The Bookstore Sisters(6)

“That’s Violet’s room now,” Sophie said.

“Then I’ll sleep in the attic.”

“We have bats,” Sophie said stiffly. “Quite a lot of them.”

“Dad’s room,” Isabel said.

“It was also Mom’s room, no matter how much you want to pretend she never existed.”

“I never pretended that,” Isabel said.

“You wouldn’t even walk into the room during her last week.”

Isabel remembered now. That was when she had begun plotting out her getaway. Back when every day seemed dark as night and even books couldn’t help. All she wanted was to get to a place where every road and lane wouldn’t remind her of her mother and all she had lost.

“I went into her room when I was with you,” she said to Sophie, suddenly remembering their mother’s last day and how they’d stood there together, holding hands.

“I remember,” Sophie said. “I just didn’t think you did.”



Isabel was restless up in her parents’ old room. Knowing she’d never sleep, she went downstairs to the bookstore. It was indeed a mess, and she did her best to begin cleaning up. The front room merely needed to be vacuumed, but the back room was a disaster, with piles of dusty books everywhere, the paper suffering from the damp. It looked as if what they called the Fairy-Tale Room had sat undisturbed for years. Isabel began to divide the piles into fiction and nonfiction, fairy tales and cookbooks. While rummaging around she found something unexpected in a drawer in a bureau. There, behind the unpaid bills and the check stubs, was the cardboard box of index cards that her mother called her baking library.

Susan Gibson had been an amazing baker, and even though Isabel had never baked, she took her mother’s recipes and went up to the kitchen. She remembered the You’ll Feel Better in the Morning Cupcakes, the ones her mother had baked to cheer them during times of chicken pox or poison ivy or snowstorms. The cupcakes were made of golden cake and vanilla icing, dotted with cheerful gumdrops. Isabel checked the cabinets for flour and baking powder and vanilla. There was butter and milk in the fridge, but there were no gumdrops, so Isabel made do by chopping up a yellow lollipop she found on a counter.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Violet said when she came downstairs early in the morning, sleepy eyed. It was a Saturday, and she could have slept late if she hadn’t heard someone tinkering around in the kitchen. Hank was right behind her, having slept on her bed. The Labrador likely had to go out, but when he saw the cupcakes, he, too, was riveted.

“I’m baking,” Isabel answered. She remembered when her mother had mixed up a batch of You’ll Feel Better in the Morning Cupcakes, served with mugs of sugary tea, when Isabel and Sophie had the flu one winter.

“You don’t seem the type.” Violet let Hank out in the backyard, where he raced around like a madman set free.

“What type is that?” Isabel dared to say.

Violet looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you want me to say?”

“Go ahead,” Isabel said.

“I always thought only good-hearted people baked,” Violet said.

“Well, I guess you were wrong.” Isabel shrugged, even though Violet was likely right. Since this was her first attempt, the results might be wretched. It was time to find out, so Isabel took the cupcakes from the counter. The frosting was a bit sloppy, and the lemon candy pieces had fallen off, but they actually smelled delicious. “Have one,” she said.

“What are they supposed to be?”

“They’re made from your grandmother’s recipe. Try it.”

They stared at one another; then Violet took a dainty, suspicious bite.

“What do you think?” Isabel said.

Violet gave her a look, devoured the cupcake, then wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “Not bad,” she granted. “My mother could be talked into having some toast and tea if you know how to make that.”

Embarrassed she hadn’t thought of bringing her sister breakfast, Isabel put on the kettle, toasted the last two slices of bread, then brought a tray upstairs. She knocked on Sophie’s door, and when there was no answer, opened it anyway.

“I don’t eat breakfast,” Sophie said when she saw the tray. She’d been crying, so she turned her head away. She’d had so many losses, and now, with her leg in a cast, she clearly couldn’t even manage her everyday tasks.

Isabel placed the tray on the night table. To give her sister a bit of privacy while she wiped her eyes, Isabel gazed out the window that overlooked the bookstore path. Violet was out there with a plate of cupcakes and a tin box. “What could she be doing?” Isabel wondered.

Sophie sat up in bed. “She seems to be selling something.”

“I made cupcakes,” Isabel admitted.

The look on Sophie’s face changed. “Did you?”

“You’ll Feel Better in the Mornings.”

“I made those for you every week,” Sophie told her.

After their mother was gone, Sophie had begun to bake in earnest, and those cupcakes had been Isabel’s favorite, even though she never did feel better in the morning.



When Isabel went outside, Violet informed her that she had started off selling the cupcakes for a dollar apiece, but had raised the price to two after seeing people’s enthusiasm. “What else can you make?” she asked Isabel.