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CHAPTER ONE
ANYA
Mrs. Peterson had a painful expression on her face. A familiar strain pulled at the corner of her eyes, along with a resting scowl reserved only for things that were truly bothering her. Something was wrong, and she was brooding over it.
Oh, dear God, what now?
In fact, Mrs. Peterson had been nothing but downcast and quiet since walking into The Green Frog ten minutes before. Now, she did an awkward dance—picking up a few of the new children’s books, perusing the stack of secondhand discount romance novels in the back corner, and pretending to examine the plush toys lining the front table.
Mrs. Peterson hadn’t looked at me since I greeted her from my spot behind the checkout desk.
Uh-oh.
I tucked a stack of new chapter books under my arm and walked toward her. She meandered through the middle-grade section now, acting as if she had a reason to purchase a new set ofHarry Potterpaperbacks, ones issued as part of yet another movie tie-in for the franchise. The set of fresh young adult fiction I cradled was a worthy excuse. Of course, I needed to shelve them. I was the general manager of this bookstore, after all.
When I got about five feet from her, I broke the silence. “Hey there.”
She jumped, her quilted tote bag banging against her round frame. “Oh, Anya. You surprised me.”
“Can I help you find something?” I placed my books on a nearby table.
“I’m fine.”
I raised my eyebrow. She hadn’t directly answered my question. “Are you?”
“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re usually much more cheerful,” I tried. “And you never come in the store on Wednesdays.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
I was confident about this fact. Knowing my customer’s habits made me good at managing The Green Frog, the only independent bookstore in three counties. Keeping data on them was critical, and cataloging their idiosyncrasies helped ensure the store stayed nimble and relevant. And if the store stayed open, I would stay employed.
That is critical too.
“You’ve shopped here for years,” I added. “We’ve known each other forever. If something is wrong, you can tell me.”
Mrs. Peterson hesitated, and a thousand new thoughts crossed my mind. Did she have cancer? Did her husband, who was the longtime gym teacher at Lincoln High? Was it money problems? A death in the family?
“There’s another bookstore opening in town,” she finally said. “By city hall, in the small business district up there.”
I recoiled. This wasn’t so bad, and yet...this is a joke, right?“A new bookstore?” I eked out the words, the question sticking around the lump growing in my throat. She had to have gotten this wrong. “Is that so?”
“That’s what David said at the meat market today when I went in there to get some pork chops. Some kind of bookshop slash bourbon bar slash restaurant.” The information flew out of Mrs. Peterson’s mouth as if now that she’d told me the worst, the rest was easy to say. “It sounds like one of those concept-type places.”
“That’s great,” I said, bracing a hand on the nearby shelf to steady myself. I hoped I looked casual and nonplussed. I was anything but. “New Burlington could more businesses.”
“And... Robert Kilgore is the owner.”
The name nearly slapped me in the face. Hadn’t heard it in years.
“Robert Kilgore?” My thoughts raced. Robert Kilgore—the guy from my graduating class? The one who moved to NYC? The person who, last I heard, had made a small fortune on Wall Street?What in the world is he doing back here?“Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
Mrs. Peterson’s eyes softened. For years, she’d told me to call her Linda, but I could never bring myself to do it, never eventhinkabout it. She was always Mrs. Peterson to me, always my elder, and always the respected wife of one of the longest-serving teachers in the community. Now, she stepped toward me, almost as if she wanted to hug me. But then she stopped short. “I’m sorry, Anya.”
