“And thank goodness she did,” Mom chimed in, suddenly appearing in the doorway, fresh scones in hand. She set the pastries on a small white island in front of a tiny kitchenette boasting the basics of a toaster oven, electric stovetop with two burners, and mini refrigerator. I was so enamored by the renovation I didn’t even hear her coming.

  I ran my fingertips along the stenciled letters painted across the wooden plank that now made up the center of the table. The Violetta. Dad had named the boat after his mother who’d passed away before I was even born.

  I unlatched Romeo’s carrier and he immediately ran to the corner of the living space where a blue and white striped dog cushion sat — almost like Mom expected a miniature dog like Romeo to come for a stay.

  “What do you think, Talbot?” Mom’s eyes twinkled. She clasped her hands together and bit the side of her lip — the same thing I did when overcome with anxiety, excitement, or another emotion.

  I took a bite of scone. Tastes of cardamom, pumpkin, and cinnamon exploded in my mouth. Even though I knew Mom asked about my thoughts on the apartment, I answered. “Delicious, as usual.” I moaned. “This,” I said, shaking the pastry in the air. “Is the reason I can’t stay more than a day.”

  Mom laughed a throaty laugh. “You don’t have to worry about that petite figure of yours.” Although I was a solid five pounds lighter than I’d been in high school, I knew that a few days of Mom’s baking (and a few pounds) would go a long way on my petite five-foot, one-inch frame. I glanced at mom and Aunt Tilly and their matching tall, lithe bodies, and then down at the pouch just below my belly-button I could never, ever lose, suddenly wishing I’d gotten more traits from Mom’s side of the family.

  “I meant about the garage apartment?” She breathed in through her nose, surely inhaling the spice-scented air, and smiled. “Isn’t it lovely?”

  I set the scone on the plate with the others and then wiped a few crumbs from my hands. “It’s perfect, Mom. But how could you affor-,”

  “Well, now,” she interrupted me and pointed to the scones. “I’ll just leave those here and let you settle in.” She brushed a loose piece of blonde bang from my forehead. “I’m so glad to have you home, sweetie.”

  Aunt Tilly flicked a few curls behind her shoulder. “And I have a rehearsal to attend.” She did a double cheek air kiss to me. “Ta-ta, love.” Her skirt billowed behind as she shut the door.

  “What do you think, Romeo?” He curled up in a circle of fur on her bed. I walked to the left side of the room where a Queen-sized four-poster bed sat atop a plush gray carpet. “Seriously, Mom,” I muttered to myself. “You so designed this room with me in mind.” Just like everything else in Willow Creek, cozy was written all over this place.

  As I sat my bag on the wicker bench at the foot of the bed, my back pocket vibrated. Really, the phone in my back pocket vibrated.

  “What?” My hand shook when I noticed the name on the screen. Busy Meadows. Someone was calling me from Mom’s misplaced phone. Again.

  I swallowed down the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat and answered. “Hello?”

  A low voice spoke cautiously. “You made it to Willow Creek, I see?” the mysterious voice asked.

  “Who is this?” I demanded, seething. How dare this man, whoever he was, lure me here under false pretenses and then have the audacity to call me. “And why do you have my mother’s phone?”

  The man broke into a coughing fit, dialing my anger back from boiling to a low simmer. He gained composure and spoke. “I am truly sorry about that, but I thought it the only way to get you in town.”

  I took a deep breath. “I am hanging up this phone unless you tell me who you are right this very minute.”

  The man on the other end laughed. “Oh, the same old stubborn Tally-O.”

  Only one person called me that. And he wasn’t some phone thief, stalker, or serial killer. He was much, much worse.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Ellerton?”

  Harold Ellerton sighed through the phone. “I’m quite cognizant of the fact that I’m the last person in the world you’d want to help.” He paused. “I am truly sorry for the way I treated you after breaking the heart of my grandson —.”

  “Oh — you mean the whole calling your academic friend at Georgetown to rescind my acceptance?” Heat rose from my chest and spread through my face. Back to a boil. “Do you know how hard I worked to get in there, Mr. Ellerton?”

  Mr. Ellerton huffed. “Truly, truly, Talbot. I apologize for that. But I need your assistance.”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow, Mr. Ellerton. Sorry, but I can’t help you,” I said succinctly.

  “Oh … you’ll want to assist me.”

  I took the bait. “And why’s that?”

  “Because I have a rare book.” His voice grew hushed. “An extremely rare book that I’d like you to see, get a second opinion on.” He spoke firmly. “To appraise for me.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, my interest was, indeed, piqued. “And what is this rare material?” I asked in forced nonchalance, trying not to betray the buzz of excitement flittering around my stomach.

  “Oh, my dear, Tally-O.” His voice quieted to a mere whisper. “I can’t tell you over the phone. You must see for yourself.”

  “Again, Mr. Ellerton. I leave tomorrow.”

  “It’s rarer than my other materials combined,” he dangled the carrot. “I need you here today.”

  Just to spite his demanding tone, I wanted to say no. Patrick Ellerton-Bluebell, my boyfriend for the entirety of my high school career, introduced me to his grandfather, Harold Ellerton, when I was fourteen and just gaining an interest in old books. And Harold Ellerton had introduced me to his personal collection of rare material — first editions of Chaucer, a Shakespearean Quarto, and dozens of other books most book connoisseurs couldn’t ever afford. Once upon a time, before the breakup, Harold and I would discuss the classics, play chess, and solve the Public Opinion News’ weekly crossword puzzle over cups of hot tea. Over the past fifteen years, I’ve literally had dreams about getting my hands on Harold Ellerton’s collection for appraisal purposes, of course. From what I could remember of the extensive collection lining the mahogany walls of his study, he must have close to a million dollars in rare books. This one he talked about must be a doozy.

  I weighed my response. Oh, but he sounded sincere — any rare material that excited the old humbug Harold Ellerton was worth seeing. The selfish part of me won. “I’ll be there at four this afternoon.”

  “It’s settled then,” he said glibly. Couldn’t he at least give me a thank you? His voice hushed again. “Oh, and it’s of the utmost importance you keep this to yourself.”

  Just as I opened my mouth to respond, I heard the abrupt click.

  Harold Ellerton the Third had hung up.

  Chapter 2

  “Hello, gorgeous!” Piper Stone, my closest friend in Willow Creek squealed as the bell above Cafe Prose’s door jingled. “It’s about time you visit me, Talbot Meadows.”

  “Hi, Piper,” I responded, greeting my dearest friend in the entire universe in the middle of her shop with a bear hug. I took a seat on a wooden stool, tucked my short legs behind the rung, and sighed a satisfied sigh. This place looked just as I remembered it. I sat at a long wooden coffee bar sanded, stained, and built by Piper’s father. On the other side of the bar stood Piper and her lineup of espresso machines, kitchen-grade coffee makers, and open shelving with mugs of all shapes and sizes she had picked up at antique shops and kitschy gift stores around the country. Situated on the wall behind her was a four by six chalkboard with the usual coffee choices and monthly drink specials listed. For October, Cafe Prose offered a Maple Cinnamon Latte, Cardamom Mocha, Nutty Caramel Crunch Cappuccino, and the special I would be ordering — Pumpkin Vanilla Chai Latte.

  The glass pastry case to the right of the bar was decorated with faux fall foliage of deep purples and burnt orange, and today it housed pumpkin spiced scones, red velvet cupcakes with thick cream cheese icing, and chocolate chip cookies with more chocolate than cookie (the way I liked them). In the front corner of the cafe, two leather chairs with silver rivets up the arms and down the sides sat in front of a stone wood-burning fireplace, the smell of a recent fire hanging in the air. Growing up, I would curl my legs under my butt in those very chairs reading whatever book de jour.

  And then there were the books. A steep set of stairs in the back of the shop led up to the used book store in a loft area overlooking the cafe where patrons could grab some reading material while they sipped on coffee, purchase an antiquated book of their choosing, consign their own discarded books, or just enjoy some peace. Up in the loft, bookshelves rose eight feet high, from floor to ceiling.

  I sniffed the air, enjoying the mix of a fresh campfire, coffee beans and musky, loved books.

  The smell of home.

  “Finally tired of the city?” One of Piper’s eyebrows raised, jarring me from my thoughts. The bangles on her thick wrist jangled as she pushed a vanilla chai latte across the bar. Gosh I missed my best friend.

  I took a sip and sat down a yellow ceramic mug that read, You Are My Sunshine. “Happiness in a mug. It’s like you read my mind, Pipe!”

  “I always do,” she answered with a wink, taking a sip of her usual — tea. When she finished, it was only a matter of time before she read her weekend’s fortune in the leaves. I grabbed onto her hand and squeezed. “I miss you.” I loved how Piper and I had the sort of friendship where we could go months without talking, but when we’re together, it’s like no time has passed at all. “I’m only here through tomorrow morning, so you want to grab a glass of wine tonight at Hauser before I leave town?” I asked.

  “Can’t.” Piper paused and held a wait-a-sec finger in front of my face. “I’ll be there in a sec,” she called to a woman I didn’t recognize who stood behind the metal banister in the loft just a few feet above our heads. The brunette woman looked to be in her mid-40s and was dressed in an oversized sweater, polka dot leggings, and wore black framed glasses that took up half her face.

  Piper frowned and turned her attention toward me. “Not tonight. Drop Write In meeting.”

  I took a sip of my frothy drink and tastes of pumpkin spice and vanilla swirled in my mouth. Perfection. “That’s still going on, huh?” The Drop Write In group, a collection of aspiring writers, had been meeting once a month at Cafe Prose since I was a child to brainstorm plot lines, critique work, and discuss books. My Dad, the former Willow Creek Chief of Police, was a member his entire adult life. Even when things got busy at the station, he made sure to never miss a meeting. Made every single one until …

  “Plus, I just hired Amanda for the bookshop and she’s still in training.” Piper’s voice freed me from my thoughts. She gestured toward stacks of books waiting to be sorted and shelved resting on the stairs leading up to the loft, and then her eyes moved to the woman behind the upstairs banister who flipped through a leather-bound book. “Not only does she have a tendency to arrive late to her shifts, but it seems she likes reading the books more than actually shelving them,” Piper added with an exaggerated eyeball roll.

  I tilted my chin up and smirked. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  Piper leaned on the counter. “Of course an esteemed book appraiser would say that. Anyway, it’s hard to find help,” Piper admitted. “You remember my old bookshop manager Rebecca Sinclair, right?”

  How could I forget Miss Willow County and the great swimsuit top mishap of 2002? “Everyone in the state of Pennsylvania knows Rebecca Sinclair, Pipe.”

  “Touche.” Piper stacked some pumpkin spice cookies in the rust-colored tray on the counter. “Well, she met some pro golfer at the Club’s annual spring tournament, got engaged, and then moved to Alabama.”

  “What?” I choked on my latte, spilling a few drops from the mug that landed on the dark wood bar. I reached over the counter, grabbed the towel next to the sink, and wiped up my mess. “I have no idea how she’ll take that heat all year round.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she’ll enjoy wearing next to nothing,” Piper frowned. “Needless to say, though, I’m a little short staffed and have to get things situated upstairs. But,” she added, perking up. “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up when I visit you in the big city next month.” She shimmied her shoulders in excitement and her feather earrings shimmied right along with her. Such a Piper move.

  “Very true,” I agreed, holding my mug in the air in a toasting gesture. I glanced to the clock above the espresso machine that said Every time is coffee time. Little mugs of coffee ticked at the ends of the minute and hour hands, one resting on the three and the other on the six. “I have someplace to be in a half-an-hour, anyway.” I bit the side of my lip, wanting to tell Piper about being duped into visiting Willow Creek, Mr. Ellerton’s appraisal request, and the feeling of unease I just couldn’t shake after that phone chat with him earlier today.

  Piper leaned across the counter and pushed her hand toward me, palm up.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” I protested, wrapping both hands around my mug.

  “Just for a few seconds,” she begged.

  “Fine.” I gave her my hand, relenting. “But only if it’s something good.”

  With the tip of her finger, Piper traced the crescent-shaped line curving on my palm from between my pointer finger and thumb and ending where my hand met wrist. “Mmm hmm. Life line still strong,” she confirmed.

  I rolled my eyes, and took another sip of my coffee, acting disinterested in the whole palm-reading thing. “I can’t believe you’re still into all this hocus-pocus,” I teased.

  She raised both eyebrows. “Come on, Talbot. It’s fun.” Next she traced the horizontal line that began roughly a half inch below my pinky. “Your love line is still strong too.” She tapped mid-palm on my hand where the line diverged into two more shallow ones. “Until we get here.” She grinned. “A love triangle.”

  I pulled my hand away and felt the need to wipe it on my sweater. “Whatever,” I said like a teenage girl.

  “Speaking of men.” Piper raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look now, but the perfect guy is about to walk in here, and I swear, if I weren’t an engaged woman …” She flicked her ring finger, its pear-shaped diamond sparkling in the hanging light.

  The door’s bell jingled behind, and I, as casually as possible, looked over my shoulder. “Whoa,” I gasped quietly, my cheeks suddenly burning, as one of the most handsome men I’d ever laid eyes upon moved toward me. I not so casually spun back around to Piper, bumping my knee on the way. “Who is that?” I asked through clenched teeth, rubbing the spot that would surely turn black and blue. Piper’s dark brown eyes moved from the man and back to me, a slight smirk escaping from her lips. He’s single, she mouthed, stuck out her large bust, and fluffed the ends of her spirally black hair. Suddenly I felt glad I’d changed out of my travel clothes and into a cable-knit sweater. I was extra happy I’d dabbed on a bit of makeup too.

  Piper turned on her flats, grabbed a 20-ounce to-go cup from the shelf, poured in Cafe Prose’s house blend, and then slid it down the bar where the man stood just two feet away from me. Piper gestured to me. “Talbot Meadows, meet Peter. Peter, this is Talbot.”

  Peter’s eyes lit up in apparent recognition. “Hello, Talbot Meadows,” he said with a thick English dialect that made me want to melt. An amused expression danced across his face. “Oh, yes,” he added, sliding two dollars across the bar. “I’ve heard the name before.”

  It was my turn to be amused at this Darcy-esque man. “Is that right? From whom, pray-tell.” I matched his formal, lofty tone.

  Oh my gosh, Did I really just do a fake British accent?

  The smirk on his face stayed. “I believe you know my grandfather — Harold.”

  I was so distracted by this man’s strong jawline, thick head of dark chestnut hair, and piercing blue eyes, I must have missed his last name. Either that or Piper neglected to give it to me. Due to my history with one Ellerton grandson, I guessed the latter.

  The man stepped toward me. “Peter Ellerton,” he said, outstretching his hand for a shake. “Came to the states a few weeks ago at the request of my grandfather. Help him get things …” he trailed off. “Well, that’s neither here nor there. Pleasure to meet you Mrs.” He paused. “Or is it Miss Meadows?” The question hung in the air.

  Piper tapped her fingers on the side of my mug, urging me to say something.

  “Oh,” I hesitated. “It’s Miss Talbot Meadows,” I confirmed, emphasizing the miss. I placed my hand in his and went to stand, but the toe of my shoe caught on the metal rung on the base of the stool. Before I could keep myself from tripping, I fell head-first into Peter’s torso, my face smashing against his freshly pressed jacket. Without missing a beat, Peter latched his hands to my elbows and effortlessly guided me to standing position.

  “You okay there?” His blue eyes looked down at me.

  “Um … my shoe … uh, toe. I’m short, so the bar … and,” I rambled. Get it together, Talbot. I cleared my throat. “Thank you,” I said through an embarrassed giggle, looking up at the man who had at least ten inches of height on me.

  Peter’s smile reached his eyes. “Yes, quite the pleasure meeting you, and I do hope we’ll bump into one another again soon. Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss Meadows, I have a few errands to run before heading back to my grandfather’s estate.”

  My eyes widened. “Oh, that’s funny, because I’m about to head …” I stopped, remembering Harold Ellerton’s warning and fake-coughed in my latte mug to cover it up. “I have an errand to run myself.” I pointed to a small to-go cup next to the espresso machine. “Piper?”

  She got the hint, poured the rest of my vanilla drink into the paper cup, and popped on the lid.

  “Until we meet again.” Peter nodded his head in my direction. “Thanks, Piper,” he called, the bell jingling behind.

  I hid my blushing face behind my mug. “Am I a total klutz, or just half a klutz?” I asked. “As my closest childhood friend, tell me honestly.”

 

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