The Little Bookshop Of Promises. Debbie Macomber
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Moments earlier, Annie had been exhausted, but five minutes with Jane and she was raring to go. “I want to see my store as soon as I can. The apartment, too, of course.”
“Max Jordan has the key for you—that’s his western-wear store. By the way, his son was recently elected sheriff.” She paused as though she’d just thought of something. “He’s single, if you’re interested.”
“I’m not,” Annie assured her, but had to laugh. It was almost as if they were back in high school. Jane, with her boundless energy for life, was always trying to organize everyone else.
“Oh, Annie, you’re gonna love it here!”
Annie was counting on that.
“And I’m going to love having you here.”
“Another Californian,” Annie teased, although she was well aware that Jane considered herself a Texan now.
“Cal says I might not have been born in Texas, but I got here as soon as I could. He’ll be saying the same thing about you before long.”
Arm in arm, they crossed the street to Dovie’s shop. “Dovie,” Jane called as she opened the door. “Annie’s here!”
A lovely white-haired woman stood in a corner of the store, working on a display. She stopped instantly and made her way across the room, her eyes brimming with warmth. “Annie, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. In fact, Jane’s told me so much about you, I feel as if we’re already friends.” She smiled. “This town certainly needs a bookstore...and now you’re here to start one. That’s terrific.”
“I’m excited about it,” Annie admitted, letting her gaze wander about the room. She’d never seen antiques displayed in such an artistic and creative way. Accessories and smaller items had been arranged on and around the furniture. Fringed silk scarves and long jet necklaces spilled out of open drawers. There didn’t seem to be anything Dovie didn’t sell, from exquisite stationery and reproductions of classic jewelry to dining-room sets and gorgeous mismatched pieces of china.
“Come sit for a spell and have a cup of tea,” Dovie invited. “The scones are still warm. I want you to taste my homemade strawberry jam.”
No sooner had Annie sat down at a table in the small tearoom than Dovie delivered a plate with scones, plus a small pot of butter and another of jam.
“It looks like you intend to fatten me up,” Annie said with a laugh.
“You could use a few pounds,” Jane whispered. “I’d love to give you some of mine.”
“Nonsense,” Annie whispered back.
Dovie poured tea all around. “Now, Annie, tell me about yourself. There may be details Jane left out.”
Annie laughed again. “Well, as you probably already know, Jane and I are the same age.”
“In the prime of our youth,” Jane inserted, putting an extra spoonful of jam on the warm scone.
“I’m...divorced.” Annie faltered over the word. Even after a year the reality of her dead marriage produced a sense of failure and pain. When she’d spoken her vows, she’d meant every one of them. It seemed that Billy, however, hadn’t. The “for worse” and “in sickness” parts, in particular, hadn’t meant much to him. Annie had done everything possible to save her marriage, but as determined as she was, Billy was more so. He wanted out. In the end, she’d had no choice but to give in. That he’d remarried within a month following their divorce had come as a bitter blow and the ultimate humiliation. It’d been obvious that he’d already been involved with someone else well before their split, maybe even before her accident.
“I’m so sorry about your divorce. I know you also suffered the loss of your mother at an early age,” Dovie murmured.
Annie nodded. “My mother died when I was seven,” she said. “My dad and his wife are in San Diego, but I don’t see them much.” Annie had often wondered how different her life might have been had her mother lived. People cared about her—aunts, uncles, grandparents—but they had their own lives and had lacked the time or patience to deal with a confused little girl who didn’t understand why her mother was gone. Even her own father had deserted her, burying his grief in his job. He hadn’t remarried until Annie was in her final year of high school. She’d been raised by a succession of housekeepers who’d moved in and out of her life; it was difficult to remember all their names.
“How sad,” Dovie said with genuine sympathy. “About your mother...and your father.”
“It made me strong,” Annie returned, “and independent.” That was one of the reasons Billy had divorced her, Annie believed. Perhaps if she’d needed him more, had been weak and clingy, he would have stayed. No, it wouldn’t have mattered. Billy would have left her, anyway.
“But you’re here now,” Jane said, “ready to start a new life.”
“That’s true,” Annie agreed. She reached for a scone, scooping on a thick layer of jam. “In fact, I’m more than ready.”
Both her children were down for their afternoon naps, and that meant Savannah Smith had an hour to herself. She poured a cup of tea and reached for the mail, which one of the hands had delivered before lunch. Early afternoon was her favorite part of the day. With two children constantly underfoot, it seemed the house was rarely quiet—not that Savannah had cause for complaint. She adored her children and loved her husband deeply. There’d been a time when she’d despaired of ever being a wife and mother, and then one day when she least expected it, she’d met Laredo. From the moment she’d picked up the handsome hitchhiker along a deserted stretch of road, her life had changed.
Her life had become what she’d always wanted it to be.
She sifted through the envelopes, automatically setting aside the bills and tossing the advertisements in the trash.
Then she saw it, her address scrawled in a familiar hand—and froze.
The letter was from Richard, her brother. The name of the correctional institution was stamped on the back of the envelope, along with a warning that the letter had not been inspected.
Savannah needed several minutes to calm her pounding heart before she found the courage to tear open the envelope. Even then, she couldn’t bring herself to unfold the one thin sheet of paper. In the three years since Richard had been incarcerated, this was the first letter she’d received from him. Typically, he blamed Savannah and their brother Grady for his troubles. He wouldn’t have written if he didn’t want something. She knew that without a shred of doubt.
Richard, the youngest of the Westons, was a constant source of pain to the family. After his last visit to Promise, during which he’d wrought havoc and brought disgrace into their lives, Savannah had searched carefully for an explanation, some event in their childhood that had shaped Richard into the man he was now. The thief, the scoundrel, the felon, preying on the weak and helpless. The man who gave no thought to the well-being or rights of others. In the end, she’d discovered nothing that could explain it. He’d been born into the same family, attended the same schools, lived in the same community. Richard, Savannah and Grady had all been equally nurtured and loved by their parents. Granted, her mom and dad had spoiled Richard a little, making fewer demands of their charming younger son than they did of their older children. But what youngest child wasn’t just a bit indulged?
Savannah had come to accept that there wasn’t any single thing that could account for the way Richard was. He’d made a series of small selfish decisions through the years; each one, she suspected, had led to the next. Each irresponsible act made the next one possible. And over time, those selfish actions had grown bigger and bigger. But for years, Savannah—if not Grady—had excused or overlooked his behavior.
The first major and truly unforgivable demonstration