Page 22 of The Sandy Page Bookshop

Leah

It wasn’t a matter of if, so much as when Mrs. Shipman would show up.

Despite a slew of book buyers and a fabulous story hour led by Lucy, who read aloud beautifully to the gaggle of children who came, Leah kept her gaze trained on the front door.

She could feel it: Eudora Shipman would be there any minute and she would propose her idea.

Only, Eudora did not come.

Brad, who’d been wary of the knitting club idea, but leapt on board with the Paint and Sip, wasn’t convinced they needed her. “She’s a sweet old lady, sure. But I could run those programs.”

“You knit?” Leah asked. It should not have surprised her; Brad was so good at so many things. But knitting seemed a stretch even for him.

“Not a stitch. But my grandmother, Maria, does. If you’re determined to go through with this sewing club, I’ll invite her.”

“Knitting,” she reminded him. “Along with other artsy things.”

“Artsy things? Is that how you’re going to advertise?”

Brad’s skepticism aside, Leah was beginning to have doubts of her own.

Perhaps it was a crazy idea to expand into the other rooms of the house.

She’d only just opened. On the other hand, she was paying rent for the entire house.

And she needed to find a way to keep foot traffic going all year, once the summer tourist rush disappeared at Labor Day.

Besides, she was beginning to realize that the captain’s house held meaning for so many different people.

There was an older gentleman she’d seen lurking about the front door the last few days.

He wore a long sleeve flannel shirt, despite the warm weather, and pants held up by old-fashioned suspenders.

Leah guessed he was around seventy-five, maybe eighty.

Finally, he came in one day, carrying a large bag.

He marched up to the counter and set it there.

“I brought vegetables,” he said. Then, “My name is Willet Smith. I live a few houses back.”

“Vegetables?” Brad asked, peering in the bag.

“From my garden. Brussels sprouts and tomatoes. Though tomatoes are technically fruit.”

Unsure what to do, Brad called Leah. “He brought vegetables?”

Willet looked as grumpy up close as he had through the window, but there he was with an offering. “My father used to work here, when it was a general store.”

“Your family has history here, too!” Leah exclaimed.

“I have so many vegetables in my garden, maybe you’d like to sell some. It’s just me, now that my wife has died.” His expression softened. “I can’t possibly eat them all.”

“We sell books,” Brad said. “May I interest you in one? We have all kinds of new releases.”

Leah elbowed him. “Thank you for the vegetables, Willet.”

After that, Willet came in every few days. He had yet to buy a book, but Leah, Brad, and even Lucy went home with vegetables.

While most people came for the books (and some to snoop around and see what she’d done with the place), there were others who came in just to see the house and reminisce.

Whether it was dancing at the annual Christmas party held by the former innkeepers or coming for a twenty-five-cent ice cream when it was a general store, being inside the house conjured up memories.

Take the customer who came in yesterday with an old photograph of a woman standing beside a painting.

“This was taken in this very room,” she told Leah.

The woman’s mother had been a well-known painter who showed her work there, back when the house served as a gallery.

“My mother’s artist friends from New York came up here each August for a painting retreat,” she went on, eyes misting.

“Each morning they rose early and traveled the Cape, from Monomoy Island to the wilds of Truro, chasing the summer light and scenery.” It gave Leah joy picturing the visiting artists traversing the beaches with their easels.

The old house had been through so many iterations over the years.

It made Leah want to harness those memories, to find a way to bring the public through its doors again.

Maybe Brad was right. Maybe the captain’s daughters who’d turned it into an inn were haunting her thoughts, along with the upstairs halls, compelling her to fill the rooms once more.

It wasn’t just the house’s history she felt speaking to her.

Her customers were voicing requests, as well.

Several shoppers had come in looking for knitting books, something she was sorry not to have on hand.

That was the first rule of a small-town bookstore: know what your community wants.

Quickly she’d ordered several. When she’d later spied the knitting needles poking out of Mrs. Shipman’s bag, a seed took root.

Her shop was being embraced by the community.

Wouldn’t it be nice to embrace them back?

The house must have been listening. Whenever Leah left the hum of activity in the front and wandered to the rear quarters, she could swear a sense of melancholy came over her.

Back there the walls were stark, the chestnut floors bare.

The vacant rooms echoed, practically pleading for the chatter and foot traffic the bustling storefront so enjoyed.

Leah understood the hollowness the rooms felt; she’d felt that, too, coming home.

She began to look at the house with fresh eyes.

There was the parlor room with a lovely but nonworking fireplace.

Off of it was a spacious butler’s pantry with an open window that looked into a kitchen, empty save for an old stove and a pump sink that conjured thoughts of Little House on the Prairie .

Leah decided to start with the parlor. A crafting room would work perfectly; in there she could rotate different activities throughout the week.

That’s where Mrs. Shipman and her knitting needles came in.

Back in high school, Eudora Shipman was the adult kids turned to.

The girl who got pregnant senior year spent a lot of time in her counseling office.

As did the girl who got into an Ivy League college.

Eudora maintained an open door and a tray full of cookies.

But there was something about Leah’s reunion with her that went beyond those memories: a kinship of sorts, when it came to the shop.

Mrs. Shipman came in each day and bought something every time, however small, though Leah suspected it was an excuse more than anything.

Something about the shop resonated with Eudora beyond the books, beyond her obvious affection for and friendship with Luke.

There was a story there, and Leah felt bound to ferret it out. But that day Eudora did not come in.

Happily, the other person Leah was expecting did show up. “Oh good, he’s here,” she said, spying Luke’s truck pulling up. Scout was smiling out the open window.

“Back so soon?” Brad said. It wasn’t a question. “Just like your friend, Mrs. Shipman, Luke seems quite at home here.”

“He’s here to do some touch-ups,” Leah said, ignoring the smirk on his face.

Brad lowered his voice. “I don’t think the house is the only thing he’s interested in touching up.”

“Brad,” she hissed, gesturing toward the customers. “And wipe that smirk off your face.”

Unfazed, Brad plowed ahead. “Are you really going to deny it? I know you said the two of you went way back, but that guy is harboring a serious schoolboy crush.”

Lucy joined them at the register. “Crush?” Quiet as she was, Lucy was still a teen with big ears. The bell jangled over the door as Luke came in. “Oh. Your miracle worker.”

“Not you, too.”

“You have to admit, he’s textbook leading man material,” Brad whispered. “And we are standing by the romance section.”

This only delighted Lucy, who whisked a copy of Emily Henry’s Funny Story from the display.

“You’re both insufferable.” Leah did not stick around to watch them fist-bump.

She had never thought of him like that, not then or now.

And he’d certainly given her no sense of any lingering interest since he’d started working with her.

But as she followed him back to the parlor room to take measurements, she couldn’t deny the obvious.

Perhaps he was textbook handsome, or whatever it was Brad had said.

When she closed the door behind the last customer, it was just after six o’clock. Besides Brad and Lucy, Luke was the only one still there. “Do you need me for anything else?” Lucy asked.

It was Friday night. Leah supposed she had friends and weekend plans waiting for her. “You came in early today,” Leah said appreciatively. “Get out of here and go have some fun.”

Clearly she’d misunderstood, because Lucy’s expression fell. “There are still some boxes of new inventory I didn’t unpack yet,” Lucy said.

For some reason, Lucy did not want to go home. Leah made a mental note of it, but she could barely afford payroll as it was. Besides, she wanted to wrap up and go home. It had been an exhausting first week.

“Thanks, but we can tackle those tomorrow,” Leah told her.

Leah watched her gather her things and head out.

She was growing fond of Lucy, and also a little concerned.

It felt strange that she didn’t know that much more about her now than she did the day she’d hired her.

Unlike Brad, who was vocal about everything from admiring a pair of shoes a woman wore the other day to lamenting their favorite apricot chicken salad being taken off the menu at Chatham Perk, Lucy rarely spoke unless spoken to.

She found Brad and Luke in the parlor room, measuring the walls in preparation for new craft storage. “Brad, feel free to get out of here,” she said.

Unlike Lucy, he looked delighted to hear this. “Good, I’ve got a date.”

Luke glanced over his shoulder but kept working. Leah, however, was not going to pass this opportunity up, even with Luke standing there. “Really?” She sidled up closer to Brad. “Anyone I might know?”

“Remember the guy who came in the other day with the navy and red lobster sweater?”