always thought we’d stumble upon a forgotten treasure. I’ve been meaning to look through them but there hasn’t been time.”
“I’ll do it.” I adored vintage children’s books. “And I’d like to be trained in book binding and repair, if that’s possible.” Then I remembered the newspaper article. “Back to the event room. Do you think we can be ready before the literary festival starts next week? We should get in on that somehow.”
“I don’t see why not,” Kieran said. “All we need to do is take down the wall. We can do that tonight, after the shops close.” He glanced at his phone. “Speaking of which, I’d better go relieve Jayde. She’s got class in ten.” Picking up his coffee, he pushed back his chair and stood.
“All you need is a coat of paint back there and you’ll be ready to go,” Tim said, crumpling the paper that had held his crumpets. “We can talk about putting shelves in later.” He stood up, too, draining the last of his coffee.
Mum straightened in her chair, her face alight with excitement. “All we need for a reading are chairs and a table to hold wine and cheese. Maybe some other nibbles too.”
“I can borrow a table and chairs from the parish hall,” Aunt Violet said. “And Daisy will cater the food. But the bigger question is, who can we get to come on such short notice? And not just an author, but someone who will draw in the crowds.”
Myrtle waved a hand. “I’ve got an idea.” She paused until she was sure we were all properly attentive, including Kieran and Tim, who halted in the doorway to listen. “Ruth is publishing a fifty-year retrospective of Persephone’s poetry. Why don’t we have Persephone do a reading?”
“Are you talking about Persephone Brightwell?” Mum asked, an expression of awe on her face. She looked at Aunt Violet. “You know her?”
“Know her?” Myrtle cackled again. “She was our housemate in college. One of the gang. Along with Ruth, who runs a publishing company called Virginia’s House, and Fiona, who is a bigwig at St. Hildegard’s. And her husband is an MP.” MP was shorthand for member of Parliament. Tim and Kieran exchanged looks. I guess being married to a member of Parliament was something special.
Mum fiddled with her teaspoon, turning it over and over. “She’s considered the greatest living poet in Britain. If we could convince her to read for us…”
She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Having Persephone Brightwell appear here during the world-famous literary festival would be a slam dunk for Thomas Marlowe. We’d be back on the map with a vengeance.
“We can get her,” Myrtle said with a smug smile. “I can guarantee it.”