Cara
The kettle clicked off behind the counter as I checked the same line in my planner for the third time. The week had moved slowly, and then, all at once, the way time does when something is coming. Monday had been inventory. Tuesday, a supply run. Wednesday, a long evening at the kitchen table with the clue packets spread out in front of me, second-guessing the order of the reveals for the last time before I finally sealed the envelopes and told myself that was that. Thursday had disappeared entirely into logistics I couldn’t account for. And now it was Friday; the shop was closed to regular hours while I stood checking the same line in my planner for the third time.
Mystery Night—6:30 PM.
Everything on the list was already done. I turned the page, then flipped it back.
The shop was ready. I knew it was ready. The tables were set with dark linen runners and low arrangements of white anemones and eucalyptus, the stems cut short so guests could see each other across the candlelight. Each place had a tray—mismatched China I’d spent two weeks collecting from thrift shops—with a small pot of tea, and a plate of shortbreadwrapped in wax paper and tied with twine. Beside the tray, a sealed envelope in black wax. My handwriting on the front. A leather-bound notebook and a fountain pen tucked underneath, along with a small card explaining the rules. I had gone back and forth on the fountain pens. They were impractical. They were also exactly right.
The flameless candles along the shelves cast everything in warm amber, soft enough to make the book spines glow, and the shadows between them settled into something mysterious. I’d woven dried lavender and small white flowers through the shelves, and tucked in between them, small ceramic skulls and tiny brass magnifying glasses I’d found at the antique market in Sweetbriar, and the occasional dried oak leaf pressed flat and tucked between the spines like a bookmark someone had left behind. The whole room smelled faintly of lavender and old paper and the shortbread cooling on the trays, undercut by the faint sweetness of the cinnamon candle I’d lit by the door. Outside, the last of the daylight was slipping out of the front windows, the ceramic pumpkins on the ledge glowing copper and cream in the dusk. Inside, Pine & Pages looked like somewhere a mystery was supposed to happen.
My phone buzzed against the counter.
Eric: I was thinking about you. I’m really glad we reconnected. I’ll see you soon. Looking forward to it.
The irritating part—the part I couldn’t quite shake—was that I was standing in the middle of the best thing I’d built in years, the night I’d been planning for weeks, and I was thinking about Eric Whitmore. Not about the clue packets, not about whether the tea would stay warm, not about the fact that Jasper was coming. Jasper, who had looked at me over the counter a fewdays ago, like I’d said something worth remembering. Jasper, whom I had thought about more than I intended to every night since. Instead of all the good things I could be thinking of, I was thinking about Eric. I picked up the phone and turned it face down on the counter.
The door opened. Lucy walked in with two coffees and a look that said she already knew I was spiraling. She was wearing a dark plum blouse and wide-leg trousers, her hair pinned back loosely. She looked effortlessly put together, which made me glad I had dressed up.
I had changed twice, which I was not going to tell Lucy. The first attempt had been my usual—dark jeans, a cardigan, something easy and forgettable. I’d stood in front of the mirror in it for a full minute before taking it off again, which I’d told myself had nothing to do with Jasper. The second attempt was better. A deep burgundy midi dress with small, covered buttons down the front and my good boots, the ones with the block heel that were dressy enough to mean something without looking like I was trying too hard. I looked like myself, just a version that had made an effort, and I’d decided that was allowed.
It was a bookshop event. People dressed up for bookshop events. That was normal. That was the whole story, and I was sticking to it.
Lucy set one of the coffees in front of me and turned slowly, looking at the room. She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked.
“Cara.”
“I know.”
“No.” She turned back to me, and her expression was the particular one she saved for moments she wanted me to take seriously. “You really did it. It’s gorgeous. And the vibe is actually mysterious. This is incredible.”
“It’s not done yet,” I said. “Nobody’s here. What if no one shows up? Well, no one except Eric. And you.”
“They will.” She slid onto the stool across from me and wrapped both hands around her cup. Then she glanced at my phone. “Eric texted you?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s still coming.”
“Yes.”
Lucy leaned back with a snort. “Of course he is.”
I looked toward the front window. The street outside was quiet, and the shops across the way lit up in the early evening. “I do not want to deal with him.”
She gave a short laugh. “I got you. Don’t worry.”
I didn’t answer. We moved into the last of the setup after that—a few chairs repositioned, extra glasses lined up near the drink station. I checked the clue packets again, more for something to do than anything else. Lucy drifted toward the front window every few minutes, glancing outside like she was tracking the weather.
“You’re watching for him,” I said.
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” She looked back at me. “I’m still going to. You just do your thing and try not to worry about him.”
“Okay,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
