Page 20 of The Sandy Page Bookshop

Luke

Since finishing work at the Sandy Page, he could not get Leah Powell off his mind. He may as well have been fourteen years old again. But he had real jobs to get back to. And as for Leah, he wanted a few days to think. It was hard to do that when he was around her.

It was no easy feat juggling the jobs at the bookstore along with his real jobs.

Having finished the kitchen reno in Stage Harbor around the same time he became aware of the fact that Leah was back in town, Luke’s next project in line was a custom walk-in closet for a couple on Ridgevale Road.

He was still working on it. Though the scale was small, the details of the built-in units, doors, and drawers were intricate.

The wife wanted the main wall of the closet to resemble an oversized antique hutch, with double doors.

The husband, who Luke gathered would’ve been just as happy with a rod and metal hangers, was unyielding during their first consultation.

“Don’t they make some nice laminates these days that look like wood?

” he’d asked. Since coming to Luke’s workshop and seeing the choices of wood, hardware, and finishes, he’d come around.

They settled on cherry wood in a dark Shiraz finish with bamboo-style bronze hardware in champagne.

There would be no laminates or plywood in this design.

The trouble was, Luke was a week behind on his projects.

The day he agreed to work with Leah was the same day he was supposed to start the custom closet job.

Between the two, Luke quickly found himself working sixteen-hour days. Every spare hour found him running between the job at Ridgevale, his workshop, and Leah’s shop. There had been no time for kayaking or running Scout along the beach. There was barely time to steal a few hours of sleep.

Somehow, he’d managed to get the bookstore ready in time for opening day.

Leah had fretted and fussed about paying him, especially after she saw the sign he’d made her, but he knew things were tight.

He also knew from running a small business that it would be a long time before any actual profit came in, but he didn’t say so to her.

Luckily for him the last few years had been good, and business was booming; as for Leah, they had history.

She was good for the money. What mattered most was that the Sandy Page opened its doors, and the look on Leah’s face when he surprised her with the sign was payment enough for now.

Working together the last ten days, there were so many things Luke wanted to ask her about.

Instead they talked about her brother, James.

About his parents, both of whom had relocated to Florida.

And about Scout, who’d begun to grow on her.

Somehow Luke hadn’t realized that Leah was afraid of big dogs—it seemed so inconceivable that a laid-back guy like Scout, who loved everyone, could be seen as threatening. But that’s exactly how she saw him.

At first she avoided Scout altogether, staying on the opposite side of the room. “Let me keep him in the truck,” Luke offered, as soon as he realized.

“You can’t. It’s hot out.”

“Then I’ll take him back home,” Luke insisted.

“There’s no time. It’s fine,” she said, even though he could tell she didn’t mean it.

“Lie down, buddy,” Luke told him. Scout complied, settling quietly onto the rug near Luke.

By the end of the first day, Leah was no longer climbing over furniture to avoid the dog if he was in her path.

Nor was she wincing when she held out her hand to give him a biscuit, at Luke’s suggestion.

Midweek, she was sharing the crusts of her sandwich with Scout at lunch when she thought Luke wasn’t looking.

When Scout didn’t come after Luke called him one evening at quitting time, he found the dog curled up at Leah’s feet at one end of the old Victorian couch. Both were sound asleep.

“Well, look at that,” Brad mused, standing beside him in the office doorway. “I guess you really are a miracle worker.”

There were so many things Luke wanted to know about Leah’s life and why she had come back, but he got the sense that beneath the pluck and determination she demonstrated when it came to the bookshop, underneath it all she was fragile.

He could see it in moments when she didn’t think anyone was looking; the sag of her posture as she reviewed spreadsheets on her laptop at her makeshift desk in the old dining room.

The faraway look she got in her eyes in quiet moments.

It was in the tone of her voice at the end of the day, when they were still behind schedule (they were almost always behind schedule) and she looked about to cry—though she never did.

At least not in front of him. Underneath her drive and determination and big ideas there was still the fleeting shadow of the teenage girl he’d spent years admiring from afar.

And so he tread carefully. Luke did not ask if she was still engaged.

Oh, he wondered. From the moment he heard she was back in town, he had a feeling something must have changed.

Why else would she have left Boston where, James had told him, she’d had an important job in publishing, in addition to a fiancé.

He hadn’t talked to James in ages, and it would seem suspicious to call him up now.

Eudora was the one who’d tipped him off about her shop.

Later, Mike at the grocery mentioned that he heard Mr. Powell had taken the house off the summer rental market because his daughter had moved back.

When those tidbits only scratched the surface of his curiosity, Luke looked online.

Sure enough, Leah’s name came up a few times attached to the name of a debut author, Luna Hoya.

He’d never heard the name but there were plenty of mentions from a few months ago.

According to an article in the Boston Globe , Luna had penned one of the most anticipated books of the year.

It was the story of her grandmother, who’d been abducted as a young woman by a Mexican cartel and forced into drug manufacturing.

The premise was incredible and heartbreaking: the single mother had not only survived and managed to escape, but to connect with federal agents and work as an undercover operator, eventually negotiating her freedom to cross the border to safety with her children.

The publishing world was abuzz with the book, especially as told by a third generation immigrant and the granddaughter of the protagonist. Foreign rights had been sold.

Streaming networks were lined up to option it for television.

Luna’s advance was record-breaking, as was the expectation of publication day sales.

Only there was one problem: the story was not hers.

It belonged to her longtime boyfriend. As a student, he’d drafted the story for a writing workshop class at NYU.

When the two broke up Luna stole his pages and his idea, secretly submitting the work as her own.

From what Luke could find in the press coverage, Leah was not only Luna’s editor but also the one who discovered her.

When the story blew up, so did Leah’s career.

Luke was floored. He’d known the Powells his whole life.

There was no way Leah would have knowingly been involved.

He wondered about the legal fallout, and if she’d been tossed out with the bathwater in the company’s rush to distance themselves from the scandal.

He wondered if it was over, or if there were still repercussions.

But instead of asking, Luke kept all of this to himself.

Leah had been through a lot in the last three months.

It was her business to share or not. In the meantime, he was glad to see her back home, trying to start over. She had guts, he’d give her that.

Leah’s grit only added to his inability to get her off his mind.

If he were honest, it was probably why he’d sent her that text offering to come by the shop to check the paint.

It was laughable. That paint was long dried, and the shelves were filled with books.

But when she said, Yes , it was the green light he needed.

Now, as he arrived at the bookstore, Luke actually felt nervous. He was grateful when he pushed the door open and found customers milling about. Leah was at the counter talking with someone. By the time she noticed him, he’d checked the paint that he already knew was fine.

“The place looks great,” he told her. “And full of customers!”

She looked pleased and almost relaxed, two things he’d seen little evidence of leading up to the opening.

“It’s a shock how busy we are,” she agreed happily.

She jammed her hands in the pockets of her white summer dress and grinned.

With the store open, gone were her raggedy denim shorts and faded T-shirts.

Her blond hair flowed loosely about her shoulders, and he had to remind himself not to stare.

“That paint dried nicely,” he said, quickly. “I didn’t find any spots or smudges that need touching up.”

She cocked her head coyly. “The paint is perfect. Though there is something else I may need your help with.” So, he was still needed here. The initial thrill of her admission was accompanied by a rush of dread. Luke was still struggling to catch up on his other jobs.

“Lead the way,” he said, anyway.

He followed her to the back of the store, through the dining room-office. It was now more organized, outfitted with a real desk, a filing cabinet, and the green Victorian couch he’d found her sleeping on that one time with Scout. “Do you need shelves in here, too?” he asked.

“This isn’t the room I was thinking of,” she said, continuing through a set of French doors. “This is.”