When Bing Crosby starts crooning “Winter Wonderland” through the speakers, I can’t help smiling.
I really do love Christmas—always have. And I’ve been thinking that moving to the mountains in December when it’s about to snow really is the perfect backdrop to start the next chapter in my life.
Sure, some of my friends might tease me for being a little too optimistic from time to time. But I reallywilldo whatever it takes to make the bookshop a success. I’m going to turn the lemons life handed me into a delicious lemon drizzle cake.
Houses begin to appear between the trees here and there just as the pink of twilight deepens into the velvet blue of night. And when I reach the foot of the mountain in full darkness, I’m reassured by the shimmer of streetlights and then the glow of storefronts as I get closer.
As I follow the signs and turn onto Celestial Lane, I can see now that this place isn’t such a ghost town after all. It might be small, but it looksnice.
There are twinkling lights and holiday decorations on almost every storefront, and some of the shops actually look interesting. There’s a knitting store, some kind of museum, an old-timey candy shop, a thrift store, and a couple of fancy boutique looking shops. Maybe the people in this town really will be interested in having their bookshop reopen.
Even though it’s late and a lot of the stores don’t seem to be open anymore, there’s a trickle of shoppers heading to their cars, and even a young couple walking hand in hand down the street, maybe heading to one of the restaurants. It’s as picturesque and romantic as something out of the Christmas movies Mom and I used to watch, and I feel my heart getting lighter and lighter as I drive.
I’m humming along with “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” on the radio when I spot the jewelry store that’s supposed to be next to the bookshop, and pull up in front.
I park carefully, then grab my suitcase. It’s good that I didn’t have much space in my New York apartment. Packing up took no time at all, and the bag fit in the MG, which isn’t really great when it comes to cargo space.
As I step onto the sidewalk, I notice a small, round woman in a green woolen coat hurrying in my direction.She has long, curly gray hair, a pair of dark-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose, and an enormous pocketbook slung over one shoulder. A faint jingling sound accompanies her movements.
“Taylor Greer?” she asks, peering at me over the glasses.
“That’s me,” I say, realizing who this must be. “Mrs. Perkins?”
“Guilty as charged,” the property manager replies with a merry little smile. “I hope your trip was okay?”
She asks the question in a hurried way that tells me she’s cold and wants to get inside.
“Yes,” I say. “Thanks.”
“That’s nice,” she replies automatically. She seems to be mostly concentrating on fiddling with a set of keys.
It’s only as she applies one to the lock that I think to look up at the bookshop.
Even in the dark, I can see that it has character. The huge plate glass windows have wood panels below that look almost like wainscoting. Smaller, mullioned windows above the big panes add some old-fashioned charm.
The bookcases visible from out here are pretty plain looking though. And a single strand of white Christmas lights is strung across the front of the building, as if in a half-hearted nod to the lavishly decorated shops all around it.
Well, almost all around. This is mostly a block of attached stores, but the bookshop is only attached on one side. On the other is a grassy lawn that looks like it’s being used as a Christmas tree lot. Oddly, it’s the only spot on the whole block with no decorations at all, just rows of trees and a hand-painted sign that saysClosed.
As if there could be any doubt with the space completely empty and a chain hanging across the front.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Mrs. Perkins mutters to herself as she tries what must be the fourth or fifth key on the ring.
“Should we call the owner?” I offer.
“No,” she says right away, turning to make eye contact. “Youneverwant to call the owner.”
She turns back to her work, leaving me to blink at the back of her head and try to decide how freaked out I should be. Aunt Jessie told me that the owner was local. If he or she isn’t friendly, that could be uncomfortable.
“Here we go,” she says, with obvious relief.
“Why should I never call the owner?” I ask.
Mrs. Perkins peers worriedly around the street, as if spies for the owner might be crouching behind the parked cars or the potted arborvitae that flank the bookshop doors.
“It’s cold out here,” she says. “We can talk inside.”
But when she opens the door and flicks on thelights, I’m too distracted to remember what I was worried about.
