Page 62 of The Bookshop By the Loch

She clapped one thrilled hand over her mouth. “You can be so precious at times!” She gestured to the manuscript. “It was only a matter of time. You’re missing it!”

“I’m doing some freelance editing.”

She grinned from ear to ear. “So how about we talk about your future over dinner?”

My brain managed to register what she meant. “What? Oh no. I’m doing some freelance work, but I’ve no intention of returning to publishing.” I gave Celeste’s manuscript a pat on the table. “As for this, I offered to read it for someone, just as a favour. It’s a bit of a long story.”

Rhiannon’s joyous expression collapsed. “Oh. I see.” She folded her arms across herself, exposing her tiny butterfly tattoo on her right wrist. “Look, Lexie, please don’t think I’m trying to tell you what to do.”

I shot out one hand and clutched the edge of Mum’s kitchen table. “We’ve already been through this, Rhi. Like I told you, I’m advertising my services as a freelance editor, but as for anything else, it’s a no.”

“Yes, but for how long? Don’t get me wrong. I do admire you for taking on Book Ends and doing something different, but you belong at Literati, Lexie.”

I shook my head. “I did. Not anymore. I’ve moved on.”

From the sitting room, I could see Mum and Grandpa ignoring the TV and focusing their attention on the drama playing out in Mum’s kitchen.

Two spots of frustrated colour appeared on Rhiannon’s creamy skin. “What do you mean? What are you talking about? You can’t manage a bookshop for the rest of your life.”

All I wanted to do was throw off my work clothes, shrug on something casual and relax. “Who says I can’t? What’s so bad about that, anyway?”

Rhiannon raked a hand over the top of her head. “Nothing as such, but it’s not you.” She let out a sigh. “I wondered whether your dad turning up out of the blue like that and his dementia might have something to do with this. It must’ve been an awful shock.”

Rhiannon was choosing not to hear what I was saying. My doubts over my future at Literati and the frustration over not getting the senior commissioning editor role surfaced well before Dad arrived back on the scene.

“Not getting that senior position made me think about what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go with my life, Rhi. It has nothing to do with my dad.”

Rhiannon’s exasperation shone out of her.

I continued to lean against Mum’s circular kitchen table. All Rhiannon could see was the Lexie-shaped hole at Literati.

Rhiannon chewed the inside of her cheek. “You should be editing your stable of authors.” She sighed. “What are you hoping to gain from running a bookshop? This isn’t you, Lexie.”

“Isn’t it? Maybe it is and you just don’t want to accept it.” I tried to steady my voice. “You know what books mean to me. I don’t have to tell you how important I think reading is.” I threw my hands around, hoping Rhiannon might begin to comprehend what I was trying to do. “At Book Ends, I hope I can encourage people who’ve never picked up a book before, to give reading a try.”

Rhiannon’s lips morphed into a disapproving expression.

I scraped out the nearby kitchen chair and sank down into it. Rhiannon pulled out the chair opposite me and did the same. Sumptuous sizzling and popping sounds came from the oven.

Mum and Grandpa remained in the sitting room, allowing us to have our frank exchange in peace.

“So, you’re going to sell other people’s books instead of helping to create them?”

“If you mean, am I going to continue managing the bookshop, then the answer is yes. That’s if I can turn around its fortunes in the next year.”

The deep, rich aroma of the roasting chicken made my stomach groan with hunger.

As I sat there and reflected, I realised that I woke up every morning and looked forward to heading into Book Ends. Whether that had something to do with a tall, dark and brooding portrait painter was another thing.

I clapped my hands together on my lap. “You believed in me from the off and I’ll always be grateful for that.”

Rhiannon fiddled with her short platinum ponytail. “And I still do and that’s why I’m talking to you like this. I think it’s such a waste of your talent.”

I eyed Celeste’s stack of typed pages at my elbow. “Well, I’m going to put those editing talents to good use again with this and like I said, I’m doing some freelance work.”

“You know full well what I’m getting at.”

The oven let rip with a loud, incessant ping, to signal the roast dinner was ready.