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She smiled. “So what does Holden do in Galveston?”
“He’s a petroleum engineer. It runs in the family. My father is, too.”
“But not you?”
“I’ve been the challenging one,” he admitted. “From birth, I’ve had my own ideas, and I think it was a relief for them when I headed off to college.”
“You enjoy the battle.”
“I enjoy problem solving. My brain responds well to puzzles and strategizing.”
“I don’t like competition,” she said, “but I’ve never minded working hard, and I like a good challenge.”
“Me, too. As soon as someone says it can’t be done, I want to prove them wrong,” he said, stopping in front of the bookstore front door.
“I’m not usually influenced by others. I don’t tend to care what others think. I care what I think. It it’s something I want to do, then I’m going to do it.”
“Which is why you’ve been taking your time trying to figure out what you want to do about Paradise Books.”
“Exactly.”
*
“And why you don’t want my input on the bookstore.”
“I never said that.” He gave her a look and she grimaced. “I just know what I can handle, and what’s realistic considering my career doesn’t allow much travel, or flexibility,” she added.
“You’re not locked into a lifetime of drudgery at Novak & Bartley.”
“I never said it was drudgery.”
“They don’t respect you.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, jaw tight, expression mutinous. “I don’t badmouth your company. Don’t badmouth mine.”
“I’m on your team, Rachel.”
She looked away from him, toward the glow of the streetlight. For a long moment neither of them spoke and the silence wasn’t comfortable but he wasn’t going to back down. She wasn’t appreciated where she was in Irvine. She deserved better. It was time she put herself first.
Abruptly she rose on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for showing me Mom’s house.”
“My pleasure.”
“Sleep well,” she said.
“You, too,” he answered, “and sleep in tomorrow if you can. It’s Sunday. Take some time for yourself. A lot of stores don’t open on Sundays here. You don’t have to open, or be open all day.”
“What would I do if I didn’t open the store?” she asked, tightening her scarf.
“I have an idea or two. Why don’t I text you in the morning and see how you feel?”
“Why don’t you tell me your ideas now and I’ll tell you if I’m interested?”
“It’s easier to be rejected by a text.”
She laughed, the sound bubbling with warmth. “Do you really think I’d reject you?”
“If you didn’t like my suggestions.”
“Not going to argue with you on that.” She was still smiling up at him, looking angelic beneath the glow of the old-fashioned streetlight with her golden hair and bright eyes. “There’s a reason I’m still single at my age. I’m a lot of work, and I know it.”
“You’re not a lot of work. You’re just you, and you don’t have to change being you for anyone.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’ll text you in the morning.”
*
Rachel couldn’t sleep in, even if she wanted to. She’d been an early bird her entire life, often doing her best studying while it was still dark outside. She woke early Sunday morning, and drank her first cup of coffee in bed, before carrying her second cup around the second floor of the bookstore examining the shelves. She’d heard that scrabbling sound again as she’d been making coffee and she was determined to find the mouse or rodent or whatever it was that was making itself a little too comfortable on the second floor.
As she wandered between the rows, the fiction section organized alphabetically by author, she passed the As with its numerous Alcotts and Austens, moving on to Bs and Cs before reaching the Ds where the Charles Dickens book had fallen to the floor. She paused there, and drew the different Dickens titles out, checking behind the antique books for signs of rodent life, but everything was clean and clear. She moved on through the shelves, turning one corner and then another before coming to a row in the Ts where a tall, slender book was sticking out.
Rachel went to push the book back in, but then she noticed the title. The Father Christmas Letters. A Christmas book. She pulled it out and examined the colorful cover. The author was J.R.R. Tolkien. Wasn’t that the author of The Lord of the Rings?
She carried the book to an armchair by the window, placed her coffee on the windowsill and leafed through the pages, which were filled with dates and handwritten letters and quirky illustrations. She skipped the introduction, going straight to the first letter dated 1925 and it was all about Father Christmas’s recent move and how the North Polar Bear wasn’t there to help and Father Christmas was having quite a hard time of it. She was highly entertained by the story, and she studied the illustration accompanying the letter, before turning the page, reading the next letter dated 1926. The letters were stories about Father Christmas’s life at the North Pole. After reading several letters, Rachel flipped back to the front of the book to read the introduction. The Father Christmas Letters had been collected and published after Tolkien’s death by his son, and edited by his daughter-in-law. The letters and illustrations spanned twenty years and were copies of the actual letters Tolkien had written to his children every year for twenty years. What a treasure, she thought, closing the back cover, and it made her wonder, what other treasures were here in Paradise Books? She really should find out.
But in the meantime, what was she to do about the bookstore mouse? She hadn’t seen any damage. Maybe it was a literary mouse. Maybe it just loved books. In that case, she should welcome the company.
Smiling, she carried her cup and book upstairs, and did a search on the Tolkien book, and was excited to see the copy she had ranged in value from sixty to ninety-five dollars. Nice. There was value in this store. She just had to find the books that were special and get those onto one of the national databases. Maybe she should start with Christmas books. What else might Lesley have bought that was tucked away?
Still online, she did a search for “classic Christmas stories” and was rewarded with numerous suggestions, with the most popular being A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, followed by ’Twas the Night Before Christmas, The Gift of the Magi, The Nutcracker and the Mouse King, and A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote. There were more suggestions, too, like The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus by Frank Baum, and Christmas in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder, and The Greatest Gift, which became the basis for Frank Capra’s Christmas film classic, It’s a Wonderful Life.
Rachel scribbled all the suggested titles down and went in search of them on the second floor, and was delighted to discover she had all but the one by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Rachel took the books, photographed them, input the details into the online site she’d found that specialized in antique and collectible books and then created a display with them on a round table not far from the front door. Lesley had collected the classics. Surely there was someone out there that would love to add these books to their collection. It was time to fight technology with technology.
She was still working intently hours later when her phone buzzed with a text from Atticus. “Hungry? The Graff does a popular Santa Brunch. I can put our names in for a one o’clock reservation.”
Brunch at fancy restaurants had never been her thing but her pulse had quickened when she saw Atticus’s name on her phone. She liked him. Very much.
He texted again. “Santa is here. You know you want to see him.”
She shook her head, amused, and then glanced at her table with the classic Christmas stories and thought he was right. She would enjoy a festive Christmas something, especially if it included Atticus, and maybe a glimpse of the Graff Hotel’s Santa Claus.
“Make the res,” she typed.
“I’ll see you at one.”
Rachel showered and changed into the red blouse she’d worn for her open house party, pairing the blouse with dark skinny jeans and her favorite pair of ankle boots. She considered driving to the hotel but thought the fresh air and walk would do her good, so she set off fifteen minutes early.
The air was cold—bracing—and she drank in great breaths, filling her lungs, clearing her head. The sky was blue with just a few high clouds. The sun shone brightly down on the dome of the historic courthouse, and Copper Mountain rose, majestic, behind all.
It was such a pretty town. She was still a stranger here, but it was growing on her, the tidy downtown surrounded by old neighborhoods lined with Victorians and Queen Annes. Although Marietta looked small, she’d learned that there were some big businesses operating in the valley, from ranching dynasties to entrepreneurs and media conglomerates. She ought to find out which accounting firms were here. It’d be interesting to know who was doing business in Paradise Valley, not that she was thinking of relocating here, but it was always good to know who the competition was.
Atticus was waiting for her on the hotel’s front steps. He smiled as she climbed them.
“You didn’t have to wait out here,” she said, as he gave her a hug and then held the door open for her.
“I know, but it’s a beautiful day. Look at Copper Mountain.”
“Why do they call it Copper Mountain? Did they really find copper?”
“From what I understand, not very much. Marietta enjoyed a brief mining boom, and most of the buildings on Main Street were built during that ten-year boom, but it turned out to be a small vein and it wasn’t long before it ran out.”
