CHAPTER 1
THORNDIKE, VERMONT
Spring was much later than usual this year. The huge old maples in front of our farmhouse remained bare, their limbs shivering with each blast of cold northern wind. Only a few daffodils had dared to raise yellow, nodding heads, and these brave souls were soundly scolded for their impertinence when snowed upon. And inside the white farmhouse, which had hunkered low against storms and seasons and sorrows for more than two hundred years, all was quite grim.
Until the day the letter came. It was a Saturday afternoon, so I was home. The town library where I was assistant librarian closed at noon on Saturdays. But in a few more weeks, I wouldn’t have a job at all. Budget cuts.
After the postal van went by, I trudged down the drive to retrieve the mail, rubber-soled boots squelching in the mud, scanning the fields and woods for even a hint that the weather was turning.
No hints were to be found, so I hunched my shoulders against the relentless breeze and opened the battered white mailbox. The lid squeaked, as it always did, and I thought about spraying it with lubricant, as I always did. Oh, Dad. My heart squeezed with anguish. My father had been in charge of fixing all the squeaks around here. Every hinge of every door was delightfully silent, as he would demonstrate with glee.
I dragged in a long breath and wiped away the tears that were all too frequent. Then I grabbed the bundle of mail, letters wrapped in a slick and colorful grocery flyer, and firmly shut the squeaking lid.
While slogging back to the house, I leafed through the envelopes. Electric bill, charity appeal, credit card offer—a pretty typical haul. Except for the last letter.
It was addressed to my mother, Nina Marlowe, and several clues—the postage, the cancellation stamp, and the addition of “USA” to our address told me it was from England. I peered at the cancellation stamp more closely. Cambridge, England.
Vague memories stirred. Mum was from an English village named Hazelhurst, and she had gone to college in Cambridge. Then she met Derek Kimball, a student from Vermont studying abroad, married him, and moved here. She’d gone back when her parents died, and far as I knew, only a relative or two were left over there. But despite a world shrink-wrapped by the internet, they might as well have been on the moon for all I knew of them. About the only clues to my mother’s mysterious past were her accent, which everyone found charming, and the fact that I called her Mum instead of Mom.
Curiosity sparked and I began to run, bracing my legs wide so as not to slip and fall. The mud made really interesting sounds under my boots and I began to laugh, exaggerating my movements. On the side porch, I kicked off my muddy boots, then burst into the kitchen, banging the (quiet-hinged) door shut behind me.
Mum, seated at the island with her tablet, a big mug of coffee close at hand, looked up, hand to her chest. “Molly. You startled me.”
“Sorry.” I circled the island and dropped the important envelope in front of her. The rest went in the middle of the island, to be dealt with later. “You got a letter from Cambridge.”
She put the tablet aside and picked up the letter, examined it back and front. “It must be from Aunt Violet.” I hovered by her shoulder as she proceeded to open it. “Go on, sit,” she said. “I promise to tell you what it says.”
I grabbed a cup of coffee while she extracted several folded pages from the envelope. Then I sat on the next stool and watched her read, lips pursed slightly and a frown of concentration creasing her forehead. Mum was a poet, quite a well regarded one with several published books. But she hadn’t written a word since Dad died. And it’d been almost six months.
She’d always joked that Dad, who had been a professor of literature at Thorndike College, was her muse. Maybe it hadn’t been a joke. I was worried about my mother. She’d lost weight she couldn’t afford, and she was fragile, easily upset, and prone to illness. This was a woman who never, ever got sick, even when I brought nasty, antibiotic-hardened germs home from school.
I sipped my coffee, a familiar gnawing feeling rolling around in my gut. Just as the landscape longed for spring to break winter’s spell, we needed something equally reviving and powerful.
Mum was reading faster, a little pink coming into her cheeks. Maybe this letter would, by some mysterious magic, provide a corner we could turn.
Finally she set the pages down and looked at me, her hands clasped. Her dark eyes sparkled with interest and something that looked suspiciously like hope. “Molly, dear, how would you feel about moving to England and taking over a bookshop?”
* * *
CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND
Barely two weeks later, we were pulling into Magpie Lane, nestled right in the heart of Cambridge. George Flowers, a stout old chap who wore a flat cap and tweed jacket, had picked us up at the airport in Aunt Violet’s vintage Ford Cortina. He’d piloted the sedan through London traffic with ease, radio set to a classic rock station, while the two of us sat numb with jet lag and exhaustion. According to Mum, George was Aunt Violet’s longtime friend and general handyman. “A very good chap to know,” as she put it.
The sedan crawled down the narrow cobblestone street, passing by the Magpie Tavern, Holly & Ivy Inn, Tea and Crumpets, and Spinning Your Wheels, which had racks of bicycles on the sidewalk. A slim black cat ran out from behind the tea shop, eyeing us with disdain before darting across the lane into an alley.
George braked in front of Thomas Marlowe—Manuscripts & Folios. “Bloody ’ell,” he said. “They’ve gone and taken my spot.” He thumped a meaty fist on the wheel. “Don’t they know they’re not allowed?” Traffic was restricted in the city’s ancient center said signs everywhere, but despite the rule, a sleek BMW sat blocking the building entrance.
And what a building it was, like something out of a storybook with its timber framing and cream plaster, diamond-pane bay windows at shop level, and smaller, matching bays on the second floor. Held up with brackets, a third level overhung the others slightly. I caught my breath, my foggy head swimming with awed disbelief. This gorgeous bookshop was ours? Established in 1605, a metal plaque near the door read. More than four centuries ago.
My dazed reverie dissolved with a pop when the Cortina reversed suddenly and then lurched forward, jerking to a stop again. George had parked at a diagonal between an Audi parked in a narrow alley, the same one the cat entered, and the BMW in front of the door.
“There,” he said with satisfaction. “At least we can get your bags unloaded.” Neither of the other cars would be able to move, but George didn’t seem to care. He swung his large body out of the driver’s seat and went around to the back to open the trunk.
Mum, who was sitting in front, turned to look at me. “How are you doing back there?”
“Uh, gobsmacked is the word, I believe.” Ever since the plane landed at Heathrow, Briticisms had come readily to mind. Maybe it was all those Enid Blyton books I’d devoured, seeking clues to my mother’s origins. In my luggage was the only print book I’d brought from our extensive library, a cherished copy of Now We Are Six by A.A. Milne—who studied in Cambridge, by the way. Dad had read these sweet poems to me often, and I’d imagined my mother in place of Christopher Robin, thinking her childhood must have been exactly like his.
I reached for the handle and pushed the door open, then swung my legs out and stood, stretching my cramped knees. From here, looking up the lane, I could see Trinity College’s main gate. Trinity College was home to the world-renowned Wren Library, which held a collection that included amazing works like an eighth-century copy of the Epistles of St. Paul, a thousand medieval manuscripts, and one of Isaac Newton’s notebooks. Newton had been a Trinity fellow. Gobsmacked, indeed. I was now living in a book-lover’s dream.
“Here we are, then.” George thumped our large roller bags onto the sidewalk. “Where are these going? Upstairs?” He slammed the trunk lid down.
“I’m not sure,” Mum said in a tentative voice, looking up at the bookshop. “It’s been ages.… We’ll have to ask Aunt Violet.” She stood hunched on the sidewalk, clutching her handbag to her side, and with a sharp pang of guilt, I wondered how she was feeling. This was more than a journey to literary heaven for her—this was a homecoming. And maybe a difficult one, at that.
“Are you okay, Mum?” I whispered as George grabbed both handles and bumped the suitcases over the curb, heading toward the bookshop’s front entrance.
She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “I think so. It’s all a bit strange … being here, leaving Vermont … your father…”
I put my arm around her shoulder. “We’ll be all right. Besides, we can always go back.” This was the right thing to say, but every part of me screamed No, please no, I want to stay here.
Her headshake was brief but decisive. “That would be giving up.” She put her arm through mine. “And the Marlowe women don’t give up.”
Phew. I planted a kiss on her cheek. “This is going to be the best adventure, wait and see.”
At the front door, George stood the suitcases up and moved aside so we could enter first. Unlike most shops, which had plate-glass entrances, Thomas Marlowe had an old-fashioned wooden door painted purple, with a brass press-down latch and an oval window.
“After you, Mum,” I said. While I waited for her to open the door, I checked out the bay windows. Although old-fashioned and charming, they were filled with stacks of books in no discernable order and certainly not placed to entice sales.
A huge tiger cat was curled up in the left-hand window, sunbeams warming his fur. He must have sensed me staring because he lifted his head and regarded me with narrow eyes. Then, no doubt deciding I wasn’t worth the effort, he snuggled down and went back to his nap. The “he” was an assumption, but he looked like Orson Welles in feline form. I smiled at the image.
Mum finally got the balky door open and held it for me. Bells gave a jaunty tinkle as we crossed the mat onto creaking wood floors.
Books. Everywhere. The kaleidoscope of shape and color hit me first, followed by the intoxicating aroma of paper and ink, leather and cloth, base notes of old wood and dust floating beneath. I breathed deep as I took it all in, my pulse racing.
Built-in shelves lined all four walls, and tall bookcases here and there formed their own alcoves. In the center were tables holding yet more stacks of books but low enough to give a view of the long, curved service desk in the middle of the shop. This was backed with glass-fronted shelves, giving it an enclosed feel, like a kiosk. I guessed the more valuable books were kept there.
The five people in the shop turned to look at us. Three were business types in expensive navy blue suits, two men and a woman. Each held a smartphone.
The fourth was a middle-aged man with receding red hair and fleshy cheeks. He wore a fine wool sweater and slacks, polished loafers on his feet, but despite this careful refinement, something about him screamed gold chains and pinky rings. With crossed arms, he appraised us with cold blue eyes.
From behind the desk a slight figure rose to her feet, adjusting a pair of owlish eyeglasses. White hair was piled high on her head, two pencils and a pen poking out of the hive. A huge smile broke across her face, crinkling her papery cheeks, but before she could say anything, the redheaded man sauntered toward us.
“Nina? Is it really you?” He took her hand between his. “Clive. Clive Marlowe, your cousin.” He laughed, a hearty rumble. “Second or third, never can remember how that goes.”
Behind us, George horsed the bags through the door with a grunt. As he stood them near us, I noticed him eyeing Clive with barely veiled animosity.
“Oh yes. Clive.” Mum pulled her hand free. “I’m sorry … it’s been a while.” George edged past us and went to talk to Aunt Violet. That had to be her behind the desk.
Clive raked those cold eyes up and down Mum’s body. “Seems like only a moment, it does. Lovely as ever.”
As Mum stuttered a reply and I restrained myself from kicking his shins, I noticed the suits gathered in a huddle, conferring. Now they moved toward us, one man in front, his two companions trailing behind.
“Mr. Marlowe?” the man said with a plummy accent. “Thank you for the tour.” He thrust out a hand. “It looks very promising. Promising, indeed.”
Clive shook the man’s hand with a hearty grip. “Good, good. We’ll be in touch then, mate?” Clive’s accent wasn’t nearly as polished and I saw the man wince. But maybe it was the strength of our cousin’s handshake.
“We’ll be in touch,” the man agreed, wiggling his fingers. “Shall we?” He held the door open for the others.
“I’d better move the car,” George muttered, exiting the shop on their heels.
“Who were they?” I asked once the trio was safely out on the sidewalk, getting into the BMW. They hadn’t bought any books I’d noticed, and what was this about a tour?
Clive adjusted his gold watch, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “They’re potential buyers, they are. From Best Books.”
I had heard of Best Books, a chain of sleek bookstores located all over the UK, like a British version of Barnes & Noble. Cold shock washed away the clinging remnants of jet lag. If Best Books planned to buy Thomas Marlowe, then what were we doing here? Had we closed the Vermont chapter of our lives only to face a blank page?
CHAPTER 2
Aunt Violet lifted a huge kettle and set it on the cream-colored AGA range. “I’m sorry you had to experience such a rude welcome,” she said. “Clive popped in on me with those people, uninvited.”
We were in Aunt Violet’s kitchen behind the shop, a spacious room featuring flagstone floors, blackened beams, and a sitting area near tall windows overlooking a walled garden. The fat tiger cat was now ensconced in a green velvet armchair, next to which sat a basket of knitting, pretty pink needles thrust through dove gray yarn. His name was Clarence, we had learned. As for the shop, Aunt Violet had put up a sign that read Gone to Lunch.
“What’s going on, Aunt Violet?” Mum asked, her fingers toying with the silk scarf knotted around her neck. She and I were seated at a long pine table. “What does Clive have to do with the bookshop?”
Aunt Violet turned on the gas then adjusted the flame. “Nothing, really. I’m the owner but—” She broke off, fluttering over to the refrigerator, an older unit with a rounded top. “What would you like for lunch?” She opened the door and poked her head inside. “I’ve got ham and cheese and some lovely crusty rolls…” Her voice trailed off as she began pulling bottles, jars, and packets out of the fridge.
Mum looked at me, her eyebrows raised. Her steady look assured me we’d get to the bottom of this. “Do you want some help?” she asked.
“No, no.” Aunt Violet waved off the suggestion. “You must be exhausted after that long journey.” She clucked her tongue. “Traveling over three thousand miles in a single day. I’ll never get over being amazed by that.”
We sat pinned to our seats in exhaustion while she bustled about, setting stoneware plates laden with thick sandwiches and pickles in front of us, pouring steaming cups of tea, and dispensing glasses of icy, delicious water from a pitcher in the fridge.
I inhaled that sandwich, chasing it with quantities of hot tea. To me, my body clock still set to Vermont time, it was five in the afternoon and I was starving. We’d flown overnight from Boston, crossing five time zones, and landed early in the morning.
Once every delicious bite was gone, Mum wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Thank you. That was wonderful.” She leveled a serious look at her aunt. “Now, spill.”
Aunt Violet told us the story, in between running out to her files for documents and the checkbook. Clive had given her a loan late last year, when Christmas hadn’t been as profitable as usual. She’d been struggling to make payments, so he’d come up with the idea of selling the shop. In fact, he was trying to pressure her into it.
“I’m just devastated,” Aunt Violet said, her expression bleak. She’d propped the eyeglasses up in her hair along with the writing implements, revealing large blue eyes framed by laugh lines. She certainly wasn’t laughing now. “This shop has been in the family forever and I can’t bear to be the one to lose it. That’s why I wrote to you, Nina. I thought you could help me turn it around, modernize things a bit.” She turned to me. “You’re a librarian, Molly, how perfect is that? Plus you probably know all about social media, right?”
“I do,” I said. “I have tons of ideas already.” The shop, even the way it was right now, in total disarray, was a social media dream. I could picture snaps of ancient tomes paired with mugs of tea, the cobblestones of Magpie Lane fuzzy in the background. As for that fat cat, Clarence? He’d be a star. Who wouldn’t want to visit a quaint bookshop in one of England’s most beautiful, historic cities? And if they couldn’t come in person, they could purchase from us online, buying their own piece of Cambridge.
Then my vision expanded. I could take pictures of the books all over the city, themed to the various colleges and local sights. For example, a display of religious texts and Bibles in the Round Church, which was right up the road.
Knowing now was not the time, I forced myself to stop brainstorming and tune back in. “I had no idea Clive would be bringing in those corporate types so soon,” Aunt Violet was saying. Her already pale face had gone even whiter and her lips trembled. “It was so humiliating. They were prodding and prying everywhere, taking notes and talking about the changes they would have to make. All while maintaining listed status, of course.” She waved a hand as if cooling herself off. “What foresight we had to list this place, I tell you.”
In England, I knew, landmark historic buildings were subject to many regulations aimed at preserving these treasures for future generations. Best Books couldn’t just flatten the shop and put up a modern concrete box. That was a small comfort.
Copyright © 2021 by Elizabeth Penney
