After Maya left, an awkward silence fell between them. Emery busied herself arranging the books she'd brought out, while Eveline pretended to be deeply interested in the shop's ledger.
“So,” Emery finally said, “I noticed you've been looking through the romance section lately.”
Eveline glanced up, caught off-guard. “Just familiarizing myself with the inventory.”
“Hmm.” Emery sniffed. “And, um, what did you think? About the Emerald Pearl book? You know, for book club.”
“It’s…” Eveline searched for a suitably dismissive term, but found herself hesitating. The truth was, she'd found herself unexpectedly drawn into the story. “It wasn’t entirely without merit,” she admitted reluctantly.
Emery's face lit up with such genuine pleasure that Eveline felt momentarily disarmed.
“Really? I thought you hated romance novels?”
“I do,” Eveline said quickly. “They're unrealistic and formulaic. No one falls in love that quickly, or that completely. It's all a fantasy.”
“What's wrong with fantasy?” Emery challenged.
Eveline sighed. “These books make people believe in a kind of love that simply doesn't exist.”
“You sound like you're speaking from experience,” Emery said.
The observation hit too close to home. Eveline turned away, busying herself with straightening books that were already perfectly aligned.
“My point is,” she said, more sharply than she'd intended, “romance novels are nothing but silly fantasies. They have nothing to do with real life or real love.” She could feel Emery watching her.
“Maybe sometimes we need fantasy,” Emery said, her voice soft. “Reality can be hard enough.”
Eveline looked up, surprised by the hint of sadness in Emery's tone. For a moment, they simply gazed at each other.
Then the shop bell jingled as a customer entered, breaking the spell.
Chapter Eleven
Emery tucked herself away in a quiet corner of the bookshop, laptop balanced on her knees as her fingers flew across the keyboard. Tuesday afternoon was always quiet, and she'd found herself with a rare moment of peace while Eveline was on the phone with a supplier.
It wasn't exactly professional to be working on her manuscript during shop hours, but the words were flowing so effortlessly that Emery couldn't bear to stop. Ever since she'd started at The Turned Page, her writer's block had vanished completely, replaced by an almost manic inspiration.
“The light in her eyes dimmed as she turned away, the weight of past betrayals heavy on her shoulders,” Emery murmured as she typed, too absorbed in her work to notice soft footsteps approaching.
“Sounds rather melancholy for such a lovely afternoon.”
Emery jumped, nearly sending her laptop crashing to the floor. She managed to catch it at the last second, her heart pounding as she looked up to find Abe standing before her, leaning on his cane with an amused expression.
“Abe! I didn't hear you come in.” She hastily saved her document and closed the laptop. “I was just… um…”
“Writing,” he supplied helpfully.
Emery felt her cheeks flush. “Just messing around with some ideas. Nothing serious.”
“Mmm.” The old man's eyes creased knowingly. “The way your face lights up when you write suggests otherwise, my dear.”
He lowered himself carefully into the armchair opposite her with a slight groan. Emery moved to help him, but he waved her away with a smile.
“I may be old, but I'm not helpless quite yet,” he chuckled. Once settled, he gestured toward her laptop. “You know, I used to write myself, many years ago.”
“Really?” Emery asked, grateful for the change of subject. “What did you write?”
“Poetry, mostly.” A wistful smile crossed his face. “For my Agnes. One poem every anniversary, without fail, for fifty-two years.”
