Much Ado About You Read online

  I knew this was where I was meant to be, and the agitation I’d felt since saying goodbye to Greer finally settled.

  “I know you better than you think I do,” Greer had said last night, clutching my elbows as we stood on the sidewalk outside O’Hare. “You feel like I’m abandoning you, don’t you? Now you’re acting insane and running away to England.”

  Concern shone dark in her eyes.

  Guilt suffused me. “Greer, no. I love you and I want nothing but your happiness . . .” I winced, feeling ashamed. “Okay, yes, it’s a little weird for me you’re pregnant. But this baby isn’t about me. It’s about you and Andre. I can’t expect everyone to stay standing still with me just because my life isn’t what I expected it to be at thirty-three years old.” I mirrored her, taking hold of her elbows. “I will not stand still anymore.”

  Her fingers bit into my skin. “So, running away is the answer?”

  “I know it seems like I’m running away, and for a moment I guess that’s what I was doing. But I’ve thought about it and I’m determined that’s not what this is. I’m just putting a little distance between myself and my life as it stands in Chicago. To get a little perspective.”

  “Other people go to Greece for a few weeks. They don’t pay to run someone else’s store for them in the middle of nowhere England.”

  I smirked at her dry tone. “I’m not other people.”

  “I know.” She stepped closer to me, eyes filling with tears. “And that’s why I love you and I have . . . I have this horrible feeling I’m about to lose you.”

  Understanding filled me, and I drew her into a tight hug. Greer and I met freshman year of college. We’d been friends for fifteen years, and on more than one occasion she’d told me I was the first and only person in her life she trusted to be true and steadfast to her. She came from a broken family, from parents who used their child as a pawn in their divorce battle. I had my own issues with family, and we’d bonded over the fact.

  Even without our respective backgrounds, Greer and I would have always become great friends. There are people you meet in life whom you just connect with. Greer was one of those people for me. The first day we took a stroll around campus together, we lapsed into a comfortable silence. We felt no pressure to ramble awkwardly or to constantly ask questions or try to entertain each other. We could just be. Trust came easily to us. Our instincts seemed to tell us we could trust each other absolutely.

  Other friends took time to find that comfortable silence and trust. We had it instantly.

  I knew then that the idea of soul mates wasn’t just a romantic notion. I knew that people could find a soul mate in a friend.

  “You could never lose me, Greer Bishop. You’re my family and the love of my fucking life.”

  She laughed but it sounded shaky with her tears. “You’re mine too.”

  “And soon”—I pulled back to glance down at her stomach—“I will be an aunt and little Baby Bishop will be the love of my life too.”

  Gratitude filled her expression. “Really?”

  That she would think any different made me feel a ton of remorse for my selfishness. “I’m in a weird place right now, but never think for a second that I don’t want you to have the things that bring you joy. If that’s Andre and Baby Bishop, I’ll rest easy knowing you’re where you want to be.”

  “I want the same for you.” She gave me a sad smile. “I just really hope you find it here and not four thousand miles away.”

  I chuckled. “I’ll be back in four weeks. I promise.”

  “Don’t.” Greer took my hand and squeezed it. “Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

  Her genuine anxiety that I might choose to stay in England seemed ridiculous to me. Of course I was coming home. Yet I couldn’t persuade Greer of this, so all I could do was hug her close and leave her standing on that sidewalk. She’d cheer up when I returned. For now, I would enjoy my four weeks in northern England.

  After I slept. I’d caught up on edits for one of my loyal indie author clients, so I hadn’t slept on the plane.

  Jet lag was a bitch.

  Reluctantly turning from the spectacular view, I took hold of my suitcase and crossed the road toward the terraced houses. Built of stone, like the cottages around the bend in the road, these were a story taller. Most had a front door and two sash and case wooden windows, one downstairs and one upstairs. Nearly all had been extended into the attic with a dormer window jutting out of the gray slate-tiled roofline.

  One house was painted a pale blue, the one next to it was unpainted, showing off the beautiful original stonework. The one next to that was painted white, and so on.

  On the end of the terraced row was a detached building—stone built but newer, bigger. Instead of two small windows, there were two large windows, one up, one down. Above the downstairs window was a sign that read:

  Much Ado About Books

  I smiled, and my suitcase and I trundled down the narrow sidewalk past the other houses until I stopped at the shop door. Unlike the solid wooden doors of its neighboring houses, this one had a large glass pane on the top half, and hanging inside was a notice that read closed.

  I knocked loudly.

  A second or two later I saw a woman with dark hair appear behind the pane of glass. She smiled, and I heard the movement of the lock before the door swung open. “Evangeline?”

  “Evie.” I grinned through my exhaustion.

  “I’m Penny. It’s nice to meet you.” She had a lilting English accent, different from the upper-class one in Downton Abbey or even the accent of the actors who played the servants. “Let me help you with that.” Penny stepped down into the street, took my suitcase from me, and hauled it into the store before I could think to stop her.

  Exhaustion made my reflexes slow.

  “It’s heavy,” I said belatedly as I followed her inside. Penny was a sturdy woman, a good few inches shorter than me. Yet she was also, by my guesstimation, at least twenty years older than me, and I didn’t want her to throw her back out because of my luggage.

  “You’re staying for four weeks; I didn’t expect anything less.” She threw me a smile as we halted in the middle of the store. She pronounced “you’re” and “you” like “yur” and “yuh,” dropped her g’s, and left the final syllables of her words unstressed and short.

  “I like your accent.”

  “Well, thank you. I’m a Geordie but I’ve lived here nigh on twenty years, so my accent has softened a wee bit.”

  “What’s a Geordie?”

  She smiled. “Someone from Tyneside. I’m originally from Newcastle upon Tyne.”

  I vaguely considered how useful it would be to know more about the geography of northern England, but it was not the priority.

  Tired. Bed. Sleep.

  “The air is very fresh here.” I gazed around the store, dazed with weariness. “Our air isn’t as nice in Chicago, but I didn’t realize that until coming here.” On the far left of the room was a small counter. In front of the counter were little trays filled with tourist trinkets to buy, such as key rings and ornaments and candy. The large front window had a ledge with a display of books set up on it, and behind that ledge was a window seat for people to relax.

  On the left, just in from the door, was a small, unlit fireplace and two cute old-fashioned armchairs set up on either side of it. Beside it was a wide bookcase filled with books. A sign on top of the bookcase stated they were new releases.

  The right side of the room was taken up with stacks of oak bookshelves, each spaced apart with enough room for people to maneuver through them. Although the store was small, each bookcase had a sign on the side with a category on it: romance, crime, poetry, etc.

  Just as I’d hoped when I saw the photographs online, it reminded me of the small bookstore in my hometown that my parents would take me to once a month as
a kid. They’d let me pick out a new book or order one if the store didn’t have a particular title I wanted.

  Nostalgia caused an aching flare in my chest as I continued to take in the space.

  The shelves facing out toward the window boasted a display. This one was on the history of Northumberland with books, nonfiction and fiction, about the area.

  “Books, books, books,” I muttered as the room seemed to sway.

  “Fresh sea air is good,” Penny said, drawing my gaze back to her. She wore an amused expression. “But it can also make you sleepy when you’re not used to it . . . and on top of jet lag I can only imagine how knackered you are.”

  “Knackered. That’s a good word.”

  “It means ‘tired,’ pet. And I think we’ll go over all the shop stuff tomorrow and just get you settled in.”

  I barely remembered advancing up the narrow stairs at the back of the building or Penny showing me around the apartment. I did remember her telling me she’d stocked the kitchen with some food, milk, tea, and coffee for me, which was so sweet, but before I knew it, she was gone.

  The last thing I remembered was kicking off my shoes and face-planting on the first bed I found.

  * * *

  • • •

  Penny was sweet enough to leave a note for me.

  I’ll be round at 11 to show you the ropes. The Anchor does a wonderful English breakfast. It opens at 7.30. Hope you slept well, Penny.

  I could hear her saying it in my head and decided hers was my new favorite accent.

  Jet lag was evil and I’d awoken at five a.m. After making some coffee and nibbling on cookies Penny had left, I unpacked my suitcase and then snuggled down in the sitting room. The living space was open plan with a kitchen and sitting area, with a large modern window overlooking the water.

  There was a wood-burning stove in the corner of the room, but there was also a heating system that must have been on a timer because I wasn’t cold, despite the dreary weather outside. After sending a text to Greer to let her know I’d arrived and spending a dreamy hour staring out at the sea, I hopped in the shower in the bathroom that accompanied the master bedroom. By the time I emerged, the sun had broken through the rain and turned the village resplendent with color from the vibrancy of the flowers in the harbor gardens, to the bright painted stonework of some of the buildings.

  Deciding to take up Penny’s recommendation, I blow-dried my hair, changed into skinny jeans and a T-shirt, and grabbed my purse, excited for breakfast. My belly had been grumbling at me for hours, completely in shock at the time difference.

  A fairly strong breeze blew up from the water, but I enjoyed it as I stared across the harbor to the other side. Perched atop the land above the right side of the harbor was a large stone building with a garden. I could see empty benches and chairs outside. Guessing this was The Anchor, I walked the path along the harbor road and followed it as it took a steep turn upward.

  There were already a few people milling about, and from their camera-phone snap happiness, I gathered they were tourists. Standing aside to let two cars pass me, I noted another pub called The Alnster Inn. It too appeared to be open. I wondered why Penny didn’t recommend it.

  As I hit the summit of the steep hill, the entrance to The Anchor appeared. Its small parking lot was already full, so I took that as a good sign. Again, there were outdoor benches and seating for dining outside, but why would you eat in the parking lot when you could enjoy the view on the other side of the building?

  As I ventured inside, my heart delighted at the rustic interior. It was everything I imagined an old English pub to be, with low ceilings and thick dark wooden beams. A long bar top ran along the left side of the room, but the right side was cut in half by a wall. In the front room were tables and chairs with hardly any space in between and a massive fireplace that took up nearly the entire end wall. A bench ran down the outer wall beneath the small, old-fashioned windows with their bottled panes and iron detailing, and tables were situated in a row in front of the bench. The front room was busy, and some diners looked up from their plates at my arrival.

  A small bark drew my attention, and I could see the diners sitting near the fireplace had their dogs with them.

  Yes, it was everything I thought a pub would be.

  I smiled at the blond woman that stood behind the bar.

  “Table for one?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Please.”

  “There’s a couple of smaller tables free in the back room.”

  Giving her my thanks, I strolled down the narrow passage along the bar and stepped into the second room. It opened up into a much bigger, more modern space with a bank of doors along one end that led out onto the alfresco dining area I’d seen from the harbor. Spotting a free table near the doors, I sat down and gave a happy sigh at the view.

  An English breakfast turned out to be nothing like the version of it I’d had back home in Chicago. It was strange to my palate, but, ultimately, I decided I liked it. Feeling better now that I’d eaten, I reluctantly finished my coffee and got up to pay at the bar.

  “Staying in Alnster?” the woman asked.

  It took me a minute to understand what she was saying because she pronounced the name of the village differently from how it was spelled. “Anster? I thought it was called Alnster?”

  She chuckled. “If it’s spelled A-L-N round these parts, it’s usually pronounced like ‘an’ with a silent L. And w’s in place-names are sometimes silent . . . just to confuse you even more.”

  “Oh.” I grinned gratefully at her. “Well, I’m glad I found out now before I pronounce the village name wrong to customers.”

  At her eyebrow raise, I continued, “I’m renting Much Ado About Books.”

  The bartender frowned. “Penny’s still renting it out?”

  I shrugged, wondering at the question. “She rented it to me for four weeks.”

  “Four weeks? I guess I’ll be seeing you around then. I’m Milly Tait. I own this place with my husband, Dexter.” She held out her hand to shake.

  I took it. “Hi, Milly, I’m Evie. Have you been here long?”

  “The Anchor was opened by my granddad seventy-five years ago. Was just a pub back then but Dex is a chef, and he turned the place into a proper gastropub.”

  “How cool. Does that mean you grew up here?”

  “Born and raised. Where in America are you from?”

  “Chicago.”

  “Ah, big-city lass then?” she teased. “Living here will be quite the change of pace.”

  “A much-needed change of pace.”

  “I sense a story there. Perhaps you’ll come back in this evening and tell me all about it.”

  I hadn’t known what to expect from the locals. Would they resent tourists coming in and running one of their stores, be indifferent, or embrace temporary residents? I was glad Milly was so friendly.

  “I’d like that.”

  After I paid up and said goodbye to Milly, I walked around the small village. The bookstore was on the very end of the coastline. There wasn’t anything beyond it but a few houses before the road ended and the cliff tops began. There was a path along the cliffs, made over the years by people traversing them, so I decided I’d put some time aside at some point to take a walk along it. On the opposite side of the village, however, where The Anchor was, was the main hub of Alnster. There was The Alnster Inn, a post office, a convenience store, a butcher shop, a bakery, a tourist shop, a café, and an art gallery/jeweler. There seemed to be two establishments to a building with lanes between each. I ventured down those cobblestoned lanes to find idyllic, quaint cottages tucked away at the end.

  Back on the main road, heading away from that central hub, the village opened up into what was a housing development. The houses weren’t as quaint here, but they looked out over the water. A playground sat above
the sand dunes on the opposite side of the road.

  Following the sand-encrusted sidewalk along the houses, I took a turn in the road and realized the homes reached far along the coastal land. Although I spotted a small primary school, there weren’t signs of much else, and I deduced that the children more than likely had to get a bus to a high school in a larger nearby town.

  After walking back toward the main street, I’d just passed The Anchor when a dog raced past me, yanking my attention away from the details of the village. The dog made my breath catch, and I hurried after it, my heart racing a little.

  “Duke?” The name fell from my lips even though I knew it wasn’t him.

  I drew to a stumbled halt at the sight of the large, black, elegant Great Dane as it followed its nose along an invisible line on the sidewalk. He was the spitting image of my dog Duke. We adopted Duke when he was one year old, and we’d had him until he died of old age at nine. We’d gotten him only three months after my father died, and Duke passed away just after my fifteenth birthday. His death was heartbreaking, and it also brought back a lot of memories. It had been like losing my dad all over again.

  “Shadow!” a male voice bellowed from behind me.

  I was just about to turn toward that voice when the Great Dane followed whatever it was he smelled into the middle of the road.

  Right near the blind bend toward the hill.

  My feet moved, seemingly with a mind of their own.

  “Shadow, come here, boy!”

  Right then I heard the hum of a car engine and quickened my steps as the Great Dane suddenly lifted his head in my direction. Then the car appeared. Before I knew it, I was running, my eyes on the dog and the car.

  The car that wasn’t slowing!

  Heart in my throat, I dashed out onto the road, grabbed the startled Dane by the collar, and hauled him with me to the other side of the street. At the last minute, my foot caught on something, my weak left ankle turning on itself.

  Down I went.