ONE
I must really love my job. There was no other explanation for my happy, hurried footsteps. I couldn’t wait to get to work.
I hadn’t been inside the most wonderful bookshop in the entire world for the last two weeks. Instead, I’d been with the most perfect man on the most perfect honeymoon. We’d seen more of Europe than I ever thought I’d see when I first moved to Scotland just over a year ago. Of course, I also hadn’t planned to meet Tom Shannon, Scottish pub owner, and then marry him. Sometimes, it’s all about the surprises. Maybe it’s always about surprises, but it takes a few big ones for us to notice. And, boy have there been some big surprises along the way. It’s been better than I could have ever anticipated.
I leapt off the bus and set out in a quick pace. But then I skidded to a stop and took a deep breath. I’d quit having moments of staggering awe, moments when I wondered if it was all really … well, real, a while ago. I had accepted that it was okay to be so happy, to be grateful for all the amazing moments that had happened since I’d answered an online ad about a job in an Edinburgh bookshop. Was I up for an adventure? A secretive sort of job in a bookshop with a coveted place behind a desk that had seen the likes of kings and queens? Oh, yes, it seemed I had been. And here I was.
As I stood there in Grassmarket, I looked toward the shop, The Cracked Spine. Nothing about its façade had changed since Tom and I had had our wedding inside. The awning above was still there, and I could see a couple stacks of books on the other side of the window. I’d put those stacks there, and I’d been the one to organize them. I always did the window displays, and this one had been about a color. None of the books in the window were part of our rare or valuable collections. They were used books, some of them I’d read, some I’d never heard of; only a few of them spoke to me. I’d used books with blue covers, and from this vantage point I thought the stacks were still exactly as I’d arranged. If that was the case, none of the books had sold, and though the shop seemed never to have any financial challenges, I decided I needed to redo the display, create something that would better sell a book or two. I could do that.
The owner of the shop and my boss, Edwin MacAlister, had plenty of money. There really was no need to worry about the financial future of the Cracked Spine, but, still, we were there to sell things.
The Tudors hated to be wrong, and therefore never were.
I blinked at the bookish voice. I looked around. It was a strange comment, coming to me from some place I didn’t understand.
The Tudors? The royals?
Had that really been my intuition speaking to me as it did sometimes, through the books I’d read? If so, I didn’t remember the book, and I didn’t have a sense that I needed to be listening to my intuition. All was well, or so I thought. Maybe someone had actually spoken to me, or I’d overheard the words.
I looked around. Nope, that didn’t seem likely.
I plunked my hands on my hips and looked toward the bookshop again. I didn’t know what exactly had just happened, but I didn’t dwell on it long.
My eyes scanned over to the bakery, its front window fogged around the perimeter from the early morning baking. I could imagine the delicious smells, and I decided to pick up breakfast. I didn’t know if everyone would be in this morning, but Rosie would be there, with Hector, the miniature Yorkie she cared for but was worshiped and waited on by all of us. A thrill zipped through me at the prospect of seeing them both.
Hamlet might have class, but he’d be in at some point, even if only for a little while. A student at the University of Edinburgh, he was a young man, and had become much like a younger brother to me now. He’d been gifted with an old soul and named appropriately. If reincarnation was a real thing, there was no doubt in my mind that Hamlet had hung out with Shakespeare himself, had probably given the old bard a run for his money, maybe even did some editing.
It was doubtful Edwin would be there. He didn’t come in as much as the rest of us, and since he’d started dating a restaurant owner from Ireland, Vanessa Morgan, he’d been around even less.
I decide to see who was inside the bookshop first, and then get breakfast accordingly.
I set out again, forgetting about the strange bookish voice and enjoying the temporarily clear skies above the lively morning crowd. Old Town Edinburgh and Grassmarket drew tourists from all over the world, and this morning the square seemed busier than usual. I was back to doing fine in my fog of happy. Until I ran into someone else who’d probably been enjoying her own version of a beautiful morning.
“Lass, watch where you’re goin’,” she said.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
The woman had dropped the books she’d been carrying. We both got to work picking them up.
Books, lots of books. I was curious about the titles, but we had too many to retrieve to take the time to look closely. There were no dustcovers, no protection on any of them, and the old, hard bindings all seemed to have damaged spines and worn corners. In all, we gathered thirteen well-worn books. It was quite a load.
“Can I help you carry these somewhere?” I said as I balanced five of the books on my hip.
My voice fell off as I looked at her. It couldn’t be possible. For an instant I wondered if I was looking at an older version of myself; had this person I was looking at traveled back through time just to give her younger self a stack of old books?
The woman might have been twenty years older than my thirty-one, but her hair was identical to mine, both the bright red color and the frizzy texture; it rained far too much in Scotland to worry about trying to tame it.
But the similarities went even further. Our blue eyes were the same tint of diluted sky, and we both had too many freckles.
“Goodness, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” she asked, her accent as light at Edwin’s—or I’d just become so used to the range of accents that I no longer really noticed the lighter ones anymore. “If I’d had a daughter, I’d wonder if you were her.”
I smiled. “The resemblance is … uncanny. I’m Delaney Nichols.”
We both held too many books to shake hands.
“Mary Stewart,” the woman said with a nod. “At least we don’t have the same name. That would have been quite the conundrum.”
“I agree.”
For a few seconds, we just looked at each other. There was no denying the resemblance, but we stared long enough that it was almost weird.
“Can I help you get these somewhere?” I said.
“I’m looking for a bookshop. I was on my way to it.” She looked behind her, down the longer part of the Grassmarket square, the area toward Tom’s pub. The Cracked Spine was at the other end, along a shorter street.
“The Cracked Spine?” I said.
“Aye, that’s the one.” She smiled. “Do you know it?”
“In fact, I do. Come with me.”
Mary walked next to me, and I wondered if we looked odd, the two of us, with matching flaming hair and freckled skin, both carrying books as we made our way toward the bookshop. At least I was in slacks and she was in a dress. Chances were that everyone was in their own world, but I couldn’t stop glancing over at her. She kept glancing at me too. We smiled curiously at each other.