I could barely walk by the time Daisy and I went across to the pub that evening. The renovation work in the bookshop had begun right after breakfast. I’d spent the day packing books from the shelves that were going to be removed, while George supervised a couple of men who cleared the workroom and carted everything upstairs. Protective plastic was hung, Kieran and Tim busted through a section the size of double doors, and some other men carried the debris to a rented dumpster placed in the alley. Or skip, as it was called here. Next up tomorrow, trim work around the opening, cleaning, and painting.
“Are you all right?” Daisy asked, holding the door open for me. “You’re hobbling something awful.”
I groaned a little as I sidled past her into the pub. “I moved crates of books all day. I’m so sore.”
“It’s exciting what you’re doing, isn’t it?” Daisy said. She, and everyone else on the lane, it seemed, had popped in to watch us working at one point or another. Even Susie and Steve Baker from the pub had come by. “You’ve brought new life to the place already.”
And taken some years off mine. Hopefully a pint of beer and a warm meal, followed by a hot bath before bed, would revive me.
Inside, I paused to take in the cozy pub with its beams and wainscoting, fireplace in the corner, and leather banquettes under mullioned windows. The carved wooden bar took up a corner, lines of bottles and taps reflected in the mirror behind. At this time of night, the room was lively with chatter and laughter, every bar stool filled.
“There’s a table.” I pointed to an empty two-top near the fireplace and headed in that direction, dimly aware that Daisy was greeting people on the way. She seemed to know everyone.
“What do you want?” she asked, handing me a laminated card from the holder. “We order up at the bar.”
Which meant getting up again. I smothered another groan and studied the menu, which had food on one side, drinks on the other. “Bangers and mash and a brown ale.”
“Good choice,” Daisy said. “I’ll have the same.” As I started to get up, she gestured me down. “Stay. I’ve got this.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I can give you the money.”
She shook her head, the blonde curls dancing. “My treat, to welcome you to the neighborhood. Next time it will be your turn.”
While she made her way to the bar, I slumped back against the cushy banquette, allowing the warmth from the fireplace to seep into my bones. The patrons were a mix of students, professional types, and working-class folks. The two men who had helped move stuff at the shop were at the bar, and through a doorway I saw pool tables and dartboards. That room was crowded too. It appeared that the Magpie Pub was the place to be around here, and best of all, it was right across the lane from the bookshop.
An older woman slid off a bar stool and pulled her handbag from the clip holder below the bar. I recognized the brown coat first. Myrtle, Aunt Violet’s friend. I watched as she toddled toward the front door, hoping to catch her eye. She’d promised to make a few phone calls to arrange Persephone’s reading, and I wondered if she’d had any luck. But she slipped out without looking my way.
Behind the bar, Susie Baker picked up a slip, then stared after Myrtle, a puzzled look on her face. Had Myrtle left without paying? She showed it to Steve, who shrugged, before taking the slip and balling it up. Maybe he had given Myrtle a meal on the house, a generous gesture toward a neighborhood senior. The Bakers, who looked to be in their fifties, were hearty, outgoing sorts, well-suited to running a pub.
Daisy returned, holding two brimming glasses of brown beer aloft. “Guess who’s here?” She set my glass on the table in front of me. “Tim and Kieran. Playing darts.”
I really didn’t want to budge from my warm seat, but I said, as a good friend should, “Do you want to go talk to them?” I was getting the idea that Daisy liked Tim.
She glanced toward the game room, chewing at her bottom lip, then at the bar. “Sure. I’ll tell Susie and she’ll bring our food in there.”
Carrying our ale—after I took a good slurp to lower the level—we made our way into the back room. A cluster of men and women were hanging around the dartboard where Kieran and Tim were competing.
Cheers went up when Kieran hit the bull’s-eye, one, two, three. Tim groaned, pretending to pull his hair out. “I’m going to beat you one day, mate,” he said.
Kieran retrieved his darts, a gloating smile on his lips. “That’s what you always say.” He glanced around at his friends. “One more game before we eat? Who wants to challenge me? I’ll buy the winner a pint.”
“He hasn’t bought anyone a pint yet,” a bald man said with mock disgust. “But we’ve bought him plenty. You’ve beat all of us here, Kieran. Maybe you should find some new victims, er, challengers elsewhere.”
Kieran’s laughing eyes traveled the circle again, flaring briefly when he spotted Daisy and me standing on the fringe. “You’re all a bunch of wimps, you are.”
“I’ll do it,” I said, surprising myself. “If someone lends me their darts.” I patted my pocket. “Forgot mine.” I actually had a nice set, in storage back in Vermont. My father had taught me to play darts and we’d spent many a long winter day practicing in our basement. I hadn’t played for a couple of years but my fingers itched to pick up darts again. There was something both meditative and satisfying about the game.
The bald man regarded me with exaggerated wide eyes. “And who might you be? Obviously not from around here.” But he said it in a good-humored way and I didn’t take offense. The others chuckled.
“I’m Molly, from Vermont,” I said with pride, holding out my palm. “Now, who has some darts I can use?” Tim gave me his.
By Kieran’s swagger as he stood back to let me throw, I could tell he thought it would be a quick game. We were playing Around the World, which required each of us to score three in each number before moving on, starting at the 1 and working our way up to the 20, finishing with the bull’s-eye. Hitting the triple and double rings awarded extra points.
After a couple of warm-up shots to get the feel of the well-balanced yet light darts, I put three in the 1—one, two, three—including hitting the double and triple rings. Pure showing off, I have to admit.
The room had fallen silent, even the pool players stopping their game to watch. “Oh, Vermont,” Ollie, the bald man, said. “Shall I order her pint now, Kieran, to save time?”
In the lead most of the way, I choked on the bull’s-eye, which meant owing Kieran a pint. But he bought me one anyway, and after two pints of English ale, a heavy meal, and the day I’d had, I was pretty wiped out by the time Daisy and I left the pub with Kieran and Tim.
Daisy and Tim walked ahead, talking quietly. I had spent most of the evening watching and listening, absorbing the dynamics in the group of friends. Besides the banter during our game, I hadn’t really spoken to Kieran, and this was the first time he and I had been alone. But I was too wooly-headed and tired to be nervous and, at the same time, tipsy enough to get emotional.
“How lucky can a person be?” I stopped dead in the middle of the lane to stare at Trinity College’s towers etched against the sky. Lights glowed in its tall arched windows as if welcoming those who sought knowledge and wisdom. “Pinch me, please. I’m actually in Cambridge, England, living in a four-hundred-year-old bookshop.”
Vocalizing these thoughts made my voice shake, just a little, and a spritz of tears stung my eyes. Blinking, I spun on my heel and stared at the shop with its sweet, slumping roofline above the timbered walls, a building that had withstood wars, plagues, and monarchies. “I had no idea I belonged to such a long line of book-loving Marlowes.”
“History puts everything in perspective, doesn’t it?” Kieran said, his voice soft. “And it inspires us as well. To do better, to make a difference.” His words rang with sincerity.
“I like that,” I said. “Very much.” I inhaled a deep breath, knowing now was the time. “And I’m sorry. I know I was rude to you this morning.” Had it been only that morning? It felt like weeks ago.
I made myself look him in the eye so he’d know my apology was heartfelt. To my relief, his gaze was warm and friendly, crinkled with good humor. “And I’m sorry we were so inconsiderate. No ringing of bells until at least eight a.m. I’ve made a shop rule.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Now it’s time for bed, Vermont. Busy day ahead.”
The next day was busy, and so were the ones that came after it. Aunt Violet received a call from Ruth Orforo, who confirmed that Persephone Brightwell would indeed be happy to read at Thomas Marlowe during the festival. That news put wings on our feet as we finished the cleanup and renovations.
And then it was upon us, the bookshop’s inaugural event: Persephone Reads. Who would have thought it, a poet so well known that only her first name was required, like certain pop stars? The posters—yes, we’d managed to get some printed and tacked up in prime locations—showed Persephone’s aquiline features in chiaroscuro, one long braid pulled forward over a bare shoulder. Almost frightening, it was so artsy.
The last minute found us scrambling to get ready, of course. That always seemed to be the way with important events.
“In here.” I gestured to the men carrying a folding table through the shop. Once again, the indispensable George had recruited helpers. “Set it up against the wall.”
Daisy was on their heels, lugging a big box holding stacked trays. “Looks good in here,” she said, setting it down as soon as the men put the table in place and spread the cloth I gave them. “I like the curtains and rug. Makes it cozy but classy too.”
“You think so?” After whitewashing the plaster walls, we’d added red velvet drapes to the two windows and spread an antique Persian rug on the flagstone floor.
“I really do.” Daisy pointed at the box. “If you put out those trays, I’ll go get the next lot.” She bustled away.
While I laid out a cheese tray, vegetable and fruit platter, and a board of meats and smoked fish, the helpers began setting up chairs. Mum popped in, directing Tim to set an ice-filled tub on the drinks table. Then they left to get the wine. I set out a glass jar, slips of paper, and a sign inviting people to enter a drawing. We were giving away a copy of Persephone’s new book, Words of Knowledge, which was releasing soon.
Daisy returned with napkins, utensils, and plates. Electric candles, too, which she set out and turned on; and the finishing touch, a lush bouquet that resembled a Dutch still life. “My sister Primrose did the arrangement,” she said. “She does flowers for the Holly and Ivy as part of her job there.” The small hotel up the lane.
“She did a fantastic job,” I said, pulling out my phone to take a shot of the table. It looked incredible, simple but elegant. Thomas Marlowe had social media pages now, and I tried to post every day. I hadn’t gotten to my books-around-town idea yet but I was jotting down tons of ideas.
Daisy reached out to fluff the flowers. “Did I tell you that my great-aunt was at St. Hildegard’s with Persephone and Violet? Joan Watson was her name.”
I regarded her with surprise. “No, you didn’t. We should have invited her.”
Daisy’s mouth turned down. “I wish we could … but she died while she was at college, back in the sixties. Not that I knew her. But my father did, when he was small.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “What a tragedy.”
We heard a commotion at the doorway, and there she was—the guest of honor. Persephone Brightwell was regal in flowing purple draperies, the trademark braid thick and gray and hanging almost to her waist. With her were a slim dark-skinned woman with tidy features and knowing eyes, dressed in a tailored red suit, and a tanned and statuesque woman with a chest like the prow of a ship. She wore white wide-legged trousers and a navy double-breasted jacket, bringing to mind further nautical images.
“All us girls finally together again,” the statuesque one said, her voice booming. “We’ve held up pretty well, I’d say.”
“It’s good to see you, Fiona,” the woman in the red suit said. “How are Gregory and the children?”
“They’re very well, thank you. I’ve got six grandchildren now and one great-grandchild, do you believe it?” Fiona brayed a laugh. “And how is your family, Ruth?”
Ruth was the publisher and Fiona did something at St. Hildegard’s College, I remembered Myrtle saying.
Seeming not to hear her friends, Persephone drifted farther into the room, lips moving silently. Daisy and I exchanged glances, and Daisy shrugged. Maybe this was the way famous poets acted, although Mum was never quite so out there, even at her most inspired.
Ruth and Fiona stood aside so Tim could bring in the wine, watching while he put the white in ice and placed the red on the table. He then opened a bottle of white with deft movements of the corkscrew. “This is chilled, ladies, if you would like a glass.”
They crowded close with coos of enthusiasm, even flighty Persephone, who perked up at the mention of wine. Daisy already had the wine glasses out and she handed them to him as he poured.
Mum brought in a pack of bottled water for the non-drinkers, trailed by Aunt Violet, who looked troubled. Instead of joining her friends, Aunt Violet came over to me. “Have you seen Myrtle? I rang her several times but she doesn’t answer.” She looked around the room as if her friend might be hiding behind a chair. “I can’t imagine she’d miss the reading since she’s the one who helped set it up.”
A qualm chilled me. Myrtle was elderly, after all. “Can someone check her apartment, er, flat? Maybe she’s … ill.”
Aunt Violet’s face lightened. “Good idea. I’ll send George over. He’s her neighbor. Her landlord, actually.”
The bells over the front door tinkled and it was as if the floodgates had opened. Eager and excited people poured into the bookshop, greeting each other with air kisses and cries of enthusiasm before descending on the refreshments like a swarm of poetry-loving locusts. In the midst of it all, Persephone played with her braid as she gracefully accepted accolades, her pale skin pinking.
“Nice turnout,” someone said in my ear. I turned to see Kieran, dressed in a light turquoise button-down shirt and faded jeans. He wore leather moccasins, and his aftershave was something spicy yet woodsy, like a pine forest. I was such a sucker for a great aftershave.
“Even better than I hoped.” In fact, it looked like standing room only. Thinking it was almost time to start, I glanced around for Aunt Violet, since she would do the honors of introducing her old friend. Seeing her chatting in the corner with Fiona, I excused myself and headed in her direction. But before I got there, George came into the room. I clearly saw the headshake he directed at my aunt. Myrtle wasn’t at home.
“I take it Myrtle isn’t coming?” I asked Aunt Violet when I reached them. “We might as well get started, then.”
“She wasn’t in her flat, George said.” Aunt Violet frowned, her eyes on the doorway. “I have no idea where she could be.”
“Oh, you know Myrtle,” Fiona said with that braying laugh. “She never was reliable. Always following her nose somewhere.”
“Is that how you remember her?” Aunt Violet cocked her head, studying Fiona’s face. “I don’t. But no matter.” She squared her slim shoulders. “The show must go on.”
Aunt Violet made her way to the front of the room, where we’d placed a stool for Persephone to sit if she wished. She picked up a hand bell Mum had placed on a pedestal along with a glass of water and an advance reading copy of Persephone’s new book. A few violent shakes of the bell drew everyone’s attention. People scrambled for seats, and those who didn’t find one stationed themselves along the walls. I remained standing in back, where I’d been keeping an eye on things.
“Good evening, everyone.” My great-aunt’s voice rang out in the quiet room. “It’s my great pleasure to introduce a good friend of mine, also an alumna of St. Hildegard’s College. Please welcome the talented and gracious Persephone Brightwell, declared last year to be Britain’s greatest living poet.”
Applause broke out as Persephone glided up the aisle, her chin lifted and eyes straight ahead. “Thank you, dear Violet,” she said, whirling around to face the audience. “I’m glad to still be considered among the living, although small children can’t quite believe anyone could be this old.” Widening her eyes, she flicked that long braid behind her shoulder with a practiced gesture. Everyone laughed, and then she opened her book and began to read. “‘Oh, haunted Cambridge,’” she began. The audience settled back to listen with an almost audible sigh of contentment.
The reading was a huge hit, evocative, touching, and funny in turns. She concluded with a wistful poem about the “fast fading of the days,” then closed by urging her listeners to gobble life up while they could.
Taking her at her word, our guests attacked the food table again while Tim opened yet more bottles of wine. Adoring fans immediately engulfed Persephone, some asking her to autograph books they had brought with them since the new book wasn’t out yet.
“I took the liberty of popping a couple of bottled lagers into your aunt’s fridge, if you want one,” Kieran said to me. I’d already told him I preferred beer to wine, which sometimes gave me a headache.
“Why don’t we go out back?” I suggested, needing a break from the noise and excitement. Plus I wanted to savor our success in peace.
We went through the quiet bookshop into the kitchen, where Clarence was napping in his usual spot. While Kieran retrieved and opened the beers, I patted the cat, then added a few treats to his dish. We all deserved treats tonight. The event had been a smashing success.
Kieran handed me a frosty bottle and I led him out the French doors into the enclosed garden. “It’s nice out here,” he said, lifting his bottle in a salute. Although not a terribly big space, it was a charming retreat. A small paved patio near the door held a table and chairs, a gas grill close by. I planned to eat many meals at that table this summer. Sweet scents drifted from the flowering cherry tree in the middle, and flowerbeds edging the wall were coming into bloom.
“I love it.” I stepped onto the lawn, thinking about taking my shoes off and wiggling my toes in the fresh grass. A shadow detached itself from the base of the tree and darted toward me. The little black cat, who must be a stray. “Where did you come from?” I asked him as he rubbed against my legs, purring.
“Through the gate, I bet.” Kieran pointed to the rear gate, which was cracked open.
Aunt Violet and George were sticklers about closing doors and shutting gates. Had one of our guests come in that way? “Excuse me a minute.” I handed my beer to Kieran and crossed the grass toward the gate, the little black kitty beside me.
It was because of the cat that I made the horrible discovery. He ran ahead of me, veering toward the shed, then halting with a plaintive mew. The streetlight in the alley beyond the garden was just bright enough that I could see him staring at me. He mewed again.
“What is it, kitty?” I pulled out my cell phone and turned on the flashlight to take a closer look.
I recognized the coat first, dull brown and knee length. Myrtle’s coat. Dread tightened my chest as I stepped closer, almost afraid to look. But she appeared peaceful, lying faceup with her arms at her sides, her feet in their sensible shoes splayed outward.
She looked as if she were sleeping—except for the pink knitting needle protruding from her chest.