Prologue
It finally happened.
Spring arrived in Winsome, Illinois. It took until the first days in June, but after four consecutive days in which temperatures topped seventy degrees, people grumbled less and smiled more, flowers opened to the sun—and stayed open.
Memories of the winter with its record-breaking lows, unprecedented snow, and ubiquitous clouds dissipated in the warmth, then blew away altogether on a soft east breeze wafting across Lake Michigan. The only price yet to pay was the five snow days that extended the school year deep into the month, making parents scramble to reorganize vacations, camp plans, and dental appointments.
Eve Parker of Olive and Eve Designs stood outside her open shop door and inhaled deeply. She had learned this new type of breathing in her first yoga class three weeks ago and believed she was finally getting the hang of it. She took an eight-count breath to exhale winter, another to combat the day’s stress, and one more to endure the store’s monthly accounting.
She held that final breath, fearing the monthly books and what they might tell her. Sales had been sluggish all spring, and with the cold not relenting throughout May, the new summer stock hadn’t moved. She drew her inhalation deeper yet and catalogued the smells surrounding her: cedar mulch, a slight fish scent off the lake, cinnamon from the Sweet Shoppe . . .
Eve’s shop joined ten others to form a horseshoe around Winsome’s town square. It was a small plot of land, no more than a good-sized backyard really, with four brick paths dividing it into quarters and meeting in the middle at the town’s WWII memorial. Three tiers tall, featuring an unending cascade of water, it was the town’s focal point in both geography and spirit.
Today a bird flitted in its lowest basin while two others fought for a worm at its base. Eve lifted her gaze.
“Janet!” She waved across the street to one of the Printed Letter Bookshop’s employees.
“Hey, Eve! You’re in early.”
“May’s gone. I’ve got the end-of-the-month books today.”
“Better you than me.” Janet Harrison waved again and turned back to face the bookshop’s bay windows. She examined them with a proprietary eye before pushing through the front door. A bell chimed, and its clear notes bounced off all the hard surfaces—floor, walls, ceiling, and books—before fading away in the dim light.
Janet heard nothing. Lost in a creative headspace, she grabbed a stack of books, climbed into the bay window—with a confident balance that would have turned Eve green with envy if she’d seen it—and spread them across the small gardening table she’d positioned in the center. She then dropped a set of canvas gardening gloves onto the floor and tilted her head to examine the effect. A satisfied smile played on her lips.
The window’s green backdrop provided an opulent base, like a swath of fresh grass, and with the books she’d created a garden utopia. Bright book jackets became flowers spilling from huge earthenware pots. In one corner she stacked the books high and added a trailing vine. Jack’s beanstalk never looked better. It invited readers into spring, into a wonderland, and into the shop.
Janet was so focused on her creation she didn’t notice David Drummond watching her from across the square. He lifted his hand to wave as she twisted his direction, but lowered it just as fast. He didn’t want to intrude. After all, the Bookshop Ladies, as he liked to think of them, were kind enough to let him volunteer any afternoon he wandered in. And he wasn’t naive—he knew it helped him more than it helped them. Oftentimes he would recommend a book then not know where to find it, and one of them had to guide both him and the customer. Only last week he’d attempted to shelve stock, and while he had gotten the alphabetical order right, nothing ended up in the right section. Turns out Enneagram numbers had nothing to do with math and everything to do with Emotional Intelligence and Self-Help.
Best not be omnipresent, he told himself as he continued his daily walk, working to loosen what was tight within him. At seventy-six, he thought ruefully, that was just about everything. As he stretched his neck side to side, a periphery motion caught his attention.
“George? What are you doing out so early?” He crossed the street and walked the few steps to the benches circling the fountain. Without another word, he lowered himself next to his friend. Dew from the cool iron seeped into his khaki pants.
“Margery’s worn out, but not sleeping real well. I went to fill a new medication for her. Did you know the pharmacy opens at seven? I didn’t know anything other than the coffee shop opened so early. But Margery knew . . . I think she wanted me out of the house.” He lifted a small white paper bag. Pills rattled within a plastic bottle.
“How is Margery?” David’s question carried an affectionate lilt.
He watched George’s eyes light up as they both felt the gentle tug of memory to better days.
George shook free first. “She’s tired.” He kept his focus on the fountain memorial. “We got used to living without them, didn’t we? We were too young when our brothers left . . . Didn’t know anything else. But this I don’t think I’ll get used to.”
David laid a hand on George’s shoulder. “You don’t get used to it—and hard as it is, I don’t want to.”
George nodded and stood. David, holding to the back of the bench for support, did the same. The two men faced each other.
“Coffee before you go? I’ve missed sparring with you these past couple weeks.” David, several inches taller and several pounds thinner, pointed to the coffee shop. “Its grand opening is today.”
George nodded and lifted the bag. “Give me a couple hours. I want to get home to Margery, for these, and she’s usually best in the early mornings.”
“I’ll meet you here at nine.”
David watched his friend go. He should have mentioned the fountain—how it had been good of George, when he was mayor, to install that heater years ago. He should have reminded his friend that he wasn’t alone—that joyful bubbling, in a fountain and in a life, can still happen, even amid the harshest winters.
“Mr. Drummond?”
Jill Pennet stood in the doorway of the Sweet Shoppe, leaning on her broom. “Come try a new recipe.”
David patted his flat stomach and shook his head.
Jill laughed and whisked his refusal away with a single swipe of her hand. “You are not watching your weight. Come on in.”
David stepped inside the shop and grinned. Dew, sunshine, and a breeze off the lake were good, but nothing beat cinnamon, sugar, and the warm yeast smell of rising bread. Betty had baked every Saturday morning of their fifty-year marriage. Yes, some memories you held tight even if they carried a little sting.
“How’s your mother doing?”
Jill’s expression clouded. “She’s okay. Good days and bad days. It’s hardest when she doesn’t recognize me—I keep thinking of my own kids. To be honest, it scares me. It scares her too.”
David waited. Jill’s lips stayed parted an inch as if there was more to say.
But she seemed to blink the thought away, so he stepped into the silence. “I understand that, and I’m sorry . . . She and Margery Williams were on the prom court together back in high school. George just said Margery is struggling too.”