“But it would be here. You wouldn’t be closing it. You’d just be selling it.”

Carol snorted as she turned off the tap. “Who’d buy this place?”

Christy-Lynn was about to suggest she contact a business broker but changed her mind when she considered the likelihood of finding a buyer for a run-down bookstore with outdated inventory and no customers. Throw in the fact that said store was in a tiny town most people had never heard of, and the list of potential buyers dwindled considerably.

“How about me?” Christy-Lynn blurted. The response had come out of nowhere, but the moment it was out, she knew she wasn’t kidding.

Carole peered at her through steamy glasses. “You’re not serious.”

Christy-Lynn considered the question a moment. It was absurd, ridiculous. But why not buy a bookstore and stay in Sweetwater? She’d been in love with books as far back as she could remember, and she was going to need to do something.

“I think I might be,” she said finally. “If you are, that is.”

“I didn’t know you were thinking of staying in Sweetwater.”

“I’m not sure I did either. But I’ve been thinking about what I want to do and where I want to do it. Something about Sweetwater feels right.”

Carol’s jaw went slack, as if she’d just picked up a rock and found a $1 million scratch-off ticket underneath. “You’d really be interested in my little store?”

Christy-Lynn was as surprised as Carol to realize that she really was interested. In fact, she was nearly giddy at the thought. “I guess everyone who loves books thinks about it at some time or other, but I actually worked in a bookstore when I was in college and loved it.”

“Could you make a go of it, do you think?”

Christy-Lynn eyed the place again, this time more critically. It would be a huge undertaking, but it wasn’t like she had anything else to do with her time. “I think so,” she said at last, the wheels already turning. The renovations would be extensive; new flooring, lighting, shelving. She’d have to gut the café and start over, not to mention hiring a barista who knew how to make a decent latte. The stock was in serious need of updating, and there was nothing to appeal to children, but the place definitely had potential.

“I have a few ideas, some things I think might drive new customers through the door.”

Carol shook her head, still trying to digest the sudden reversal in her fortunes. “Well, this is certainly unexpected. I never thought anyone would actually want to buy the place. I have no idea how much it might be worth. It’s the property mostly and a little bit of inventory. Can you . . . do you think you’d be able to get a business loan?”

Carol was clearly uncomfortable with having to be so blunt, though it was a perfectly valid question. How to answer was the conundrum. No worries, my dead husband left me millions was likely to raise a few eyebrows, not to mention a whole spate of questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.

“I think it’s doable,” she said carefully. “I have some money saved, and there was a little life insurance. I’m not trying to push you one way or the other, but if you’re really serious about this, why don’t you work up what you think the property and inventory are worth, and we’ll get the ball rolling.”

Carol nodded slowly, her eyes slightly glazed. “All right then. I guess I’d better go call my daughter and tell her to clean out the spare room.”

An hour later, Christy-Lynn wandered into the lobby of the Fife and Feather feeling almost as dazed as Carol had looked when she left the Crooked Spine. Missy appeared with a smile and a plate of freshly baked cookies at the front desk.

“There you are. I was wondering where you’d gotten to. Mama’s taking the boys to the movies tonight, and I was thinking of grabbing some pasta. Interested in—” Missy paused midsentence, cookie plate hovering. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Christy-Lynn shook her head numbly. Was it wise to share her news? Carol might change her mind. Or her daughter could squash the idea of her mother becoming a permanent fixture in her home. The thought brought a pang of anxiety, because at some point during the walk home, she had decided she wanted this very much.

Missy set down the plate and came around to the front of the desk. “Honey, say something. You’re scaring me.”

“It’s fine,” Christy-Lynn said quietly. “In fact, it’s very fine.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you’re going to be losing a guest.”

Missy’s expression morphed from concern to disappointment. “You’re leaving Sweetwater?”

Christy-Lynn couldn’t help grinning. “No, but I’ll be needing somewhere permanent to live. I think I just bought a bookstore.”

THIRTEEN

Sweetwater, Virginia

December 31, 2016

The lunch crowd had already descended on the Fickle Pickle, but Christy-Lynn managed to snag a table near the window. She eyed the sky as she sipped her tea and waited for Missy to arrive. The Weather Channel was predicting a whopping three inches of snow, the equivalent of a spring shower for Mainers, but the report had sent locals scurrying for bread and milk.

The timing was unfortunate, almost certain to put a damper on the evening’s festivities. Not that she had any plans of her own. When it came to useless holidays, New Year’s had always been at the top of her list. Something about the forced gaiety and tedious resolutions, the pinning of one’s hopes on a single stroke of the clock, had always seemed stunningly naive.