Much Ado About You(7)

“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.”