She pushed open the door and immediately sensed that something was wrong. A musty smell hung in the air, and when she flipped on the lights, she let out a string of French curses that would have made her grandmother reach for the soap.
Water.
Everywhere.
A steady drop fell from the ceiling near the rare book section, forming a puddle that had already claimed several volumes of what appeared to be first editions.
“Putain,” she swore, rushing forward and carefully lifting the sodden books. Her dark eyes flashed with anger as she assessed the damage. Some of these were irreplaceable. An early Austen, a signed Dickens, and a 1920s poetry collection that she’d spent three years tracking down.
She set the damaged books on the counter and grabbed her phone, dialing the plumber with one hand while pulling buckets from a store cupboard with the other. “Monsieur Chapman,” she snapped when he answered. “There is water coming through my ceiling. Again. I thought you said that it was now repaired.”
As she listened to his excuses, she swept up her long, dark hair into a messy knot and secured it with a pencil from the counter. The man was utterly useless, and yet he was the only plumber she knew, it would take weeks to get anyone else to come out. She sighed and agreed to an appointment that evening when the shop would be closed.
She was still arranging buckets when the bell above the door jingled, announcing her first customer of the day, right on schedule, as he’d been for the last seven years.
“Morning, Miss Fontaine,” Abe called out, his wrinkled face breaking into a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Spot of trouble?” He gestured toward the buckets with his cane.
“Good morning, Abe,” Eveline replied, voice warming slightly. “Just the usual. Old pipes in an old building.”
“And a plumber willing to take you for a ride, I’ll bet.”
“Something like that,” she said, straightening up from positioning the last bucket and smoothing out her skirt. “Tea?”
“Wouldn’t say no, love.” Abe settled into his usual armchair by the window, the one Eveline kept specifically for him, though she’d never admit it. “Got any of those nice biscuits? The ones with the chocolate?”
Eveline rolled her eyes, but headed to the small kitchenette behind the counter. “One day, your doctor will scold me for enabling your sugar addiction.”
“I’m eighty-four,” Abe chuckled. “If sugar was going to kill me, it’s taking its own sweet time about it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “I’ve got something for you to order.”
Eveline returned with the tea tray, setting it on the small table next to him. “Let me guess, a thriller about a retired detective solving crimes in a quaint English village that somehow, illogically, becomes the murder capital of the country.”
“Not at all,” Abe said, his eyes twinkling as he handed her a newspaper clipping. “I read this review of an Emerald Pearl book.When a Bride Meets a Groom. Sounds like just the ticket for some light reading.”
Eveline’s face fell as she took the article, holding it between two fingers as if it might contaminate her. “A romance novel? Really, Abe? I thought you had better taste.”
“Don’t be such a snob,” he retorted, helping himself to a biscuit. “Just because they’ve got happy endings doesn’t mean they’re rubbish.”
“They are the literary equivalent of cotton candy,” said Eveline. “All sugar, no substance, and they rot your brain.”
“We call it candy floss over here,” said Abe. “And it rots your teeth, not your brain. Besides, my Agnes loved a good romance novel. Said they reminded her of why we fell in love in the first place.”
Eveline sighed. She knew better than to disparage anything connected to Abe’s late wife. She might have a heart of stone at times, but it turned to cotton wool where Abe was concerned. “Fine. I’ll order it. Just don’t expect me to read it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Abe said with a satisfied smile.
The bell jingled again, and this time a large woman bustled in, a basket over her arm. The smell of fresh pastries immediately cut through the scent of damp books.
“Morning, all,” Maya said cheerfully. Her graying hair was escaping from its bun, giving her a windswept look. “I brought croissants. Well, the ones that didn’t get as curvy as I’d like. Oh dear, is that water?” She frowned at the buckets.
“Leak still not fixed properly,” Eveline said, accepting the basket gratefully. “And you’re an angel, I swear, these are almost as good as French ones.”
“Nonsense,” said Maya, but she blushed. Then she caught sight of the article on the shop counter. “Ooo, who’s reading Emerald Pearl? Her last one had me in tears.”
Eveline’s nostrils flared. “Not you too.”
“Eveline, my love,” Maya patted her arm, leaving a trace of flour on Eveline’s shirt sleeve. “You need some romance in your life. A nice man, or woman, or whatever you prefer.”
“I do not need romance,” said Eveline, brushing the flour away. “What I need is a reliable plumber. And customers who buy actual literature.”
