said directly to her. It was what she and Russ had worked so hard for: to create a store that people wanted to linger in. Cosy beanbags, cushions and chairs were arranged throughout for customers to sit and enjoy their books; special genre-themed zones changed regularly so there was always something new to discover; quotes from Books of the Month were chalked up on thought-bubble-shaped blackboards around the store; and they had even devised a ‘Take A Chance on Me’ book service, where a pile of titles wrapped in brown paper with labels hinting at the stories within invited readers to discover an author they might not have read before.
As Celia continued to enthuse about the fixtures, fittings and ambience of the bookstore, Bea beamed with pride. She remembered making her Grandma Dot laugh when, as a little girl, she had earnestly asked if the local bookshop in her home town might let her live there if she asked nicely enough. She had even devised a back-up plan if the bookshop declined her idea: the local library’s children’s section had very comfortable patchwork beanbags that could easily make a bed. As long as books surrounded Bea all the time, she wasn’t fussy about where she lived. Now she was living out her childhood ambition – almost. Hudson River Books was definitely the kind of book-filled space that she would happily spend every hour of her life in.
Aware of the brief amount of time she had before her colleague’s return, Bea sat on the large black leather sofa in the corner that would soon house Russ’ coffee bar and invited Celia to join her.
‘I’ve been thinking about the book launch,’ she said, pulling out her notebook and scanning the list of suggestions with the shaking tip of her pen. ‘I’d love it if you would do a reading for us. I thought, with your permission, we could reproduce some quotes from your book and hang them around the walls. We have some bespoke frames that we use for seasonal promotions and Russ is a graphic design whizz.’
‘I like it. Go on.’
Encouraged, Bea shared more items from her list. The French bistro opposite the bookstore had agreed to serve mini versions of its popular dishes as canapés and provide as much wine as the guests could drink, while the small stationery store further down 8th Avenue had offered to hand-print invitations for the event and supply matching goody bags for all attending.
Celia listened to Bea, nodding enthusiastically. ‘You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you? I must say, I’m impressed. Stewart told me how much this event means to you. Talking of which, how are you? Has that awful man tried to contact you?’
Slightly taken aback at the speed with which Celia had changed the subject, Bea took a few moments to reply. ‘I – um – I’m fine and no, thankfully, Otis hasn’t been in touch. But then I did tell him we were over, so it’s little wonder he’s left me alone.’
Celia folded her hands in her lap and fixed Bea with a look that made her a little nervous. ‘You know what you need? A night out. Great company, good wine – get away from all thoughts of relationships and enjoy yourself.’
Bea had to admit that sounded good. Lately all she had done was dodge thoughts about Otis and her failed love life. ‘I’d like that.’
Celia’s smile illuminated the store. ‘Excellent! My good friend is having a party in the Upper West Side, Friday night. It’ll be full of interesting people and I hear the private venue is to die for. Say you’ll come.’
Bea laughed at the unexpected invitation. What else would she be doing on a Friday night, anyway? ‘OK. I’d love to.’
That evening, Bea sat alone in her cosy apartment in the Boerum Hill neighbourhood of Brooklyn. To the casual observer, the only differences between her business and her home were a few more chairs, a kitchen sink and a bedroom; the rest of the space being devoted to books. Russ jokingly referred to Bea’s apartment as a ‘flat-share’ arrangement: ‘It’s nice of the books to let you stay. Do they charge you reasonable rent?’
Bea smiled now as she sipped a large mug of hot chocolate and ran her fingers along the spines of her books. Since ending her relationship with Otis she found she was enjoying being alone. The days following the awful family dinner had given her time to reflect on her recent life and what she had seen hadn’t been pretty. She realised she had become so focused on tackling potential problems Otis could cause that she had been neglecting her own life. She had been a fire-fighter rather than the trailblazer she wanted to be. That was going to change.
Bea couldn’t remember the last time she had been able to think only of herself. Between her final year of university and the start of this week she had lurched from one doomed relationship to another, with barely time to catch her breath in between. On one hand it proved she was a woman in demand – as Stewart had often said – but the problem was the kind of men lining up to date her.
She caught sight of her reflection in the vintage mirror she had bought last year at the Brooklyn Flea market. Well, no more, she told herself. From now on, it’s all about me.
She meant it, too. Why should her life revolve around relationships? Who wrote that rule, anyway? More than anything, Bea wanted to be known for who she was, what she could achieve. Placing the responsibility for her happiness on someone else was only going to lead to more heartache. Her family might have the monopoly on successful relationships, but she didn’t have to join them. It was her time to be whoever she wanted to be. And right now, she wanted to be happy being herself.
Her reflection started back, singularly unconvinced. Otis Greene still had a heavy hold on her heart. She let out a sigh. Clearly this was going to take some getting used to.
The shrill ring of her 1950s red Bakelite phone made her turn from the mirror.
‘Hi, Bea James?’
‘Sweetheart! It’s Mum. Can you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear.’ Bea smiled and all of a sudden wished her parents hadn’t set off on their long-planned trans-American adventure the day after the family meal. ‘How are you both?’
‘Your dad is driving a forty-two foot Winnebago, so he’s like a kid, as you can imagine. And I’m a happy navigator with my lovely new maps. More to the point, how are you?’
‘I’m good.’ She hesitated, wondering how much to tell her mother, before reasoning that Stewart would most likely fill her in on all the details even if she didn’t. Better to bite the bullet. ‘Single, again. But it’s the right thing.’
‘Good.’ Her mum’s reply didn’t miss a beat. ‘I’m sorry we had to leave so quickly, darling. Thing is, your father has a list as long as your arm that he wants us to get through before we fly home.’
‘It’s fine; I know you’ve been dreaming about this trip for years. Where are you now?’
‘Philadelphia. Next is Boston and New England. I suspect he has the historical tour worked out for every place we visit, but that’s what I get for marrying a history lecturer. Are you sure everything is OK?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Because if not I can tell your dad to turn the Winnebago around right now.’
Bea could hear a muffled retort from her father and missed him incredibly. ‘You’re not getting out of Dad’s magical history tour that easily.’
‘Rats. Oh well, you can’t blame a girl for trying. I’ll check in next week, though. That’s if your dad hasn’t bored me off the face of the planet.’
‘She
