“Isn’t this lovely?” she said, her voice as wonderstruck as a child’s as she let Jennings help her through the gate and into the splendor of the garden. “Like something from a fairy tale.”
“I’m so glad you could come,” Beatrix said as she stepped forward and squeezed one of May’s hands.
The two of them had become fast friends, drawn together by their shared love of stories and a strong cup of tea.
“Have you finished it?” May asked, a glimmer of anticipation flitting across her eyes as she waited to hear what Beatrix might say.
Beatrix had thrown herself into the new book project, writing from the early hours of the morning until she fell asleep, oftentimes in the worn wingback chair with her hands still gripping the pen. It seemed like the story’s characters were pushing her to introduce them to the world as quickly as possible, and she’d lost herself in all the best ways while helping them do just that.
May had been the one to stop by the bookshop every day to ensure that Beatrix was taking a moment to drink a cup of tea and stretch her weary back. And more often than not, she would find herself losing track of time as she sat in another chair that had appeared in the front of the shop, quickly falling into the even rhythm of a story that she’d never read before. The two would sit in companionable silence, the noise that Beatrix’s penmade as it scratched into the paper entangling with the sound of turning pages as May moved from one chapter to the next. And before they knew it, the bells of the front door were chiming as Jennings came to pay a visit after the doors of Donohoe & Company had closed for the day.
Of course, it had been too much of a temptation for May to not peek at Beatrix’s new novel, and now it was all she could think about. The characters had even started to slip into her dreams, their story unfolding in vivid detail while she slept, only to disappear when the sun started to emerge between the cracks in the curtains and she’d failed to reach the end.
“I have,” Beatrix answered with a grin. “I finished the final chapter just last night and can’t wait for you to read it.”
“It’s absolutely wonderful,” Jennings chimed in, full of enthusiasm. “The best she’s written yet.”
“You’ve read it already, have you?” Violet asked coyly, seemingly unsurprised that Jennings had been by Beatrix’s side when she finished the novel in the early hours of the morning.
A blush as red as the begonias flashed across Beatrix’s cheeks, and Jennings shifted nervously from one foot to the other, though they couldn’t quite keep the smiles from their eyes.
“I have something to share as well,” May said as she pulled a piece of paper from her purse and handed it to Beatrix.
“I don’t understand,” Beatrix murmured as she read what was printed there. “It’s the deed to the bookshop.”
May waited in silent expectation as Beatrix’s eyes came to rest on the final line of the document, where her own name was printed.
“It’s mine?” Beatrix whispered.
“It’s yours,” May said. “If you’ll have it. Brigit and her husband were only too willing to sell the building when I made my offer. They are both quite eager to move to warmer climates, it seems.”
“But why?” Beatrix asked.
“Because it’s what Philip would have wanted,” May answered. “To bring the shop and its readers to life again.”
“You want me to reopen it,” Beatrix said, a note of understanding drifting into her tone.
“I know it’s a lot for me to ask,” May replied, a trace of hesitation creeping into her voice. “Running the shop might seem like too much to balance with your writing.”
“I’ll be there to help,” Jennings chimed in as he took a step forward before turning to face Beatrix. “That is, if you’ll have me.”
They all caught the underlying meaning of Jennings’ words, even the house, which stilled the pleasant breeze that had been playing at the edge of the lace tablecloth so that it wouldn’t miss a single moment of what would come next.
“I’d like that, John,” Beatrix finally said as she took his hand in her own. “I’d like that very much indeed.”
The house, which was thrilled to its very rafters that Beatrix would have something more solid than childhood memories to root her to the city, had to resist the urge to fling open its shutters and bang all the pots and pans in the kitchen. But it couldn’t keep from loosening some of the flower petals so that they caught in Beatrix’s curls and the brim of Jennings’ hat.
“Cheers to the happy couple!” Violet exclaimed as she lifted her teacup in the air.
But before she could lower it and take another sip, Anne pulled away from Vincent to grasp the handle, peering over the rim.
“What is it?” Violet asked as she let Anne take the cup, clearly frightened by her surprised expression.
Anne’s gaze flitted from the rim to Violet and back as she tried to piece everything together, but then a wide smile settled across her face.
“My birthday vision,” Anne said. “It wasn’t of the past at all.”
“You mean the girl’s laughter?” Violet asked. “But if it wasn’t a memory, what could it be? And how do my tea leaves fit into it?”
