Page 1 of Meet Me Under the Mistletoe
One
Shepherd Market is old London. Two small squares of ye olde quaint shop fronts and pubs, some dating back to the 1700s, nestle unconcerned among the steel and glass monoliths of their descendants. A peculiar vibe of village camaraderie and tourism pulses through the tiny neighborhood; doors open with tinkling bells into welcomingly dark shops, and people mingle in the street, strangers and friends passing the time. And it is here, sandwiched between a tailor and a bistro, that Elinor Noel—Nory to those who know her best—runs her secondhand bookshop, Serendipitous Seconds, with her right-handman, Andrew.
The woman in the long blue floral coat with curly gray hair flowing to her waist had been leafing through a book of prints by the Dutch Old Masters for nearly twenty minutes, and Nory was beginning to twitch. One of the only downsides, so far as Nory could see, to spending your life surrounded by beautiful books was that people kept wanting to buy your favorites.
Andrew pushed a mug of coffee into her hand.
“Stop staring,” he hissed. “You’ll put her off the sale.”
Nory narrowed her eyes and stared harder. “That is one of the most comprehensive books we have on the Old Masters’ stilllifes,” she whispered. “The quality of the prints is exquisite. They don’t print books on that kind of paper anymore.”
“Which is reflected in the price tag, which is why we need this sale. Now stop intimidating our only customer and help me decipher this inventory.”
She allowed herself to be led away to the large mahogany desk at the back of the shop. Andrew was on an eternal quest to try to keep track of the vast and eclectic jumble of books for which they had long since run out of shelf and stacking space. Nory didn’t feel that the alchemy of bringing books together with readers could be contained in a spreadsheet.
Face-to-face sales may not have been her strong suit, but Nory had a gift for finding rare and beautiful books and matching them with owners who would treasure them forever. It was like she could feel the books calling to her. She could sift through a box of dime-a-dozen titles and find the hidden gem. Not only that, but she would instantly know who the book was destined for. Andrew called her the book whisperer. And it was this talent that kept people coming back for more. In her desk drawer, she had a small leatherbound book with the names of all her repeat customers and the books they had purchased. When a fresh consignment of titles arrived at the shop, she would reach for the book of names, fingers tingling with the promise of matches to be made; book love was a magical thing.
Matilda murmured in her papoose, which was attached to Andrew’s front. Matilda was four months old now and Nory wondered how long Andrew could continue to carry her around for hours at a time without developing a stoop. Matilda spent two days in the shop with Andrew and three days at home with his husband, Seb, who worked in graphic design. In January, Matilda would start at nursery and Andrew was already fretting.
The woman in the floral coat began to walk toward the desk, zigzagging slightly as she negotiated the piles of books on tables and footstools, organized in an order known only to Nory, and Nory felt herself tense. Andrew rested a steadying hand on her shoulder.
It wasn’t that she was against selling books—this was, after all, her chosen profession—it was that she felt a particular affinity with anything botanical, in particular botanical art, and she had collected some rather fabulous books on the subject, which she was loath to part with. She guessed that’s what you got for growing up in a family-run nursery business; her whole family was plant obsessed.
The woman placed the tome—a collection of the works of Rachel Ruysch—with due reverence on the desk, and Nory thawed slightly; perhaps she was the right owner for this book after all.
“Can you do anything on the price?” she asked.
Nory made a face like she was thinking about it. “It’s a very rare reproduction. I think it’s priced more than fairly.”
You did not, in Nory’s opinion, haggle where the Old Masters were concerned. The woman eyed her.
Andrew, with Matilda snuffling contentedly into his chest, leaned over and asked, “I wonder if this book could be the first in our ten percent discount Christmas offer?” in a terribly polite voice that only Nory knew actually meantMake the goddamned sale!
The woman’s eyes widened briefly, and she raised one eyebrow expectantly at Nory. Nory smiled.
“Of course, how silly of me to forget the Christmas discount! Let’s round it down to three hundred and twenty-five pounds exactly.”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed the woman. She began immediately to rummage around in her handbag, while Andrew whisked the book—which Nory had been wistfully stroking—out of Nory’s reach to wrap it.
Andrew handed the book, enveloped in thick brown parchment paper and secured with string, to Nory, and Nory held it out to the woman. The woman took it, but Nory held on. Suddenly she couldn’t seem to make her hands unclench. The woman tugged and Nory resisted. The woman smiled uncertainly and tugged again. Reluctantly Nory let go, and the woman hurried out of the shop, apparently fearing Nory might give chase. In fairness, if Ameerah hadn’t ambled in at that moment and flung herself into one of the old chesterfield armchairs in the reading corner, she might have.
Ameerah was wearing a black floor-length military coat, undone to reveal a tailored black skirt suit that nipped in at the waist and a brilliant white shirt with a ruffle down either side of the buttons. Her knee-high, stilettoed black boots squeaked as she crossed her legs elegantly and settled her gaze first on Nory and then Andrew.
“Hello, my darlings. Coffee’s on the way.” She smiled.
Where Ameerah was tall and Marlene Dietrich sleek, Nory was five foot five at a pinch with decidedly Rubenesque proportions. Nory had a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, emphasized by almost permanently rosy cheeks; if she were an actress she would surely be typecast as a buxom wench. Her shoulder-length hair, like her eyes, was a mixture of browns, golds, and ambers that caught the light. Her friend Jenna had once said that Nory had the coloring of a tortoiseshell cat. Nory had decided there were far worse animals to be likened to.
Nory checked her watch. “Shouldn’t you be in court, defending the defenseless?” she asked.
“The case was adjourned until the morning.”
“Lucky us,” said Andrew slyly.
“Don’t pretend you’re not delighted to see me,” said Ameerah. “Now, bring my goddaughter over here so that I can coo over her.”
“Actually, Ameerah, Matilda ismygoddaughter.”
“Yes, but we’re best friends, so she’s my goddaughter by proxy.”
