“Well,enjoyingis a strong word. I’m not quite able to give the shop all the care he did, what with my other properties. I think maybe Thorn & Thistle should belong to somebody who loves books as much as you do. Tell you what, I’ll appoint you manager once your youngest wee bairn is at school, and we can go from there?”
Eiley blinked. “I feel like I’ve barely put the work in, yet. I’ve spent more time trying to fix the place than actually sell the books.”
“Exactly! You’ve put the effort in. Look at how beautiful it all turned out.”
Eiley did, the glow of the fairy lights she’d strung over the windows bathing the new shelves and furniture in warm amber. The store did appear a lot fresher, but it was Fraser and Warren who had brought the place back to life, as well as Maggie’s workers.
Maggie must have sensed her reluctance, because she patted Eiley’s hand a final time. “Something to think about. I’d better get set up for Harper’s reading.”
“Thank you, Maggie.” It was good timing, because Morag from the tearoom was currently stroking Harper’s rebound books, which were on the special edition display under the author’s insistence. Eiley had already sold a few, her handiwork much neater after weeks of practice. The hobby really had awakened a new love of creating in her, and she’d treated herself to more supplies from the crafts shop to keep at it.
Maybe she could do other books, sell some here even. Was Maggie right? Could she maybe one day take care of this place?
A new hope ignited in her chest, one she would never have allowed herself to feel a few months ago. She could imagine it. The children would grow up in a place filled with stories and magic, maybe inherit a passion for storytelling.
After Morag had purchased a copy with gold sprayed edges and fairy silhouettes etched into the cover, Fraser joined Eiley behind the counter. Harper must finally have let him retire for the night as her personal photographer.
“It’s nice to see you smiling like that again,” he pointed out.
“Aye, it feels good.” Especially when she saw the kids over in the corner, reading their favourite books with Mum. Soon, they’d be back to living here and Mum could have some much-needed peace. Eiley wasn’t sure how to thank her for all the times she’d pushed everything aside for them. She was lucky to have a soft place to land. A second home. She’d never take it for granted again.
At her attention, Brook wandered over with another Frankie the Fireman instalment in his hands. “Mum, is Warren not coming tonight?”
Fraser gave her a knowing look, and Eiley’s pulse stuttered as sadness filled her. Despite finally moving forward with her life, part of her was still stuck on that morning in the rain, forever replaying their conversation and all the things she would have said differently. Like, how she was grateful that he’d cared for her so much, and that he really, really did deserve happiness. That she was sorry, and not just because it was instinct to apologise, but because she earnestly wished they would have worked. Did he know what he meant to her? Did he know how he’d changed her for the better?
“I don’t think so, munchkin,” Eiley said softly. “I’m sorry.”
Brook waved his book. “I never see him anymore. I want to read this one to him.”
He missed him more than he missed his dad, which said plenty. In fact, Brook had asked Eiley fearfully if they ever had to go back to Glasgow. It had been a relief for both of them when she replied no, never again.
“Well, he’s very busy.”
“Tell you what, next time I see him, I’ll ask him,” Fraser decided. Satisfied, Brook whirled and went back to reading with Mum, Sky, and Saff.
She blew out a long, tense breath. “This whole time, I tried to avoid hurting them by keeping them separate, and yet they still ask after him.”
“Warren was great with them, but they already have so many folk here who love them. They’re not lacking anything.”
But she was. She felt it most at night, when the house went quiet and there was no way of avoiding thoughts of him. Or in the quiet of the bookstore after closing time, where thoughtsfloated around her head that she couldn’t voice to anyone but him. “I meant to talk to you about something, actually.”
“Aye?” Fraser crossed his arms.
“Now that you and Warren are sort of pals—”
“Wouldn’t go that far, but I don’t hate the bloke. Don’t think we’ll be catching up over a pint anytime soon if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No. But he’s …” She bit her lip, unsure how much she had a right to say. Warren’s story was his, and she couldn’t spill it without permission. But nobody could build a home alone. “He’s building his own house up where Galbreath Farm used to be.”
He cocked his head. “The place that burned down donkey’s years ago?”
“Aye.”
“Hm. So, what’s that to do with me?”
“I thought maybe you could, perhaps, offer some of your expertise?”
“Does he want me to?”
