Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

Suddenly the picture came into focus for Natalie. “I see,” she said. “So do you want to go to your friend’s party?”

Dorothy shrugged. “My mom thinks I should go on account of she expects me to get along with all my classmates and not be the odd one out.”

“Probably a good idea,” Natalie said. “But it’s hard to make yourself do something you don’t want to do.” Like taking over a failing bookstore. Like ignoring your feelings for a guy. Like having your grandfather declared incompetent.

Dorothy nodded glumly.

“When I was your age I felt like the odd one out a lot of the time,” said Natalie.

“You did?” Dorothy’s eyes widened.

“Totally. I had kind of an unusual family. It was just me and my mom, and we lived upstairs with my grandfather and his girlfriend, who was Chinese. Most of my friends had both parents and they lived in big houses with yards and garages, not apartments above a shop.”

“Really? But living above the bookstore is the best thing ever.”

“Other kids thought it was weird.”

Dorothy tugged at her braid. “Kids at school think I’m weird, too, because I live in two places and Dad’s house is with his bandmates.”

“That’s not weird. That’s cool. Way cooler than a bookstore.”

“Did your friends say stuff about you?” asked Dorothy.

“Sure. Questions like ‘Where’s your dad?’ And ‘Why don’t you have a car?’ And even though I should have ignored them, I had a hard time doing that. Now I kind of wish I hadn’t let their opinions matter so much.” She wondered if it had bothered her mother to see her so concerned about what other people thought. “Do your friends say things?”

“Not really. It isn’t PC anymore. At our school, we embrace diversity. But I get those looks, you know?”

Natalie did know. Those condescending, too-bad-you’re-not-like-me looks. “When I was your age and kids said stuff, my mom would tell me something from her favorite book—‘It’s never an insult to be called what somebody thinks is a bad name. It just shows you how poor that person is, it doesn’t hurt you.’ That’s from To Kill a Mockingbird .” She showed Dorothy a copy of the book. And I’m turning into my mother , she thought.

“Let’s see if we can figure out a book your friend might actually like.” She went to the shelf of middle-grade readers and briefly studied the selection. Then she plucked a copy of Wish Upon a Sleepover from the shelf. “This is about a sleepover party that gets all mixed up. The girl in the book makes a list of all the people she doesn’t want at her party, but they accidentally get invited instead of the ones she wanted.”

Dorothy perked up. “Oh, and then what happens?”

“Your friend will have to read the story to find out, but I promise it’s a good one. Even for kids who don’t like to read.”

“Okay. I’ll give it a try.”

“Great! How about I gift wrap it for you?”

“Good idea. Thanks, Natalie.” Dorothy’s worried expression softened with relief. She cast a look around. “Where’s Mr. Harper?”

“He’s in bed, probably reading. He’s been really tired lately. Would you like to say hi?”

Dorothy nodded. “Sure.”

They went and knocked on his door.

“Come in.” Grandy’s voice was thin, like the creak of a rusty hinge. When he saw Dorothy, his wizened face lit with a smile. “Hello, my dear. What are you about today?”

In exhaustive detail, Dorothy related the saga of Whitney Gaines. Grandy listened with his usual patient attention. “Fetch me that box from the table,” he said.

Dorothy brought him the box. “Your typewriter keys?”

“Perhaps you could share a favorite letter or two with your friend.”

“She might like that,” Dorothy mused, and picked out the girl’s initials. “Thanks, Mr. Harper.” She moved closer to the bed. “Natalie said you’ve been sick. What’s the matter?”

“I have symptoms,” he said. “The doctors say it’s idiopathic. I think that means the doctor’s an idiot and the patient’s pathetic.”

Dorothy leaned down and gave him a quick hug. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well.”

“That hug just made me feel a hundred times better,” said Grandy.

Natalie was putting the finishing touches on the gift wrap when a supermodel walked through the door. Maybe she wasn’t a supermodel, but she looked like one and even carried herself like one—confidence edged with hauteur. She was tall and slender, with pin-straight golden hair and enormous eyes, professionally lashed; flawless makeup and manicure; heeled boots and a luxurious coat that looked as though it had stepped off the runway.

Dorothy waved at the woman. “Hi, Mom,” she said.

Natalie had to regroup at lightning speed. This glorious unicorn woman was Dorothy’s mother? Peach’s ex? What the—

She pushed the brightly wrapped parcel across the counter. “I think Dorothy picked just the right thing for her friend’s birthday.”

“That’s great. Good work, you two,” said the woman, handing over her platinum card.

Regina. Peach had mentioned that name.

“Thanks for your help.” Regina looked around the shop, taking in the cozy seating areas, the cat curled up in front of the electric fire. “I can see why Dorothy likes this place.”

“Thanks,” said Natalie. Her mind raced over the idea that Peach had been married to this gorgeous creature.

And now he wasn’t.

None of which had anything to do with her.

With a careful smile, she handed over the card and the gift. “Have fun at the party,” she said to Dorothy.

“I’ll try.”

* * *

“‘Overrated’ is a perfectly good rhyme with ‘complicated,’” Suzzy said to Peach. She sat at the studio piano, their songwriting notes propped on a music stand.

“Yeah, but complicated ? Everybody writes that song.”

“Because everybody likes songs about complicated relationships. Because everybody loves them—including you.”

He’d thought about calling Natalie, but never got around to it. She was probably busy with her sick grandfather. Could be a certain famous writer was keeping her busy, too.

“Speak for yourself,” he said to Suzzy. “I don’t do so hot with complicated women.”

“Or as most people call them, women ,” Suzzy answered, scowling at the pages. The writing session was dragging today. Nothing seemed to work as they struggled through a song about a rain check. Some days, writing flowed like butter. Other days it was like passing a kidney stone.

“Yeah, why is that?”

“Seriously,” said Suzzy, “if you’re looking for an uncomplicated relationship, get a dog.”

“Dorothy would love that.” His daughter was yet another complicated female, one he adored with every bit of his heart. Her blurted admission— I hate my parents’ divorce —still haunted Peach like a lingering echo. His chief goal in life had always been to give Dorothy a life that she loved, all day every day. He could put a roof over her head, teach her to sing, take her to the doctor for vaccines and checkups, buy her shoes and books, listen to every word she spoke. But he could not give her the thing she missed most—her family of origin.

Despite the care he’d taken to live close by and to share in every aspect of parenting, his little girl knew her world would never be the same. She carried a sadness around, an unspoken yearning for the three of them to be together in a way they could never be, in a house full of love.

He and Regina had set out to create exactly that, the way people did every day, every time they said I do . But life was a pathway of twists and turns, and cracks appeared. They started out as invisible fissures deep in the foundation, unexamined until the damage was too great to repair.