Page 116 of A Novel Love Story

“The starlings didn’t mean anything,” I told her. “In the books. They were just birds.”

“Maybe to you,” she replied, and gave a wink as she curled her arm around Jasper’s and they left the Grand Romantic.

The door swung shut, and silence filled the bookstore.

I closed my eyes, and if I listened really hard, I could hear the sound of crystal chimes in the rafters, and starlings in the eaves, and remember how the sunlight slipped through the windows, and shimmered in the bookstore owner’s pale blond hair.

And I was home.

39

Book Ends

IRAN MY FINGERS ACROSSthe spines of the books as I took one last curving route down every aisle, picking up any remaining champagne flutes and discarded napkins, turning covers face out, and righting stacks. In the contemporary section, my fingers paused on a small paperback tucked into the shelf, the first in a series of five that was never finished. Even as I took it off the shelf, and flipped through the pages, I already knew the first line—

There was only one road in and one road out of Eloraton, New York, and most people never took it.

But I had.

The bell above the front door jingled. I gave a sigh and closed the book. Returned it to its place on the shelf. “Forget something, Pru?”

“I’m afraid I did,” said a soft, stoic voice. Not Pru. Not at all.

I looked over—and froze.

A man stood in aisle, between the Noras and the Beverlys, just so comfortably, like he belonged in a bookstore—mybookstore. His hair was cut shorter, still that pale blond that tended to curl around his ears, and his reading glasses sat tucked into his tweed coat pocket. Dark jeans that fit nicely and a heather-gray Henley and black boots laced with sage-green shoestrings. He looked nothing like the man I remembered, and exactly like him at the same time, a mirage standing there, his hands in his pockets.

My heart beat loud in my ears.

“I’m looking for a book,” he began, his minty eyes bright and glimmering. “Do you have a recommendation?”

“What are you looking for?” My voice was barely more than a whisper. Was he really here? Was it him? I wanted to believe my eyes, but my heart didn’t want to admit it.

“Something I’ve never read before,” he replied.

“Well … I might know a story you’ll like. It’s a little odd, though.”

He studied me for a thoughtful moment. “I like odd.”

“And maybe a little boring.”

“Oh, now you’re really selling me. What’s it about?”

I took a deep breath, and stepped closer to him. “A woman who stumbles into a strange town, and almost runs over a strange man standing in the rain.”

“What makes him so strange?”

“He doesn’t own tweed,” I said, “and he looks like he definitely should.”

“Ah, well,” he replied, and stepped closer to me, so close I could smell the cedarwood on his skin. He was here. He was real. His fingers lightly brushed a lock of hair out of my face. “I’m sure he rectifies that.”

“He does.” I gently curled my fingers into the lapels of his tweed coat, and pulled him closer. “You’re here,” I whispered,reaching up to his face and cradling it in my hands, as if he’d disappear the second I blinked.

He pressed his hand on mine, holding it against his face, and kissed the base of my palm.

“I’m here,” he replied. He held on to me tightly, and pressed his forehead against mine. Out of Eloraton, he looked different. His hair wasn’t as bright, and his eyes weren’t as green, and a few fine wrinkles had appeared on his forehead and around his eyes, and I loved every one of them. He wasn’t a romance hero, but he was mine. “However, opening an entire romance bookstore is a bit overkill. I just said the romancesection.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “I never do things by halves. You know that,” I replied, still unable to take my eyes off him. I swallowed the knot in my throat. “But … why? I thought—what about …”

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