Authentically izzy, p.23
Authentically, Izzy, page 23
Brodie’s mom and little sister live in a cottage outside of the town of Skern. We’re visiting Skern today AND the very first Sutherland’s bookshop. I feel as though his mom might measure me in terms of my response to her dearly beloved shop. She’s lovely, BTW—the very idea of a quintessential English lady. She reminds me of Julie Andrews (how about that, Penelope), even to the way she styles her soft-brown hair. What I didn’t expect was for her to draw me into a hug at first meeting. I’d always expected English people to be sort of standoffish. I suppose that came from watching too much British television, but she was absolutely wonderful, though she had a bit of steel in her voice when she spoke of Sutherland’s. Kind of like Granny Lucy when she referred to her favorite husband that nobody liked except her. I got the sense that any criticism—as if I’d have any—about the family bookshop should be voiced with extreme care or not at all. So even when she spoke of her excitement about starting a Sutherland’s bookshop across the Channel in England—even though their sales are in decline across the board—I didn’t say anything. Nope. But to keep from saying anything, I ate four scones and drank three cups of tea. It’s a miracle I fell asleep at all. All the private bookshop groups I follow are quick to discourage starting a new shop to save an old one. I remember one lady using the quip “love the one you’re with” and find out what’s not working there before taking on a new and costly venture.
Ellen was wonderful otherwise. And kept calling me things like “dear” and “love” and talking about my hair. I almost thought she only hugged me so she could touch it. Evidently dark hair isn’t super common in these parts.
I think if I steer clear of giving any advice on bookish things, I may not suffer the wrath of having a hairbrush thrown at me. Granny Lucy’s aim was impeccable. Brodie’s mom doesn’t seem the hairbrush-throwing sort, but her near-obsessive love for teaspoons did make me a little nervous. I wonder what her aim would be like with those?
And his little sister, Fiona? Penelope, the two of you would have gotten along like long-lost sisters. She has a love for all things of the musical variety and adores dressing in vintage styles. I still haven’t figured out how she knows what things look like, since she is legally blind, but Brodie said that the degenerative disease hasn’t stolen her ability to see shapes or light yet. And if the color is vibrant, she is more likely to see it too. She wears lots of yellow and wears it well, as you would say, Penelope. The family is saving money to pay for a surgery that has the chance of restoring part of Fiona’s eyesight, but since Sutherland’s hasn’t been doing well the past few years, they can’t afford the surgery right away. And since the surgery isn’t guaranteed to work, their insurance won’t pay for it. It’s a horrible catch-22. Despite the world moving forward into the cyber age, Skymar has not. Or so it seems in the parts I’ve seen so far. For the atmosphere and history and all-around beauty of it all, I’m glad they’ve not turned the island into a modern-era resort, but a few updates might help everyone overall—especially businesses like Sutherland’s, you know?
Fiona has this wonderful strawberry-blonde hair and the cutest spray of freckles across her nose ever known to man! She happens to be a Copper Westbrook fan, to which I quickly agreed to read one of his fantastical books along with her while I’m visiting.
The air here in the countryside has a wonderful scent of pine and sea and something else I can’t quite define. Maybe one of the local flowers, but it’s a sweet sort of smell, like freshly mown grass mixed with lavender or something similar. And there is—how to describe it?—a clarity to the air, like the feeling after a rain.
And the age of the buildings! Hundreds of years old and there are manor houses and castles! It really feels like I’ve stepped into a book with a charming, native Skymarian as my guide. Ooh, doesn’t that sound magical? Lead on to the next adventure, dear Skymarian!
Luke, you would love this place. Mostly countryside with loads of vacant rock structures that used to be barns or houses. The people are trying to reuse the structures and renovate them for either single-family homes or vacation rentals. Brodie says that apart from fishing and agriculture, tourism is one of the largest industries here and the locals are trying to learn how to capitalize on that interest by recycling what they already have. I know you have a soft spot for stone masonry.
I’ve attached the address and phone number of Ellen’s house at Josephine’s request, so that if you can’t reach me on my cell, you can leave a message there. I’m staying with Ellen and Fiona in their limestone cottage. My small attic room has a window seat pointed in the direction of the sunrise, or so I’m told. The rooftops of Skern are within view from my window—their slate, thatch, and tin roofs making a mismatched pattern in the distance. Two spires twist up into the sky above the rooflines noting two churches. Brodie says that his family attends one of them, but I can’t remember which. I guess I’ll find out! He says it’s a five-hundred-year-old church! Five hundred years!!!! And that people are buried under the floor. (I’m going to try really hard not to think about that too much or else I’ll look like I’m stepping through a cow field as I follow them to the nearest pew.)
Okay, I’ve probably bored you guys to tears. I can’t imagine Luke actually reading to the end of this. Anyway, Ellen says breakfast is ready, so I’m going to run. Bookshop, here I come!
Love you all!
Izzy
PS: Scones here are NOTHING like the ones I make at home from a box. Nothing. They’re so much better. I feel betrayed.
PPS: I can’t even imagine why on earth Brodie likes me, but I’m happily basking in his nonsensical attraction.
Chapter 19
Skern fit every imaginable definition Izzy had ever heard of the word idyllic. An adorable combination of limestone buildings topped with gray slate, ivy-covered and whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs, and cobblestone streets leading by tearooms, pubs, bakeries, and antique shops. Spires of medieval-aged churches rose into the cerulean sky as a ruined abbey—perched on a hill overlooking the town—kept watch like an ancient sentry. Stone archways here and there connected buildings to create picturesque alleyways to back gardens, tiny houses, and more streets.
It was impossible to take it all in at one time.
A stone bridge crossed a river along one side of Skern that led to a park complete with a duck pond and playground. A striking cathedral was poised at the edge of town, its stained glass window glistening with rainbow light.
The pinnacle of her visit came when Brodie led her to the center of town. Nestled across from a thatch-roofed inn and a picturesque gazebo stood a three-story, ivy-covered stone building—Sutherland’s.
Its wooden sign hung down from a black iron rod, like something from a Dickens novel. Izzy squeezed closer to Brodie, her arm nestled within his as they neared the bookshop. It seemed to her that he smiled all the time, especially in that adorably amused slant she found so appealing. Was he usually so happy? Or maybe it was just the place.
He loved this town, these people, and Sutherland’s. His pleasure oozed from his conversations to the pleasant greetings passersby sent his way. He was living within his dream among these bookshops and this picturesque world of cathedrals and cobblestone streets and castles and cliffs by the sea. Had Izzy ever walked within a dream with such certainty? Did she even really know what her dream was? It was much easier to recognize when others found their “place” than finding it oneself, it seemed.
“Here we are.” Brodie paused before a blue-painted door and tipped a brow. “I feel as though I’m readying for some exam or other.”
She swung her attention to his face. “Because of me?”
He dipped his head before lifting his familiar gaze back to her. “I want you to fall in love with Skymar.”
Her breath had paused on the “fall in love” part of his sentence as if baited to the happily ever after the word promised. Love. They’d tiptoed around the idea but neither voiced anything with certainty because, well, in Izzy’s mind an entire ocean kept the idea of “till death do us part” in a precarious state of uncertainty.
“And especially Sutherland’s,” he finished, searching her face. “In fact there’s a part of me that cannot wait for your assessment and another part that’s rather fearful of it.”
“Fearful?” A laugh burst from her. “I don’t scare anybody, Brodie. Not even when I wear my shark hat.”
“You underestimate yourself on quite a few levels, Karre.” His focus grew in intensity as if he peered through her plethora of excuses, and somehow, instead of his X-ray vision stinging at the sight of all her insecurities, she wanted to step forward into whatever he saw that made him smile. “Just from the few conversations we’ve had about the business of independent bookstores and your vast knowledge on the subject, I have a strong feeling our untouched bookish world will fall terribly short of where it needs to be. And I value your opinion.”
The sincerity in his words tried to find a place in her heart, but she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. It was so sweet! “Don’t put too much stock in my knowledge.” She shook her head and took his hand, giving it a squeeze. “You’re pretty smart already, but you know that I’d love to help if I can.”
“Yes.” He squeezed her fingers back. “One of the many reasons I admire you. Your generosity.”
She opened her mouth to negate another compliment, because since she’d been there he kept pelting her with them. And he seemed to really believe what he said about her. It was like walking into the warmest, safest hug over and over again. Why was she constantly surprised by his responses when she knew he was who he seemed to be? The way he was fully committed to their conversations. Or his seemingly genuine interest in her. And how he saw things in her she’d never recognized in herself, or if she had, she’d found a way to dismiss them.
His authenticity shook her. But why? She blinked. Wasn’t this how a relationship was meant to be? Had she lived through so many broken relationships that when a good, interested man acts the way he’s supposed to act when dating a woman, she is shocked? Or near tears?
How had she allowed all those wrong men to destroy her confidence? Steal her belief in her own knowledge and abilities? How had she pushed the real Izzy beneath a quiet, meek, compliant librarian, afraid to voice her deepest thoughts or be brave enough to be genuine?
Was that the reason she’d never really fit into her very own world?
“You really don’t have to work so hard for me to like you. I think you’re pretty great already.”
“Being nice to you is never work.” He tipped a brow and offered his arm. “Are you ready to meet Sutherland’s?”
Her grin split wide, more at her charming escort than the idea of stepping into a seventy-five-year-old bookshop . . . and that was saying something. She slipped her hand into the warm crook of his elbow. “Lead the way.”
She stepped through the door and was immediately encased in the entire spirit of the room. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she breathed it in. The bookshop might have been over fifty years old, but the building boasted centuries. There was something captivating about a sense of place that few people slowed down enough to feel anymore, but the aura of books and time and thousands of stories permeated the paper- and leather-soaked air.
Izzy had visited dozens of bookstores in her life, and every time she welcomed the invitation to join the story the bookshop told. She always felt as if she had been ushered into a place of old friends and familiar haunts. But she’d never crossed a threshold into a different time before—nonfictional, that is. Perhaps it was the fact that the buildings in Skern were several hundred years older than anything back home, or maybe it was because this bookshop had been around for decades. Or maybe the leathery spice of Brodie’s cologne added an enticing swirl of fairy-tale-ish delight, but it all simply meant Sutherland’s bones were meant for books.
And then her feet bumped into something, and her eyes flew open. A bookshelf stood only a few feet within the doorway. A used-book bookshelf. As her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit space, the immensity of bookshelves and books nearly pushed her back a step. Huge shelves, on every wall, filled with all sorts of stories. To her left, windows complete with window seats lined the wall, except that the window seats were covered with books instead of colorful pillows to invite curious folks to sit for a spell.
A black iron staircase spiraled to the far right of the front door, adding a unique bit of additional charm amidst the rows and rows of books. With used books at the front and new books at the back, the shop already set itself up as a deterrent for most tourists. Not book enthusiasts. Treasures were treasures to them, but your average tourist usually wanted straightforward, easy, and engaging. But if they could add in some modern ideas and create an atmosphere that caused folks to linger, Sutherland’s had the potential for something special.
Sutherland’s did not need to change its wonderfulness—it merely needed a little sprucing up to engage with the current century. Enhanced “magic,” so to speak.
The lack of social media and online presence plus the layout and options of the store had to be two of the main contributing factors for Sutherland’s drop in sales—Izzy’s lips tipped and a twitter of excitement spun through her middle—which were things she knew how to improve. It was as if she’d been waiting for this opportunity her whole life, or at least since she’d started researching independent bookstores.
“How wonderful to see you here, Isabelle dear.” Brodie’s mother materialized from the back room, resplendent in a pale-blue summer suit of some sort of silky material. The Julie Andrews vibes swelled to full chorus. “Welcome to Sutherland’s.”
“Thank you.” Izzy cast the room another appreciative look, only pausing her vision on a leaning bookshelf in the corner. “What a wonderful collection of books you have.”
“Yes, books and memories.” She nodded, sending the room a loving look. “And our dear bookshop may need the tiniest bit of updating here and there, perhaps new wallpaper upstairs, but otherwise it’s as perfect as when Brodie’s grandfather opened its doors.”
Brodie swung his attention to Izzy but she avoided eye contact for fear he’d see every hesitation her body felt at his mother’s adoration. Yes, the shop held a certain indescribable appeal intrinsic to its structure and history, but “perfect” wasn’t a description Izzy would have used. “Classic” perhaps, but definitely in need of some tender loving care to raise its competition with current bookshops and online competitors.
“I didn’t realize you’d be at the shop today.” Izzy stepped forward attempting to redirect the conversation. “I thought we were going out for tea this afternoon?”
“We are, dear, but I’m seeing to the shop this morning while Brodie gives you a tour of Skern before his afternoon meeting.”
Izzy raised a brow to her charming escort.
“Monday and Wednesday mornings are my workdays here.”
At her continued stare he expounded. “One of grandfather’s rules was that each family member who remained in the Sutherland’s business had to work at least two half days in one of the bookshops each week to keep a “finger on the pulse of the people” as he'd say. So my usual days are Monday and Wednesday mornings, which leaves the weekends open for me to travel or to visit the other shops, as I’m the liaison.”
“Your grandfather sounds as though he had a deep love for this community.”
“Aye, he did.” Brodie nodded and gestured toward the nearest bookshelves with his chin. “And books.”
“It was a beautiful combination of personality traits that his son inherited as well.” Ellen’s smile softened as she ran a hand over a few books atop the nearest shelf, her love for her husband as palpable as the scent of books in the air. Ellen’s gaze came up to rest on Brodie. “And his grandson.”
“Now, Mum, you don’t have to lather it on.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’ve already promised to collect dinner from Farrow’s this weekend.”
She chuckled and shot a look over to Izzy. “It’s only the best seafood you’ll ever eat, Isabelle, but it is in Port Quinnick, a good hour drive from here.”
“And since I have a meeting about our bookshop in Port Quinnick on Friday, I gave my word to bring back Farrow’s in celebration of your visit, Isabelle.” He leaned toward Izzy and said in a stage whisper, “And because Mum wouldn’t forgive me if I’d traveled to Port Quinnick and failed to return with Farrow’s.”
Izzy’s gaze switched between the two, her grin growing at their comfortable camaraderie. Mother and son. So many memories about her mother had faded with time, but one conversation stood out, especially now. After witnessing a young man tenderly caring for his elderly mother in the grocery store, Mom had nodded toward the pair and said, “You can get a very good idea about a person when you see the way they treat their parents.”
“Well, you’ve definitely heightened my anticipation for this Farrow’s feast.” Izzy stepped closer to a few of the bookshelves, examining their contents. Excellent secondhand books. Definitely a venture worth promoting.
“Let me give you a proper tour of Sutherland’s of Skern.” Brodie moved to her side and held his hand out to her. “What do you say?”
She slipped her fingers into his and he tugged her through each row, giving snippets of tales from his childhood growing up among these storied walls. She caught glimpses of the sneaky ten-year-old hiding a plastic mouse on his father’s stool or gluing pages of his math book together so he wouldn’t have to do his homework. The love for the space oozed through him like the deep percolation of his voice, as story after story drew them up the winding stairs to a book-laden second floor with some children’s books, and up to an arched third floor filled with antique furniture and taped-up boxes.
Brodie stopped talking midsentence, and with barely time for Izzy to prepare, he swept in and brushed his lips against hers, feather light. Skin barely touching skin. And then, as if that appetizer wasn’t enough, he cupped her cheeks in his warm palms and took a deeper, longer taste. Sweet mercy! Warmth spilled from his touch, reverberating throughout her entire body and nearly puddling her to the dusty wooden floor. Her palms slid around his waist to smooth against his back. He’d kissed her when she arrived and once more as he said good night, but this kiss . . . This was a lover’s kiss, a promise. He was playing for keeps.
