Page 2 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

There was a sword of Damocles hanging over all those who were on the commissioning end of publishing. A “there but for the grace of God . . .” feeling, knowing how capricious the industry could be. Anything approximating guaranteed success was well beyond the gift of all literary agents—if they were brave enough to admit it.

Of course, they rarely were. And Petra was as guilty as the rest of them.

Which literary agent didn’t revel in the moment when they communicated to a breathless wannabe that they were prepared to represent that writer’s work? Seeing their little faces light up—faces that were pale after too many years bunkered inside with their laptops, hammering away on work that might never see an audience—work that still might never see an audience.

Naturally, those involved would do everything they could to increase its chances. The new acquisition would be edited and polished to the best ability of all, and then the manuscript would ping into the inboxes of half a dozen overworked editors with too much power at their fingertips. And then—when that bunch ghosted her—another half dozen editors would be selected, and so it would continue . . . Finally, when even the obscure little presses had declined—including the ones that never got their print books into the shops and the ones that never paid the pitiful royalties on time, or at all . . .

Only then would Petra put the author’s dying hopes out of their misery. Then they would both pretend to believe her excuses: that the market was unbelievably tough at the moment; that no one was buying anything; that there had been near misses, rave rejections—that it might even get picked up in the future, when the zeitgeist caught up with this particular writer’s vision.

After a suitable period of mourning, the writer would pluckily begin something new, something that would perhaps more closely echo the current trends, both telling each other that next time the outcome would be entirely different.

Was Petra such a terrible judge of talent? Just lately it would seem she was. And with the contracts she had managed to procure, the advances had been abysmal or just full-on nonexistent. Alistair had been generous for far too long, continuing to pay her a subsistence wage until she started generating some proper income for the little agency. If it wasn’t for her bigger clients—well, her ex-clients—she would not have been justifying her existence there at all. No, he was well rid of her and had been more than kind in offering his counsel to her remaining clients during her sabbatical. She couldn’t help thinking they would all be cracking open the champagne with their cornflakes on reading their emails that morning, learning they were going to be being represented by a real agent at last.

Where on earth was Portneath, anyhow? All she knew was, if she got to Penzance, which was practically at the farthest tip of Cornwall—next stop America—she had gone too far. Ooh, Penzance though, she mused, her mood brightening momentarily. When she thought about Cornwall—and especially Penzance—she thought “pirates,” and pirates were seriously cool . . . even a little bit sexy? She had always had a thing for them. Treasure Island! Peter Pan! Both were among her all-time favorite childhood books, and when she got around to reading du Maurier’s Frenchman’s Creek, her weird little pirate kink had been cemented forever. An actual sexy French pirate? Ooh la la. Literary heroes didn’t get any better than that. She wondered if there were Devon pirates too. Surely there would be, with it being Cornwall-adjacent. She might do a bit of research. But first, where the heck was Portneath, anyhow?

She held up her phone, looking anxiously for some bars. Seriously, no signal? She wasn’t in London anymore, that was for sure. Petra impatiently logged her phone onto the train’s pitifully weak Wi-Fi and googled. Here it was at last, a Tourist Information Office listing.

Portneath is a pretty little seaside town, nestling on the coast at the foot of the rolling hills of Devon’s South Hams. It offers charming beaches and plentiful vacation rental accommodations—both in town and in nearby villages such as the delightful Middlemass. The town is a magnet for lovers of good, locally produced food. It has a Saturday market and a range of excellent independent stores, including a well-regarded bookshop.

Ha! thought Petra. A “well-regarded bookshop” now, maybe. Just wait until she had had her hands on it for six months. What a pity. And Jules had seemed so nice on the phone too, breathlessly thanking her for stepping in at the last moment, apologizing that she and Roman would not be there to greet her, but explaining that they would leave the keys for the shop with a friend who ran the restaurant across the street.

There were heavy clouds, purple with yellow underbellies, pressing low onto the horizon now. Would it rain? Would it snow, even? Being January, that was entirely plausible . . . The tourist information definitely seemed to be positioning Portneath as a summer holiday destination. It was probably one of those seaside towns that was derelict and bleak through the winter. Most of the “excellent independent stores” and fancy restaurants probably didn’t even bother opening until Easter. Great. No wonder Jules and Roman had decided to vacate until the beginning of August. If she were them, she would probably do the same.

Her mind swirling with these bleak thoughts, Petra rested her head against the glass and gazed unseeing at the countryside, the craggy, desolate landscape of Dartmoor perfectly echoing her plummeting mood. This must be Bodmin Moor, she thought bleakly. Would she be able to see Jamaica Inn from the train? Somehow that didn’t fit with the mental image of its dour isolation, captured so beautifully in du Maurier’s novel. Which brought her back to thinking about pirates again. Or smugglers, anyhow. Weren’t they basically the same thing? Petra was hazy about job titles. But—pushing pirates out of her mind—as the train wended slowly on its way, taking her to her fate, she punished herself with a well-worn litany of every self-inflicted catastrophe over the whole of her twenty-eight years to date. It was quite the list. The unifying aspect was—as usual—her inability to engage her brain before opening her mouth. Would she ever learn not to detonate her own life through a misspeak, or—as in this case—a mistype? Doubtful.

As she continued to castigate herself, Petra’s eyelids grew heavy, and the view grew blurry.

She had better not fall asleep and end up in Penzance.

“Wait! Don’t! Stop! I mean, don’t go!” Petra shouted desperately, as she scrambled for the door, having woken to see part of a platform place name outside the windows—a place name that definitely started with a P.

She threw her backpack onto the platform and launched herself after it, just as the whistle blew and the train started to pull away. Landing heavily, she lay prone and winded, trying to decide whether she had injured herself. After gathering her wits, she started to get up but froze as a voice bellowed:

“Stay down! Don’t move.”

Petra squeaked in alarm. What fresh hell was this?! Had she just thrown herself headlong into a police raid? A gunfight? At a little country railway station? What were the chances? Terrified, she hunched and put her arms over her head. Feeling a heavy hand on her shoulder, she jumped violently.

“Whoa, easy . . .” came that deep voice again with its very un-Devonshire Scottish burr. “That was a hell of a—actually, I don’t even know what that was—just take it really slow,” the voice counseled. “You could be injured.”

It was rather a lovely voice, she decided, authoritative and soothing. The kind of voice that made you feel safe.

“Where am I?” she asked, still not daring to move.

“What? Did you hit your head?” the man replied anxiously. “You’re in Portneath. Okay—let’s not panic—what’s the last thing you remember?”

“Portneath? Oh, thank God for that. I fell asleep, thought I’d ended up in Penzance,” Petra chattered, feeling much better. Finally, something had started to go right. “Ow! Oof, ouch!” she exclaimed as she tentatively stirred, not at all enjoying having to put all her weight on her bashed-up knees, but then she urgently wanted to remove her right boob from whatever in her backpack had been sticking into it. Plus, it wasn’t practical to just stay there for what remained of the day.

“Here, let me . . .” A hand under her elbow propelled her to standing as if by magic. Strong too, eh? Very promising.

Petra turned to thank her savior but, as she caught sight of him, her jaw dropped and her eyes bulged in amazement. Well! This may not be Penzance, but who would have thought . . . “Omigod, you’re a pirate!” she blurted, thrilled.

The man—several inches taller than her, with an abundance of chestnut brown, wavy hair—may or may not have been handsome. It was hard to tell what was going on under the proliferation of facial hair, although the heavy brows framed a compelling pair of eyes. Entranced by them, Petra noticed they were—appropriately enough—the color of the sea on a stormy day. A long, greenish-but-might-once-have-been-black great coat, somewhat moth-eaten, and dun-colored wide-legged trousers tucked into thick socks and chunky black boots together lent a swashbuckling air. A thick black-leather belt with a brass buckle did not—sadly—sport a cutlass, but other than that, the picture was absolutely joyful.

“Um—no—not a pirate,” the man replied at last, apparently taken aback.

“Are you sure?” Petra pressed him.

“Yes, thanks.”