The Bookstore Sisters(7)

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, find out, because we’re going to sell them in the bookstore.”

“Are we?”

“It will bring people in, and then it won’t matter if they buy books.”

“Of course it will matter. It’s a bookstore.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Violet said. “I don’t read. It’s a waste of time. It’s just for people who want to escape real life.”

Isabel remembered what books had meant to her so long ago, and she suddenly had a longing for all those fictional worlds that had helped her through the worst years of her life.

They went inside and were passing by the back room. “What a mess,” Violet said, which certainly was true enough.

Isabel looked through the piles of children’s books and chose one that had been a favorite of hers. Half Magic. Edward Eager. A summer day, a found coin, magic that thwarts four children and must be tamed, a book wherein there were endless possibilities.

“Even if you don’t read, try this one,” Isabel said.

Violet stuck out her hand. “Fine,” she said, taking the novel. “Don’t blame me if I hate it.”

Violet sat in the kitchen reading while Isabel made a list of ingredients for some of her mother’s most beloved baked goods. Never Get Lost Oatmeal Cookies, great for hikes or adventures. Orange You Glad Cake, an orange loaf with buttercream icing, certain to cheer up the day. Sin No More Cinnamon Rolls, delicious and sticky, good for both the well behaved and the unruly. Fall in Love Fruitcake, rich with raisins and apricots and a secret ingredient Isabel had never managed to figure out. At the end of the recipe, her mother had written Add the thing you want most of all.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Violet said as she peered at the list. “A million dollars? A yacht? A bookstore that sells books?”

“I’ll figure it out,” Isabel said.

“I doubt it,” Violet said as she shared the last cupcake with Hank. The sugar rush may have caused Hank to race off, out the door and down the road.

Isabel dashed upstairs to borrow one of her sister’s dresses, hoping to look somewhat presentable when she went into town looking for Hank.

“The dog that doesn’t belong to me is missing,” she told her sister.

“Of course he’s not yours,” Sophie said. “That would be a commitment.”

“You sound like my ex,” Isabel said.

“I never liked your ex,” Sophie said, which made Isabel laugh out loud.

“That’s one thing we can agree on,” she said.

“The dog has a better personality,” Sophie granted.

“I’m going to get him a tag with his current address on it so he can be returned if found. That’s a commitment.”

When she opened the closet, Isabel discovered all the bags and clothing she’d charged on her ex’s card piled up, still in their wrapping paper. At least Sophie hadn’t thrown them away.

“I had no use for them,” Sophie explained, sheepish, for she had neither thanked Isabel nor returned the gifts.

“Yes, you do,” Isabel said. “I’m listing them for sale, and from the money we earn, we can have new bookshelves made.”

They looked at one another because they’d both heard the most important word Isabel had said, one that had not been spoken for more than twelve years. We.

“Fine,” Sophie said. “We should do that.”



Isabel walked to the hardware store on Main Street to buy Hank a new collar and a tag that was engraved with the address of Red Rose Cottage. The air was fresher here—that much was true. There was birdsong everywhere.

“I heard you were back,” Mr. Hawley said. He was Matt’s father, and Violet’s grandfather, and he didn’t say anything about Isabel’s past bad behavior. He’d run the store longer than Isabel had been alive and used to play poker with her father on Friday evenings in their kitchen. He used to bring licorice for Isabel and Sophie, and even though neither girl could stomach the candy, they always made certain to thank him.

“I’m not back,” Isabel said.

“And that you’ve got a dog that’s running all over town.”

“He’s not my dog.”

“I heard he was over at the inn sitting on the porch.” Mr. Hawley held up the finished dog tag. “This is for your nonexistent dog,”

“I’m sorry about Matt,” she said.

“We’re all sorry about Matt,” Mr. Hawley responded. After Isabel had paid and thanked him, he called, “A lot of people don’t know what to do about grief. I don’t blame you for a thing.”

Isabel turned back to him, as grateful as she’d ever been. “My sister does,” she said.

“It’s likely she loves you more than she blames you,” Mr. Hawley said. “The worst part is when you blame yourself.”

Isabel went on to the market. She tried to forget how lovely it was to have neighbors who knew you and cared for you, but all she could think of was what a good man Mr. Hawley was. She filled two large paper sacks with flour, sugar, several pounds of butter, vanilla, raisins, dried fruit, and blocks of dark chocolate, remembering at the last minute to pick up some noodles and fresh asparagus for supper. Isabel was heading back, struggling with the weight of the grocery sacks, when a truck slowed down on Shore Road. The driver was Johnny Lenox, and he was grinning behind the steering wheel. “I think you forgot something,” he called out the window.