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She didn’t know, but she pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, and began inspecting the shelves of books on both floors to get a lay of the land before heading into the back room to take a peek at the boxes filled with books. She opened one, and then another, and it looked as though every box consisted of vintage books and there were over a dozen boxes stacked in the storage room. Rachel didn’t know if Lesley had bought the books from various customers, or perhaps she’d picked them up at estate sales or flea markets. Either way, these boxes of books had been sitting here for years, waiting for someone to go through them.
There was just so many, and the two floors of the store were filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves, and the shelves were crammed full. Where did one put the new books? And how was she supposed to decide what belonged on the shelves, and what should be discarded?
Obviously tattered paperbacks could go, and books that had duplicates already on the shelf would go, but what if one of the books had value? What if one of them was rare, or a first edition?
She exhaled hard, blowing her wispy bangs out of her eyes. She wasn’t going to allow herself to get mired in doubts. Of course there would be a learning curve, but if she was practical and organized, and willing to do the research, she’d know what to do with the books. And she had some time right now. She was here for a week, maybe two. Why not tackle some of the books collecting dust in the storeroom? Sorting books didn’t mean she had to keep the bookstore. In fact, sorting through the stock was probably an important first step to selling Paradise Books.
Footsteps sounded on the floorboards and a voice called out a deep hello.
“Hi,” she said, popping out of the storeroom.
A tall, broad-shouldered cowboy in worn cowboy boots, dark Wranglers, and a heavy winter coat smiled at her, and removed his black cowboy hat. “Zane Nash,” he said, extending his hand.
Rachel took his hand. “Rachel Mills,” she answered, giving his hand a shake.
“I was given instructions to find you and introduce myself.” His smile was wry. “I didn’t realize you’d been here a few days already. I apologize for not coming by sooner.”
“I only arrived last night,” she corrected cheerfully. “Who gave you instructions?”
“Lesley.”
“You know Lesley?”
“She was practically a second mom to me.”
Finally someone who knew Lesley well. “It’s really good to meet you. I have a million questions.”
“I’ll try to answer them if I can.” His gaze swept the interior. “It’s nice to see the store open again. It was closed far too long.”
She felt a stab of guilt. “It’s actually not open. I’ve just been doing some inventory, trying to see what’s what.” Rachel hesitated. “Does Lesley have any family in Marietta anymore?”
He shook his head. “No. She was widowed young, before she had kids, and she never remarried.”
“So how did she end up in Australia?”
“Her sister moved there, and she wanted to go see her. It was just supposed to be a visit but she decided she liked Queensland, and stayed. But she’s been missed. She had a way of looking after others, and I’m grateful for all she did for me growing up. I got my love of books from her.” He glanced past her to the boxes filling the storage room. “What’s all that?”
“Books from the back room.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m not totally sure what to do with all of them. The bookstore is full, and yet there are hundreds more back here. What was she planning on doing with them?”
“Probably get them on the shelves when she returned from Australia.”
“But where? The store is full.”
“Lesley was creative when it came to making room for new books.”
Creative or compulsive, Rachel wondered, even as a thought crossed her mind. “She didn’t have a database for her books on the shelves, did she? Or any other formal record of her stock?”
“She has a set of binders beneath the counter with a list of books, but I don’t know how up to date it is.”
“Nothing on a computer?”
“Lesley didn’t like computers. She wasn’t very tech savvy. I tried to help her set up an online bookstore once, but she said it was impersonal. She loved hand selling and customer interaction. But she could have made some real money if her books were available online. She has a section of first editions in the tall glass cabinet near the counter, and she has a lot of specialty books that are probably collectibles, from nineteenth-century novels to the history of Montana and copper mining, etc.”
“History and literature are not my area of expertise.”
“No? But it’s still impressive you’re giving it a go. Paradise Books was practically my second home. I hated seeing it closed for so long.”
She hadn’t decided what she was going to do, but she didn’t tell him that, thinking it wouldn’t exactly endear her to him. “Did Lesley know how you felt about the bookstore?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she give it to you then?”
Zane shrugged, unperturbed. “Maybe because she knew I wouldn’t want it. It’s one thing to enjoy spending time somewhere. It’s another to make it your job.”
Rachel thought of her office in Irvine, and the blinds she tended to keep closed against the bright California light to avoid glare on her computer screen, as well as the long, long hours she spent at her desk. If she’d known at the outset of her career what her days would be like, would she still have chosen it? “True.”
“Lesley said you’re a CFO in California.”
“Not a CFO, just an accountant with a large accounting firm.”
“She made it sound like you’re quite successful.”
“I suppose I am pretty good with a calculator.”
“Unfortunately, you won’t need a fancy calculator here. The bookstore business is kind of slow. Lesley didn’t need the income. Her late husband left her in good shape. This was more of a passion than anything else.”
She processed this a moment. “I wish I’d known her better. I’ve only met her a couple times in my life, and I feel a little guilty that she’s given me something she loved so much.”
His big shoulders shifted easily. “Don’t feel guilty. Enjoy it.”
Enjoy it.
Enjoy, she silently repeated after Zane left. But how? Rachel knew nothing about making a small business profitable, never mind a bookstore. And the thing was, she was far too careful with her money, to blow her savings on a losing proposition. It was risky using a couple of weeks of her vacation time on this visit to Marietta—the president at her company was far from thrilled that she was taking time off now—but she needed to figure out what she wanted, and the only way to do that, was evaluate all her options.
Which reminded her, it was growing late and unless she wanted to show up for drinks at the Graff Hotel covered in dust and dirt, she ought to lock up and head back to her room at the Bramble House for a shower and change of clothes.
*
The Graff proved to be a surprisingly grand hotel from the turn of the century, built behind the old train depot, and from the same warm red brick that dominated Main Street. Festive wreaths decorated the front doors, and Rachel caught a whiff of fresh, fragrant pine as she stepped inside. A towering Christmas tree filled the lobby, and dark green garland with rich red velvet bows festooned the windows and doorways. It might be early December but it was already Christmas here at the historic hotel.
A uniformed bell captain pointed her to the pub where she spotted Atticus right away, seated at a corner booth. He rose as she approached the table and smiled. He’d changed into dark trousers and a black turtleneck sweater that hugged the planes of his muscular chest and emphasized his strong angular jaw now shadowed with five-o’clock stubble.
She’d thought him handsome in his three-piece suit but he was almost overwhelming now. He was so… fit… and confident, and that lazy, sexy smile of his was doing ridiculous things to her p
ulse, making her insides fluttery. That fluttery sensation in her middle didn’t subside as she sat down and it was disconcerting to say the least.
“Good to see you,” he said, his gaze meeting hers and holding.
His eyes, she realized, were blue, a light, piercing blue and they made her feel a little too warm, and a little too vulnerable. She made a show of peeling off her coat and removing her scarf and mittens.
“Good to be here,” she said briskly, determined to regain her equilibrium. Just because Atticus was, well, Atticus, it didn’t mean she couldn’t manage to keep things purely professional. “It’s my first time at the Graff. It’s a really lovely old hotel.”
“It looks particularly appealing now with the Christmas decorations.”
