Bliss and the Art of Forever (A Hope Springs Novel) (11 page)

He’d talked to Peggy Butters at Christmas when she was doubling up on her seasonal cookie baking. They’d joked then about mothers ordering goodies for class parties and passing them off as homemade.

Hell, he’d bought cookies decorated like jack-o’-lanterns himself for Addy to take to school at Halloween. And he’d helped her with her Olaf costume. How many little girls had dressed like
Frozen
’s Elsa, while his daughter had insisted on being the movie’s snowman?

This was Addy’s first year of school, and he was going to have to step up his game for the twelve of public education yet to come. If he didn’t, all the rest of his efforts to provide for her wouldn’t mean squat.

For five years his focus had been on establishing Bliss as
the
place for artisanal chocolates in the Hill Country. Maintaining his online business had been easier; that was no more than creating the supply to meet the demand that had continued to grow since he’d begun offering his wares in San Francisco.

The first few months he and Addy had been in Hope Springs, he’d cooked in this very kitchen, packaged boxes for shipment on folding tables lined up beneath the loft’s long wall of windows.

He’d held interviews for his showroom help in his living room. He’d brought in a branding designer for his logo, an interior designer for the look of the shop. Experts in packaging, labeling, advertising.

He’d used the money he’d been handed by Duke Randall, the man who’d been his best friend in California. His mentor. His conscience and guide, and though she would never know it, Addy’s uncle. He hadn’t questioned where it had come from; he didn’t want the answer. He’d needed it to give his daughter a good life, a safe life; he didn’t want to know.

It had been worth it: the lack of sleep, the trial and error, dealing with new vendors and new employees, Lena as well as the occasional temp, and a new relationship with his mom and dad.

He’d do it all again. He’d do it ten times over.

Because he was doing it all for the little girl sitting at the bar drinking milk, eating bacon and eggs, and talking to a goofy-looking snowman. The little girl who was his whole life, who was his whole heart.

Sitting cross-legged in the far back corner of Cat Tales, the best new and used bookstore in the world, Brooklyn reached for a long-out-of-print Penelope Williamson title and read the description on the back. Or she tried to read the description on the back. The words weren’t cooperating, keeping her from remembering if she’d read this one before. Mostly likely she had.

Still, there was a chance Jean had not. She added it to the stack at her hip on top of a Kathleen Woodiwiss, as if she needed yet another huge trade paperback on her not-even-a-year-old bookcase. She didn’t, and she knew it. She also knew why she was here, and it had nothing to do with books.

Her visit was about her life turning upside down, first by Bianca’s pleas that she stay in Italy to teach, and now by her attraction to Callum Drake.

When she worried about upcoming dates—a new school year, an annual checkup, an international flight—or when she needed a distraction—the amount of time she spent thinking about Callum proved she did—she browsed her two favorite bookstores: Cat Tales and Amazon. Her poor Kindle. Her poor credit card. Her poor not-even-a-year-old bookcase.

She reached for a Michelle Willingham book set in 1305 Scotland, only to find a pair of bright yellow eyes that belonged to the store’s mascot staring at her from the shelf above. No way. Uh-uh. This was not a sign. But the big gray tabby using the row of books as a bed did explain why her eyes were suddenly watering.

“You’re lying on my Willingham, sir. I hope you don’t think you’re going to get away with that.”

He answered with a big yawn that seemed to be more about showing off his canines than anything.

“Oh. Is that so? You’re a fan of mysterious stable boys and maidens and castles with no running water, too?”

Another teeth-baring yawn, and a long reaching stretch; then the cat eased from the shelf into her lap, curling up and making himself at home in the cradle of her crossed legs.

“No, no, no. This isn’t happening,” she said, laughing to herself as the cat began to purr, loudly, the rumble against her thighs bringing to mind Callum’s bike. See? This was what she was talking about. Why couldn’t she shake her thoughts of him?

It was ridiculous, this fascination. It wasn’t like she hadn’t known handsome men before. Artie’s crew could’ve posed for a firefighter calendar and made buckets of cash.

Of course, her being Artie’s wife meant none of them ever regarded her the way Callum had from her classroom door. Or later, in her kitchen. Thinking of how he’d looked at her after she’d downed the piece of chocolate at Bliss, or when she’d held his hand to get a closer look at his Tennyson tattoo . . .

How could she possibly be feeling so strongly about a man who’d only come into her life this weekend? And why was she going over this again when she’d told herself not two nights ago that none of the things between them could matter? Hope Springs had been her home for thirteen years, and in four months she’d be leaving for who knew how long? Callum was staying. His business was here, his family was here, his daughter went to school here.

No doubt one day he’d have a wife, and a passel of little red-headed Irish rogues running riot across an expanse of lawn as green as his homeland. Not that Ireland was actually his homeland, but she was sitting in the romance section, and dammit, she would give her imagination its due.

“I’ve been reading about too many knights on horseback crossing miles of rolling hills, cat. Do you see my problem?” The cat’s purr grew louder, and he curled into an even tighter ball, as if settling in for the rest of the day, no matter Brooklyn’s plans. “Good thing I don’t really have anything going on. Unless you want to count paying for these books.”

And, of course, sorting through the pile of clothes she’d started pulling from her closet yesterday morning and tossed to the bed, the mess requiring her to push the mountain aside to sleep last night.

She’d become such a pack rat the last two years. At first she blamed the lack of energy that had plagued her for months after Artie’s death. Then she had nothing—or no one—to blame but herself.

She kept things neat, but she kept things she had no reason to. It seemed easier to move a blouse with a ragged buttonhole to the back of the closet than take it to the cleaners to be repaired.

And now half of the clothes hanging up were ones she hadn’t worn in years. Some she hadn’t worn but once. The items were perfect for someone handy with a needle and thread. Someone who didn’t mind cuts and colors she was too old to wear. Someone who wouldn’t have the memories of Artie loving how she looked in red . . .

“You, Brooklyn Harvey, are just plain lazy,” she said, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “Life isn’t lived in books, you know. And it’s not lived sitting on the floor of a bookstore. You’re going to have to give me my legs, cat.”

“Look, Daddy. It’s Ms. Harvey! And she’s got a cat!”

Hearing her name spoken with such excitement and in a voice that was part of her daily life, Brooklyn turned, grinning at the sight of Adrianne Drake running down the aisle and squatting next to her.

“Can I pet her?” the girl asked, her hands balled in her lap as if she could barely contain them. “What’s her name?”

“I don’t know
his
name,” Brooklyn said. “But you’ll need to ask your dad if petting him’s okay.” She waited a few seconds until her heart settled before lifting her gaze from Adrianne to her dad.

“Can I, Daddy? Please?”

Callum had been staring at the cat, but now looked at Brooklyn as if asking her permission, when Adrianne was his daughter, not hers. He was frowning, his eyes dark, as if uncertain, or caught off guard, his defenses down; strangely, she couldn’t tell if what he was feeling was about his daughter and the cat, or about her.

“He’s been completely friendly,” she said, not wanting to make a wrong move. “But it’s up to you. Is she allergic?”

He shook his head, then gave Adrianne a single nod. “Sit by Ms. Harvey and pet its back very softly.”

“I will,” Adrianne said, crossing her ankles and bending her knees and folding herself into a sitting position then reaching out with a tentative hand. “Hello, Mr. Kitty. You’re very pretty. And you’re very soft.”

Brooklyn watched Callum’s daughter stroke her hand down the cat’s back repeatedly, watched the cat shudder as if the pleasure was nearly unbearable. The look on Adrianne’s face said she was experiencing the same.

It wasn’t quite as easy to look up and meet Callum’s gaze; he wasn’t anywhere near as transparent. He stood with his hands shoved in his jeans pockets, much as he had in her classroom last week.

His hair was messier today than it had been then, most of it in a knot but enough falling free that she wanted to tuck it back. And, while she was there, to pull aside his oxford’s collar and read the inscription that ran in cursive letters from beneath one ear around his neck to the other.

“I didn’t hear your bike.” It was a struggle to get the words out. It was a struggle to breathe.

He shook his head, reached up with one hand to clear his hair from his face. Then he looked at his daughter and smiled, his dimples, like slivers of the moon, cut into the scruff on his face. “We’re in the truck today. I’ve got a rebuilt ’72 GMC. We had to go to Austin for supplies for the shop.”

“That’s right. I forgot the shop was closed for the holiday.”

He gave a single nod. “Good thing, too. Addy didn’t feel so hot yesterday. She spent most of it curled up on the futon watching
Reading Rainbow
. I had a feeling we might be putting off today’s errands and seeing Dr. Barrow instead.”

“No Dr. Barrow,” Adrianne put in vehemently, her nose a little too close to the cat’s for Brooklyn’s peace of mind.

She put her own hand on the cat’s head and scooted back, then reached out to sweep the girl’s hair over her shoulders. “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better today, but I’m sorry you were sick yesterday.”

“I wasn’t sick,” Adrianne replied matter-of-factly, her focus not the least bit diverted. “I didn’t feel like a fireplace. I was just sleepy.”

Like a fireplace?
Brooklyn mouthed the words and Callum nodded, then said. “She didn’t have a fever.”

“Ah.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, pumpkin?”

“Can I get six books since I’m six years old?” she asked, causing Brooklyn to press her lips against a grin.

“Didn’t we talk about this this morning?” he asked, getting a reluctant nod in answer. “And what did we decide?”

“That I could pick out three. And that I had to choose three from home to give to Kelly Webber. But, Daddy?”

“Yes, Addy?”

“Can Ms. Harvey come with us to get ice cream?”

“Fine with me,” Callum said before Brooklyn could think of a way to let him off the hook. “Assuming Ms. Harvey likes ice cream.”

“Oh, Daddy. Everybody likes ice cream.” She scooted closer to Brooklyn’s crossed legs and leaned toward the cat, whose purring was about to put Brooklyn to sleep. “You are just so silly all the time.”

He looked at Brooklyn and shrugged as if no one could ever understand the things he had to put up with. “And there you have it. An invitation to ice cream with a girl who loves cats and her father who is silly all the time.”

“That wasn’t a planned ambush, you know,” Callum said, walking beside Brooklyn on their way to the park, ice-cream cone in hand. His bag from Cat Tales swung from his free hand as Brooklyn’s did from hers. “I had no idea you’d be at the bookstore.”

“You couldn’t have,” she said, unable to get the picture of Callum shopping for books with his daughter out of her mind.

Leaving the cat in the medieval romances, they’d headed for the children’s section. It was set up in the middle of the store, four walls of low shelves, with bean bag chairs, and fuzzy throw rugs, and books that weren’t for sale but for reading. There were building blocks, and wooden trains, and plastic dinosaurs to ride on top.

Martha Prescott, the bookstore’s owner, had taught at Hope Springs Elementary the same years as Jean Dial, though she’d retired earlier with one goal in mind: to instill a love of reading in children before they knew how to make out the words. Brooklyn couldn’t remember a time she’d stopped by Cat Tales when every chair wasn’t shared by two kids and every rug by three.