The Bookshop on the Corner (A Gingerbread Cafe story) (5 page)

“Anyways,” CeeCee said, “let’s put the past behind us and focus on Ridge for a second.”

Missy’s eyes lit up and she scooted forward on her seat. “Yes! Tell me about this hunky man who’s got you girls giggling into your aprons. Did I not say a change might blow in on the wind?” She looked pointedly at me. Distracted, I noticed Missy’s cheeks were rosier than normal, even with the amount of rouge she always wore. And she had a quiet kind of sparkle about her. She was always the bubbly, animated one of the group, but she seemed more contained today, different somehow. I made a mental note to ask her later what was going on.

CeeCee and Lil went on to explain every minute detail about reporter Ridge, while I sipped my gingerbread coffee and wondered if Ridge was just a handsome face. Or if there was more to him than that.

***

After plying me full of pecan truffles, which made me slump into a sugar coma, the girls convinced me that the dinner party on Friday night would be fun, and that it wasn’t intended as a set-up for Ridge and me. It was a blatant lie but I agreed because Lil wouldn’t hand over the rest of the chocolates until I said yes. I threatened her with all manner of things before she capitulated with the truffles.

Chapter Five

Damn! I was late. Dashing to my car, I cursed and muttered to myself. For some inexplicable reason, I couldn’t sleep last night. Instead I’d stayed up far too late reading under the dim glow of the bedside lamp, often getting to the end of a page and having to start over because I hadn’t taken a word in.

It was that blasted reporter.

The hero in the book I’d been reading reminded me of him, so instead of focusing on the words in front of me I’d become lost inside my mind, etching out my own visions with hero Ridge as the misunderstood big-town reporter set on stealing my heart — I mean the heroine’s heart.

Did most people put themselves in the place of their heroines? Picturing themselves going through the trials and tribulations of the character? To me it seemed a completely normal habit, but maybe I was bonkers. No time to contemplate; I made a mental note to blog about it as I jammed the key in the ignition of my hatchback and set off for work.

I parked out front, and rushed to the bookshop. “Sorry,” I hollered out to a courier waiting on my stoop.

The man looked at the small box he held and then asked, “Are you Sarah Smith?”

“Yes,” I replied, pushing a tendril of hair from my face.

“Delivery for you.” He motioned to an electronic gizmo for me to sign before giving me the small box.

I thanked him and rushed inside to open it.

There was no return address, I noticed as I delicately picked off the tape. The only packages I ever received were big boxes of books, nothing as small as this.

Opening the box slowly as though it might detonate, I stifled a giggle when the embossed title of the book stared out at me.

New Yorkers: How to live the dream.

I flipped open the cover and a small note fell out.

Dear Sarah, AKA Covert CIA operative
.

I’m beginning to think you might be right about New Yorkers. But don’t tell anyone I said that. I have a reputation to uphold as a swaggering, jocular, cocky scribe who’s making his way, by whatever means possible, up the corporate ladder in this dog-eat-dog town. Or am I? It was great to chat to you yesterday, would still love to interview you if you change your mind
.

Ridge
.

Oh, he was good. That was exactly what I would expect from a reporter. I scrunched the note and aimed for the bin; it hit the metal edge and bounced to the carpet.

I couldn’t comprehend why he’d want to include my bookshop in an article. And all jokes about matchmaking aside, I didn’t think he’d go to all that trouble just to get a date with me. I could see the angle for Walt’s beautiful hand-crafted furniture, yes, and the glorious food at the Gingerbread Café, definitely. And I guessed my blog had proven to be popular, but for some reason I wanted to protect it, and keep it for those who stumbled upon it organically, joining because they truly loved books, and not because some showy reporter wrote about it.

First up, I needed a strong coffee to get my addled brain to switch into gear after such a late night. I went through the back to the small kitchenette and filled up the coffee plunger. I tried hard not to think about all the sweet treats across the road. Instead, I opted for an apple, and took my cup back to the front of the shop.

I’d just settled down to read when Missy strutted in, wearing a leopard-print miniskirt and matching high heels. Her fashion sense was zany, and would look silly on anyone else, but it suited her. “Oh, my Lord, what did you do to your hair?” she said, tutting.

“Nothing. Like literally nothing. I was running a tad late today.” I stroked it back in place, having completely forgotten about it and looked down quickly to make sure I had in fact dressed myself this morning, in my haste. Skirt. Check. Sweater. Check. Phew.

“Never mind, I can fix it later when you come for your appointment.”

“I don’t have an appointment, do I?” I said, knowing if Missy said I did, then I had no choice in the matter. She decided when my locks needed attention, not I.

“Honey,” she said, “you have a hot non-date Friday — what do you think? Of course I need to fix up your hair!”

Shaking my head, I replied, “The non-date, right. I’d forgotten all about it. Surely, though, since it’s not a date, it doesn’t matter what my hair looks like?” I couldn’t help but tease.

She gripped the edge of the counter, and started counting.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just counting to ten and hoping by then I’ve calmed down somewhat and can pretend you did not just say that which is unspeakable!”

This was the Missy I knew, all over-the-top dramatics, and hilarious to boot.

“Which part? The bit about who cares what my hair looks like?”

She let out an indignant wail. “Don’t make me wash your mouth out with soap, young lady!”

“OK.” I laughed, picturing Missy chasing me around the bookshop with a bar of some fancy-smelling soap that probably cost a fortune.

Tugging at her skirt, she cast her gaze around the bookshop as if she were searching for something.

“Are you going to spill?” She seemed fidgety all of a sudden, as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know how, which was out of character for Missy.

She pasted on a wide smile, and tried her level best to look innocent, but when you’d been friends as long as we had it was easy to see through the charade. We were opposites, and that worked in our favor for our decade-long friendship. I guessed I originally intrigued Missy, being this quiet girl who would rather read than socialize. And Missy would rather spend time chatting away until the early hours of a morning.

“What?” A smile played at the corners of her mouth.

“You closed up early yesterday and rushed off. I was all set on grilling you about that glow on your face, and the slightly high-pitched way you seem to be talking.”

Her face broke into a huge grin. “That’s just the cocktail of vitamins talking. I need a book.”

“I know you have a secret. The book is the clue, right?”

She shrugged. “I thought I’d take up reading — what’s so strange about that?”

“Absolutely nothing. Go on, what kind of book are you after?”

“Oh, you know, something on pregnancy, but nothing too horrific. I want one that glosses over the whole labor part…”

I shrieked and skipped from behind the counter. Enveloping her in my arms, I jumped up and down with her. “Wait,” I said. “I don’t think you should be jumping like that!”

Missy laughed and said, “That’s why I need the book! I have no idea what I’m supposed to do here!”

I giggled and held her by the hands. “Congratulations, Missy! What does Tommy say? I bet he’s pleased as punch he’s going to be a daddy.”

Missy’s expression softened. “He sure is. He’s already thinking about names, and color schemes for the nursery. But you know, it’s all a bit scary. You think forty-five is too old to be a mom?”

My eyebrows shot up. “You’re thirty-five, remember!” I joked. For the last ten years come April we had re-celebrated Missy’s thirty-fifth birthday. She said she was sticking with that number for at least another decade.

She flounced over to the stool at the counter. “Well, I got to keep up appearances, don’t I?”

“You don’t look a day over thirty!” I said mock-seriously.

She clapped her hands. “And that’s why I love you! But truthfully…” her brow furrowed “…do you think we’re too old? Tommy is nearly fifty. Who would’ve thought it would happen this late?”

Behind the sunny façade Missy had hidden her anguish about not falling pregnant like a pro. Every now and then we’d be lolling on her porch having Friday-night cocktails and she’d confide in me how much she yearned for a child, but almost instantly she’d back it up with a positive spin, and tuck the conversation away for another time. To think her wish would finally come true after all these years made my heart almost burst with happiness. “You’re going to make great parents! And you’re only as old as you think you are, right? Thirty-five is the perfect age for a mom.” I squeezed her hand, before sitting on a stool next to her.

“I have no idea how it finally happened when we’d put the thought out of our minds for good.”

“Babies come when they’re ready. Maybe this one—” I patted her still-flat belly “—was waiting for the right time.”

Her eyes were glassy with tears. “That’s what Tommy says. Maybe we are finally ready. You know me, always a little slower to catch on than most,” she said self-deprecatingly.

I hugged her curvaceous frame tightly. “This baby is special. She’s been searching for the perfect mom, and now she’s found her.” Missy would make a wonderful mother. I could already picture the baby, dressed in a gorgeous outfit, snuggled up in an elegant fluffy blanket.

“She?”

“Of course! You can’t really dress up a boy with bows and ribbons, can you?”

She wiped her tears away, and laughed. “You know, I thought the very same thing, but I am sure I could work out some way to outfit a boy a little snazzier.”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute. How far along are you?”

“Nearly ten weeks.” She placed a hand on her stomach protectively. “We found out for sure yesterday. It was so hard not to tell you, but I didn’t want to make a big deal of it in case it was a faulty test, or something. We saw Dr Lewis yesterday and he confirmed it. I’ll tell everyone else when we get to twelve. I’m not usually superstitious, but, in this case, suddenly I am.”

“Lil and CeeCee are going to be crazy with excitement. There’ll be parties, baby showers…”

“I can’t wait!”

“Let’s find you that book,” I said.

“Nothing with pictures. I don’t want to be traumatized.”

I giggled at Missy again, and promised I’d find her a book that guaranteed a smooth delivery.

Chapter Six

Missy stockpiled books for expectant fathers and one glossy upbeat book on maternity for herself, before heading back to her shop with promises of meeting for lunch. I tried to get back to my novel, but my mind was as scattered as the leaves on the pavement.

I was overjoyed my best friend had this wonderful news to celebrate, but it did bring me crashing back to earth with an almighty thud. My singledom at almost thirty made me feel like some kind of failure, as if there was something wrong with me. I tried to shrug it off and get back to my book but the text on the page in front of me blurred. It was one of those moments where you knew you were about to have an epiphany, something miraculous, if only you’d listen to your subconscious… I gasped when the words formed in my mind.

Was I being too fussy about men?

Only wanting to settle for someone as dashing as a hero in one of my books? I cradled my head in my hands and groaned; maybe that kind of man simply did not exist. Was I expecting the fairy tale, and thus eradicating any chance of love?

Something niggled at me. What if the fairy tale did exist? A man as buff and suave as any hero, with brains and brawn, and a sexy smile reserved only for me. No; I lifted my head, pulled my shoulders back. I wasn’t going to compromise. I wanted the guy in the books. The book boyfriend must come to life. Otherwise there was no point.

Instead of picturing the buff hero of my future I saw cats circling my ankles, waiting to be fed. I shook the thought away. I didn’t even own a cat, and for that very reason I vowed to never buy one — just in case.

Coffee would soothe the erratic beating of my heart. Or speed it up. The phone rang, catching me midway between the kitchenette and the counter. I jogged to answer it, plopping myself back on my chair.

“Sarah from The Bookshop on the Corner.”

“Did you get it?”

Ridge.

“Who is this, please?” I tried to keep the smile from my voice.

“It’s your friendly New Yorker, calling to check in. I’ve budgeted so many minutes of my day for this call, so you better make it worth my while.”

“Oh…Ridge, is it?”

“Very funny.”

A silence hung between us, probably because I was picturing him at the other end of the line, wondering what he was doing, what he was seeing. Was he looking out of a big glass window that faced the gigantic city skyline, surrounded by black furniture, and lots of objets d’art that were sleek in their simplicity?

“I’m guessing you’re snuggled up in that little alcove you have behind the counter.” He sounded as if he were lost in a dream, his tone mellow and sleepy.

“Did you install cameras?” Heat spread through me as I fought to sound jocular.

“Yes.”

I laughed in spite of myself, while internally screaming, what was this? Harmless flirting? Something more? Nothing? And what did I want it to be?

“Did you get the book?”

“I sure did, thank you. Stiffens my resolve to stay away from big cities.”

“Well, in that case, the big city will come to you.”

“Are you referring to yourself as a big city? Is that some kind of metaphor?” Again I was bowled over by my confidence with Ridge. It was so unlike me, but he had a way of making me say the first thing that sprang to mind.