“Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.”
—JANE AUSTEN
I feel I’m finally finding peace.
This dilapidated old greenhouse is the last place I expected to find it.
Brock has been tasked with fixing the electricity, and he’s also taken it upon himself to rebuild the shelves. The smell of sawdust still fills the air and I set out a row of pots on a shelf he’s repaired in record time. I’m impressed, but I keep that to myself. There is still so much work to do. But each time I set foot in here, the warm and mysteriously fragrant air winds its way into my soul and whispers that all may not be lost.
As I add to the pile of broken terra-cotta, I do have doubts.
Even with the heat on, how will anything grow, let alone bloom again?
Despite what I saw or think I saw that first day, I’m not convinced this place can be resurrected.
Even so, a sweet fragrance filters through the air every now and then, and I swear when I close my eyes I hear the sound of that gurgling stream.
It’s hard to believe I’ve been in the Berkshires almost a month. My heart doesn’t hurt as much, and I smile when I wake in the morning. In between hauling away dead things from the greenhouse, I’ve spent some time scouring the surrounding towns, venturing into every bookstore I can find and all the small knickknack shops that are still open. I’ve been searching for the perfect gift for Clarice. She’s been so kind to me. Eventually I settle on an orchid that I find in a whimsical store that seems to be a cornucopia of sundries, plants, and handcrafted furniture. It’s in bloom, a deep pink with a faint vanilla perfume. I think she’ll like it.
The happy smile on her face as I present it to her that afternoon, along with a loaf of banana bread I baked last night, proves me right.
“I wanted to thank you. For being so welcoming, for inviting me into your home.” She has done so numerous times now. Tea. Lunch. Morning walks and talks as we work together in the greenhouse. “It’s so nice to know you’re just next door here. I don’t feel quite so alone.”
“Oh, my dear.” She laughs and beckons me in. Once I shed my coat and boots, Clarice leads me through the house, her fuzzy slippers slapping the wood floors. “You’re never alone, you must know that by now. Ah. I’ve got the perfect place for this beauty.” She stops outside a door I’ve not noticed before, clicks the handle, and pushes it open. “The library.”
She’s not kidding.
It is indeed a library.
An absolutely amazing room, and one I immediately long to get lost in.
It’s like something you’d see on Pinterest or in the movies. And I suddenly feel like Belle from Beauty and the Beast.
Books are everywhere, from floor to ceiling. There’s even one of those cool stepladders you can slide from shelf to shelf to reach the high places. Two long windows let in the light and show off the lake. A fire burns in the far corner, framed in marble and sheltered by a thick wood mantel that holds a myriad of photographs I wouldn’t mind examining. But it’s the books that demand my attention.
The entire room hums with the energy of story. Ancient leather bindings in reds and browns beckon and fill the air with anticipation and I wonder what their gilt pages might offer—adventures and romance and poetry and long-ago odysseys—worlds beyond my imaginings.
“Magnificent.” I almost feel the need to whisper.
“Isn’t it? Brock had the room remodeled when he moved in.” Clarice marches across a patterned rug and places the orchid on an empty, ornate wooden plant stand by the window. “There. We were waiting for you, my beauty. Now you settle in, and I’ll get you some water in a little while.”
She talks to her plants. Somehow I’m not surprised.
“Would you like to stay and look around?” Clarice is positively beaming. “Brock works over there.” She nods toward a massive desk that holds a computer surrounded by piles of papers and notebooks. “Don’t touch anything. I tried to tidy once and never heard the end of it.”
I can imagine. “Thank you. I won’t venture that far. I’ll just look at the books. Is it all right to touch them?” I’m afraid to ask. Some of them look so old. This collection is far more impressive than ours, and I’m in awe.
“Of course you may touch them. Books are written to be read and enjoyed, dear. Don’t you agree?”
Sounds simple enough, I suppose.
She watches me wander around awhile, until heavy footsteps and the sound of someone clearing his throat interrupt the sacred silence.
Brock strolls into the room, iPhone in hand. “Mitchell wants to say hello.” He holds it out to Clarice, whose face lights like a Fourth of July firecracker.
She shoots me a look of apology. “Excuse me, Savannah.” She scurries out of the room and Brock lets loose a low chuckle.
“My brother. He calls once a week. They’ll talk for a good hour. Lord only knows about what.” He moves toward one of the long bookcases and an almost wistful sigh leaves his chest. “I see you’ve found my sanctuary. I’ve been meaning to bring you in here, but Clarice has beaten me to it.” He runs a finger along a row of old books and I watch his smile. “This is my favorite room in the house.”
“I can see why. It’s amazing.” I return to the shelf I’d been studying and reach for a leather-bound copy of Pride and Prejudice. “Oh my goodness.” I’m seriously thrilled as I turn to the first page. “This is one of my all-time favorite books.”
“‘I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book!—When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.’” Brock’s voice startles me and I glance his way.
“You . . . memorized that?”
He taps his head and grins. “Photographic memory. Comes in handy at times.”
“I’ll bet.” I clutch the book to my chest. “I’ve read this so often. I wish I could quote from it. But I’m not great at memorization.” Save for the few Alice quotes that have somehow stuck, I have to look up everything else.
“Maybe you just need to take more time. Some things are easily attainable if we want them bad enough.” He leans forward a bit, his eyes dancing. “‘The power of doing any thing with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance.’”
I can’t stop a smile. “You do suit Darcy.”
The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly to tease that dimple out of hiding. “I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or an astute observation.” His eyes catch the glow of the ornate Tiffany lights that hang from the ceiling and turn an even deeper shade of blue.
My stomach does a traitorous flip all on its own.
There is something inherently attractive about a man who quotes Jane Austen.
“Where does your brother live?” I ask, thinking it probably wise at this point to direct the conversation elsewhere.
Brock’s half smile says he sees right through the diversion. “Back in Atlanta, when he’s not traveling. Mitch is a pretty high-profile attorney, specializes in international law. He’s a few years younger than me, single, rich as sin, and not in the least bit ashamed of it.”
“Should he be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. When you spend your time jetting around the world, chasing skirts and the next big adventure with little care, save what five-star hotel you’ll be sleeping in that night, life seems good, I guess.”
“You don’t get along?”
“We get along fine. When we’re not together.”
“I see.” I reach to put the book back in place.
“Take it home if you like,” Brock offers. “If you want to read it again.”
Because I wasn’t flustered enough. “Oh, I couldn’t . . .” What if I spilled something on it?
He laughs, rounds his desk, and starts to sort through the piles. “As long as you don’t attempt to hold a cup of coffee at the same time, I trust it will be safe enough.”
My face flames and I look away. “I’ll look after it. I promise.”
“It’s not a first edition. Those are over there, in the glass case.”
They are.
I peer through the Windex-clean glass at the titles. “You have an amazing collection.” Austen, Chaucer, Dickens, Shakespeare, Robert Frost, T. S. Eliot. Kevin would be in his element. I walk the length of the room. On a middle shelf I see a row of books I recognize. Brock’s. They are all here. And I remember reading every one of them. We called him a cross between Nicholas Sparks and James Patterson; enough romance and intrigue to keep us both hooked.
“Did you always want to be a writer?” I turn to face him and find him already looking my way.
“Not always.” He grins slow, eyes shining. “First I wanted to be a fireman. Then a pro basketball player. Thought about being an astronaut . . .”
“Okay, okay.” Laughter feels good. I’m not sure when I last had anything to laugh about. I sink into a soft leather chair by the fire, uninvited, yet feeling perfectly at home. “My sister, Peg, and I have that kind of relationship. Like you and your brother. We get along great when we’re not together.”
“But you keep trying.” He leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. “Don’t you?”
“It seems wrong not to.” I sigh and study the orange flames. “She means well. She just doesn’t always understand me. But I know she’d do anything for me in a heartbeat. I have a closer relationship with my older brother, Paul. He’s four years older than me, Peg is two. My family has always been pretty tight-knit, though, despite our differences and the distances between us. I’m lucky I guess. They’ve all been super supportive through this whole mess with Kevin.”
He nods, his eyes serious. “Family is family. I suspect Mitchell will wake up to that fact at some point.”
“And your parents? Where do they live?”
Brock powers up his computer and I hear the ping of his inbox. He scans the screen and then his eyes meet mine again. “Our mother died a few years ago. Our father is in Atlanta. In a nursing home. He has Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I almost feel bad for asking, and a little guilty that I have two perfectly healthy parents.
“Don’t be. Life is what it is. Sometimes it’s hard.” His furrowed brow testifies to that. I wonder what secrets hide within those vibrant blue eyes I find myself so drawn to. Wonder where his wife is and why he’s here in the Berkshires with his great-aunt, raising his daughter alone. I suppose the answers to my questions can be found on the Internet, but somehow I’d rather hear them from him.
But not today.
He’s studying the computer again and I push out of my chair. “I’ll let you get on with your work. I can show myself out. Please tell Clarice I said good-bye.”
“Sorry.” He shoots me a smile. “I would be more hospitable, but I have an important call scheduled in about ten minutes.” Brock rises and walks me out anyway, proving southern charm and chivalry are not dead. “As I suspect my aunt has told you, you’re welcome here anytime, Savannah.” He opens the front door after helping me with my coat. “I may be a little rough around the edges, but truth is, company is nice.”
I try not to look too surprised. “If you’re sure. I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not. Aunt Clarice enjoys spending time with you.” He pushes his fingers through his hair and takes a step back. “I’m beginning to see why.”
Well then.
I’m not sure how to respond to that, and I think I should leave. Immediately.
“Good-bye, Brock. Happy writing.” I slip through the door and skitter down the steps, Brock Chandler’s chuckle ringing in my ears as I walk as quickly as possible down the path toward home.