Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

“I used to run down these stairs when I was a kid,” Natalie told him. “Trying to get home in time for curfew. My mom was strict about that.”

“Sounds like she was being protective.”

“I suppose. I wasn’t the kind of kid who got in trouble. My biggest infraction was losing a library book a time or two.”

“Come on. You never skipped school? Drank a bottle of cheap wine and puked everywhere? Shoplifted?”

“Nah. Too timid to try that stuff.” Her mother had issued a stern warning—if she stepped out of line, her scholarship to St. Dymphna’s would be in jeopardy. Then she’d have to ride the bus to the scary, overcrowded school down the hill. Now that she knew Dean had been behind her tuition payments, she felt a stab of resentment. Why hadn’t her mother told her?

“How about you?” she asked Trevor. “Were you a rebel?”

He chuckled. “I was lost in a world of books. Still am, most of the time.”

They stopped at the residential entry door beside the bookstore. Natalie briefly flirted with the idea of inviting him up, but shut herself down with a vengeance. The last thing she needed was to complicate things with a man who was going to do the biggest event the shop had ever seen.

“This was fun,” she said. “Thanks, Trevor.”

He smiled down at her, his gaze lingering on her lips.

No, don’t do that , she thought. Not yet, anyway.

He seemed to read her well, stepping back toward his parked car. “Let’s hang out again soon,” he said, keeping hold of her hand as he stepped back.

“I’d like that. But I’m going to be busy getting ready for this event. It’s so incredible, Trevor. Thanks again.”

“Got it,” he said easily. “One thing at a time.”

18

Peach trolled the block, looking for a place to park near the bookstore. It was raining—the wet, slick, chilly kind of rain that slapped like an insult—and the nearest spot was half a block away. The walk through the pissing weather made him wonder why he had bothered with a morning shower.

By the time he reached the store and set down his gear with a metallic clank, he acknowledged that he was in a foul mood. This happened sometimes, particularly when Dorothy was with her mom and Regis. He missed his kid. Last night, he’d stayed up too late, and—it had to be said—Natalie Harper had shown up at the Chalk Bar with a date.

Not just any date, but Bachelor Number One. That literary darling auteur who sold all the books to adoring fans and made all the women swoon.

Well. It wouldn’t be the first time Peach had ended a relationship before it began.

It might, however, be the first time he regretted it.

Whatever.

He used the entry code Natalie had given him, then let himself in. As he wiped his feet on the mat, the cat slipped past, giving him a disdainful glare. “Good morning to you, too,” he muttered, shaking the rain from his jacket. The dry, papery aroma of the books mingled with the scent of fresh coffee and something from the bakery.

Natalie came bustling out of the back office, her face lit with eagerness. She looked as fresh as springtime this morning, and he had to wonder if she and that guy— No. Don’t even go there.

“Oh, hey,” she said. “I was hoping you would get here early today.”

“Cool,” he said. “You got your wish.” When Dorothy was away, he treated Saturdays like any other workday.

She didn’t seem to notice his foul mood. “That was a surprise, running into you last night.”

Ditto , he thought.

“Your group is fantastic. I’m really impressed, Peach.”

“Yeah? Glad you liked it.” He’d been planning to roll out a new song at the Chalk Bar, a duet with Suzzy about a woman who lived in an attic garret and read romance novels late into the night, but he’d changed his mind about that.

“Your whole group,” she said. “So good. Now I know where Dorothy gets her musical talent. Have you been making music all your life?”

“Yep. Mom’s a music teacher. Still teaching piano back in Georgia.”

“You sound great. She must be really proud of you.”

He nodded, not necessarily in agreement. He and his parents had a complicated past. He and his younger sister, Junebug, had grown up in a grand house on Peachtree Road that came with all the trappings—private schools, tennis lessons, trips to Europe, a household staff. His first guitar and composition teacher had played with R.E.M., and on his twelfth Christmas, he’d received a genuine Rickenbacker guitar.

Everyone who was anyone would have agreed that the Atlanta Gallaghers had it all—until everything had come crashing down in twin disasters. Peach and Junebug had been seventeen and sixteen at the time. His father, who’d built an empire in finance, was arrested for defrauding his investors and was sentenced to three years in federal prison. Almost overnight, the family fortune had vanished. At the same time, Junebug had fallen into the vortex of addiction, lured by painkillers she’d been taking for a field hockey injury. To pay for her treatment and rehab, Peach had liquidated his entire college savings plan, the only family money that hadn’t been confiscated in the raid on his parents. Instead of going to college, he’d enlisted in the Marine Corps and never looked back.

Years later, his parents lived in a tiny home he’d built for them outside the city. His mother gave music lessons. His dad built patio furniture out of old whiskey barrels and reminisced about the old days, as if he hadn’t destroyed anyone’s future. Junebug worked as a tennis pro at a country club, hanging on to sobriety by a thread. They weren’t close anymore. They were like disaster survivors who made one another uncomfortable because their very existence was a reminder of the trauma.

His mom hadn’t heard him play music in a long time.

“Grandy will be out in a minute,” Natalie said. She paused, casting a hesitant look at him. “I have news about that vase. Turns out it’s even more awesome than Tess predicted. We contacted the Tang family, and they were blown away by the find. They’re going to donate it to the Chinese American Heritage Society, and it’ll be featured in a collection of rare Chinese antiquities. There’s an annual gala coming up, and they’re holding a special reception to announce the acquisition. The governor and mayor will be there, along with big donors, Smithsonian magazine . . . And probably lots of other stuff. Anyway, it’s a big deal.”

“Sounds great. Hope your grandfather is happy.”

“He is, sure.” Another pause. He wondered what was on her mind. “You’re part of the story,” she added. “You know that, right?”

“I didn’t run away screaming when a spider crawled out of it.”

She flushed. “I’m glad you were there to catch the vase. It could have been a disaster.”

“Glad to be of service.”

Another beat of hesitation. “So there’s an invitation.” She went to the back office and returned with a letterpressed card on thick, fancy paper. “They invited Grandy and me and the bookstore staff. Would you like to come?” Her gaze darted to and fro, and her words came out in a nervous rush. “I thought since you found it, you might want to join us.”

“A gala, huh?” Was that what was making her nervous?

“It’s, um, kind of formal. Like, really formal. A dressy thing. So if you’d rather not, I understand completely.”

And so did he, finally. There was no humor in his grin when he said, “Love to. When is it?”

“Oh! It’s . . .” She showed him the invitation. “Sorry, it all came together so fast. The vase unveiling is a last-minute addition to their annual event. We were given tickets as the guests of the Tang family. Again, I’m sorry about the short notice. They just let me know.”