Paper Hearts (8 page)

T
HE DAY
J
ACOB CLOSED ON
the building, he immediately ramped up his work on the interior. He started on the bathrooms, which desperately needed updating, and was thankful for the distraction of faulty pipes and old toilets.

He dragged a full garbage can out to the back alley, surprised to find Abigail closing the lid of the Dumpster. His wave was met with an icy stare. She quickly disappeared inside the back door of The Book Nook.

He deserved that.

After the way Kelly had dropped that bomb on her, he deserved worse. How he could simply stand by while the shark ate the helpless minnow, he had no idea. Not his finest hour.

But that didn’t change the fact that he needed to get his practice off the ground. He had every right to open a medical office in Old Town Loves Park. In fact, he was convinced people would be grateful one day.

Today was not that day, however.

He shut the door behind him and moved toward the center of his empty building, plans for his renovation spread out across the counter.

As he stood in the center of the space, Jacob wondered if his relationship with his tenant could be salvaged. He glanced down at the plans. He had to admit the possibilities excited him. He hadn’t been this excited about anything in a long time, and while he hadn’t quite gotten over his ambivalence toward practicing medicine, throwing himself into this project might prove to be exactly what he needed.

Besides, what other option did he have? He had a little girl to consider. And maybe
he
didn’t deserve to be happy, but she certainly did.

Jacob could appreciate Abigail’s predicament, and he knew it was unlikely he’d ever earn her forgiveness. But his life with Junie was what mattered now.

Outside, a group of five women lingered on the sidewalk in front of The Book Nook. They stood for a few long moments, talking about who knew what. Then, in unison, all turned toward his building.

Jacob wasn’t a good lip-reader, and he certainly wouldn’t pretend he had any idea what women talked about among themselves. But if he had to guess, in this case he’d say it had something to do with him
 
—and none of them looked happy.

Four of the ladies went inside Abigail’s store, but one of them, a tall elderly woman with a scowl on her weathered face and at least five necklaces hanging down past her scarf, headed straight for his front door. Surely she couldn’t see that he was inside, could she?

She pressed her face to the window, then pounded on the frosted glass.

Who did this lady think she was?

Filled with dread, Jacob opened the front door. “Ma’am?”

The woman squinted at him. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“I wasn’t going to, no.”

She leaned in a bit closer
 
—too close
 
—until Jacob took a step back and let her pass. He shut the door behind her, but not before he thought about running down the street.

“Do you know who I am?” The woman moved to face him, still staring at him through narrow eyes.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t.”

“Hm.” One sharp nod and the woman turned away, lips pursed with disapproval. “My husband is the reason you’re standing here today.”

Jacob leaned against the large wooden counter. “Oh? And have I ever met him?”

The woman picked up the end of her nappy gray scarf and tossed it over her shoulder. “Don’t get smart with me, Doctor.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He ran a hand over his whiskered chin as the woman took a step nearer.

“What are your plans for this place?” she asked.

“I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

“I don’t take well to a smart aleck, and I can see you’ve got smart aleck written all over you.”

“No offense, but I don’t take well to strangers barging into my building and asking me a bunch of questions before they’ve even told me their name.”

“Ursula Pembrooke.”

“Ursula.”

“You can call me Mrs. Pembrooke.”

Jacob thought better of responding.

“What possessed you to buy this building anyway? It’s old with leaky pipes and a bad heating system.” The old woman dropped her oversize purse on the counter and started rummaging through
it. When he didn’t respond, she peered at him from underneath a raised brow. “Well?”

“I thought it was a good investment. It’s got that small-town charm everyone loves so much.”

“Right, because charm is what I look for when I’m sick.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Pembrooke?”

After a few long seconds, the woman broke her stare. “How much?”

“Excuse me?”

She’d pulled out her checkbook and a pen and now stared at him. “I know what you paid for it. What will you sell it for?”

Jacob’s pulse quickened at the
click-click-click
of her pen. He frowned. “I’m not going to sell it for anything, ma’am. I’m going to renovate it and open up a new medical practice.”

“Doc, you’re new in town, so it’s not likely you know how things work around here. There’s the locals and there’s the tourists. Which are you?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“You’re neither. You aren’t local and you aren’t just passing through. And this town doesn’t take well to strangers, if you get my drift.”

As much as he appreciated the Loves Park history lesson,
he
didn’t take well to being threatened. “I’m not sure what you’re after.”

“I’m offering to take this building off your hands. Name your price.”

All at once, his attempt at rebuilding a broken life felt like a huge mistake. Kelly had convinced him this was the perfect location to start over. Only two hours from Denver, which was where he and Junie had lived, Loves Park wasn’t too far away. And she’d done her research and claimed he’d have a built-in clientele before he even opened. He didn’t realize the town’s ridiculous infatuation
with love
 
—something a grieving widower would just as soon forget
 
—would get under his skin the way it was starting to.

What difference did that make, though? Jacob couldn’t uproot Junie again, not so soon after moving here, not after everything they’d been through. He had to make this work. He couldn’t sell to Ursula Pembrooke even if he wanted to.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pembrooke,” Jacob said. “I’m not selling it.”

“You’d be crazy not to sell. You can take the money you make on this building and find another one.”

“What’s so special about this building?”

The old woman scoffed. “That’s my business.”

Now he regarded her more closely. “Did someone put you up to this?” His thoughts turned to a feisty brunette.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I never do anything out of the goodness of my heart.”

Now that he believed.

“How much?”

Jacob shook his head.

“Everyone has a price.”

“Not everything is about money, ma’am.”

She scoffed again, then met his eyes. “Oh, you’re serious?”

Junie’s face flashed through his mind. He could never put a price on a normal life for her. He owed her that. And he’d already worked too hard to find this place
 
—he couldn’t just let it go.

Ursula Pembrooke waved her checkbook in his face. “Last chance, Doc. This offer expires in ten seconds.”

“Don’t need the full ten,” Jacob said. “You can put it away.”

She glared at him. “Is this about your girlfriend?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “What girlfriend?”

“The mean one with the slick black suit. You’re doing this for her, right?”

They thought Kelly was his girlfriend? “If our business is done now, Mrs. Pembrooke . . .” He moved toward the door. “Thanks
for stopping by.” He opened the door and waited until she finally shoved her checkbook back into her bag.

“You’re making a huge mistake,” she said as she left.

He watched her trudge over to The Book Nook, where he imagined she’d meet with the woman who put her up to this in the first place.

Abigail Pressman might have seemed sweet as sugar on the surface, but Jacob had the distinct impression there was a fiery side to her that would do anything to get him out of this building
 
—even solicit the help of crazy rich women.

He didn’t know whether to be angry or impressed, but he did know that he likely had a battle in front of him. And he wouldn’t stop until he’d made a new life for himself and his daughter.

Even if it meant that Abigail Pressman and her little bookstore were collateral damage.

A
BIGAIL STILL HADN’T PAINTED
the armoire waiting in her workshop.

She’d left Gigi’s house the night of the meeting with a new stack of envelopes
 
—those that didn’t necessarily need a response.

“You can’t mess anything up with these,” Tess said, handing her the box. “Be as clumsy as you want.”

Abigail stared at the hodgepodge of envelopes in the box, none of them opened. “What are these?”

“Sometimes people get confused,” Doris said. “It happens to the best of us.”

“We get all kinds of letters,” Ursula said, ignoring Doris. “Like kids writing letters to Santa, only they’re usually really depressing and whiny.” She sized up Abigail from behind her reading glasses. “You’ll probably love them.”

Judging by Ursula’s tone, that wasn’t a compliment.

“What do you want me to do with them?” Abigail riffled through the envelopes. The handwritten addresses on the fronts
had gotten them delivered to the Valentine Volunteers, though she couldn’t quite understand how. Most were addressed to the Loves Park postmaster. Many of them had no return addresses.

“Read them. See if anyone is in immediate danger. Report back.” Gigi had moved them all into the kitchen, where they now stood around her island.

Ursula continued to scarf down cookies while they stood there sorting through Abigail’s new assignment.

“That’s it?”

“Sometimes we’re the only people who ever know how the authors of these letters are really feeling,” Gigi said.

“We could prevent a suicide. Or
 
—” Doris’s eyes widened
 
—“a murder.”

“Have you ever prevented a suicide or a murder by reading these letters?” Abigail asked, flipping through a couple of nondescript envelopes.

Doris pressed her lips together. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“We respond to the ones with return addresses,” Gigi explained. “Those people would only put their addresses if they wanted a response.”

“So you want me to write back to these people?” Abigail would rather stamp gold-embossed wedding invitations, which said something about how much she dreaded this task since she’d prefer to have twenty-eight cavities at the same time than stamp gold-embossed wedding invitations.

“You can do it, dear. You own a bookstore.” Gigi smiled as if what she’d just said made sense. “Besides, it’s in your blood.”

And there it was again. Her legacy of romance
 
—the one she’d been trying to escape for most of her adult life. Ever since Jeremy. Or if she was honest, since her early teens when her father ran off, leaving his family on their own and The Book Nook in the hands of a manager.

Abigail had stuffed the box in her bag and dragged it around with her ever since, but she’d yet to open it up.

Tonight, she told herself. Furniture painting and loads of depressing love letters.

What could be better?

Abigail stood behind the counter, purposefully ignoring the Valentine Volunteers, most of whom had overtaken the big table in the back as usual. Whatever “business” they had to tend to, they certainly did take it seriously. They chattered away, with the exception of Evelyn, who appeared to be lost in her own world.

Sometimes Abigail wondered what went on in Evelyn Brandt’s head. She always seemed preoccupied, as though she had a pile of other thoughts on her mind. Though Evelyn had given up painting years ago, Abigail wondered if she still saw visions of objects coming together on canvas.

There had to be a reason for the absent look in her eyes.

The door swung open and Ursula stormed in, the last to arrive. She took one look at Abigail and practically growled, “That man is a real piece of work.”

Abigail moved out from behind the counter and followed Ursula to the big table. Ursula dropped her huge bag on the table and turned to Abigail. “You’ve got your work cut out for you with that one.”

“What are you talking about?” What had Ursula done? Abigail’s heart felt like it was being gripped in a vise.

“The doctor. I went to see him. Made him an offer.”

“An offer for what?”

“The building, you ninny.” Ursula practically spat the words into Abigail’s face.

“I take it he didn’t go for it.”

“Turned me down flat. Stupid man. He doesn’t know who he’s messing with.”

Abigail joined the others in staring at Ursula, who must be
unaccustomed to not getting her way. She decided it wasn’t the best time to remind the old woman to fight or die.

“I appreciate you trying to help me, Ursula.”

“I didn’t do it for you.” She plunked herself down on one of the seats. “I’m so bored my eyes are crossing. That man hasn’t seen the last of Ursula Pembrooke.”

Abigail sat down. “I think we should just let it go.”

Ursula leaned in, that same disgusted expression on her face. “Fight or die, Pressman.”

She heard Doris let out a quiet “Oh, my.”

“What else can be done?” Abigail asked. “He bought the building fair and square. With cash.”

Ursula’s bushy eyebrows drew together in one pronounced line. “Is that right? Well, Mr. Buy-It-in-Cash has met his match. Frankie taught me well. I’ll find a way to get us this building fair and square. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll find a way to get it not so fair and square.”

“Abigail, maybe you should go. I want to be sure you have plausible deniability.” Gigi shot Ursula a look, but the other woman seemed unfazed.

Abigail stood. “I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine. They said I had at least another year. Plenty of time to figure out a plan B.”

Even as she said the words, Abigail’s stomach turned. She supposed she could start looking for a new space. Or close the shop altogether, regardless of the hours she’d poured into it.

How this stranger could waltz in and destroy her livelihood without a second thought, she’d never understand. She’d never met anyone so heartless.

As these thoughts entered her mind, she caught a glimpse of Dr. Jacob Willoughby out back, hauling garbage. He’d obviously wasted no time making that space his own. She’d already run into him at the Dumpster once. She’d have to get Aaron to take the garbage out from now on.

Panic shot through her mind, spinning her stomach in a loop-the-loop. How long until he brought up Abigail’s rental agreement? Was her lease even valid anymore? She had the distinct impression Jacob’s girlfriend wanted her out sooner rather than later. He could put her out tomorrow if he wanted to. At least, Abigail assumed he could. She needed a lawyer. But how could she afford that?

She returned to the counter, where Mallory stood shaking her head.

“What?”

“I hope you aren’t listening to those women,” she said. “That good-looking doctor is a man. Make him like you and he won’t evict you. Better yet, make him fall in love with you and he’ll
give
you the building.”

Her manager winked and walked away, but her words lingered. She’d said it like it was the simplest idea in the world.
“Make him like you.”
But Abigail had never been very good at making anyone like her
 
—especially not men.

No, she was better at hiding in the background.

“In order to make him like me, I’d have to spend time with him,” Abigail said, following Mallory to the other side of the store.

Mallory shot her a look. “Duh.”

“Not gonna happen.” Abigail walked away. As she passed by the table of Valentine Volunteers, she overheard one of them say, “What if we
accidentally
broke things on this side of the building? Leaky pipes. Bad plumbing. The cost of repairs could sink the good doctor.”

Abigail made a beeline for her office. Too many opinions had her head spinning. Ursula was right about one thing, though. She couldn’t keep feeling sorry for herself. She had to do something to save the business her father had given to her care.

But what?

She sat in the quiet office for several long moments, relishing
the silence and wishing for more of it. Life was too loud right now. Made it nearly impossible to daydream, let alone make any actual plans. And when it came to hearing God
 
—forget about it.

The noise had a way of drowning out the still, small voice Abigail used to know how to hear.

Fight or die.

What did that even mean? Abigail wasn’t the type to wage war on other human beings. It wasn’t in her nature. Maybe her mother was right
 
—this business was just a way to pass the time until she found a husband.

But with no prospects and another birthday just around the corner, she had to make the most of what she had. She had to fight.

The witch’s theme from
The Wizard of Oz
rang out from her phone. Abigail groaned and shut the door. When Abigail’s brother, Justin, set her phone to play this ringtone whenever Teensy called, their mother was not amused. Justin would do anything for a laugh. That was just his way. He’d be content with his current lifestyle
 
—living on a beach and renting surfboards to tourists
 
—regardless of whether it paid the bills.

Oh, to be that relaxed.

It tormented their mother to have a son as smart and handsome as Justin who seemed to have no goals or aspirations. Justin always told her he’d grow up “later.”

But here he was, twenty-seven years old, and “later” still hadn’t come.

The ringtone persisted. The memory of her brother’s musical prank might have made Abigail laugh if it didn’t mean her mother was waiting to talk to her right now. She gritted her teeth and took the call.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Can you pick up some rolls on your way to dinner?”

“Dinner?” If horror had a sound, Abigail’s voice had just found it.

“You forgot.” A statement. Not a question.

“I didn’t
 
—” Abigail braced herself for Teensy’s martyr persona, her mind trying to locate the precise moment she’d agreed to have dinner with her mother.

“Of course you forgot. You’re so busy being a
business owner
.” The way she hung on the words twisted something in Abigail’s stomach. “Your sister is coming. She has news.”

“What kind of news?” Abigail propped her elbows on the desk, her thoughts turning to Betsy. The youngest of the three Pressman kids, Betsy had settled in Boulder after college, though
settled
might not have been the best word to describe her little sister. Everything about Betsy was laid-back and carefree
 
—like a gypsy, and most certainly not like Abigail.

How had she become the lone responsible one of the family? Or maybe a better question would be
why
she had become the lone responsible one. Didn’t Justin or Betsy feel the pressure to do something great with their lives? To be more than their parents were?

Or was that feeling relegated to Abigail?

But if Betsy was in town, Abigail supposed she had to go to dinner. It had been a while since they’d seen each other.

“She said it was a surprise,” Teensy replied. “Hopefully she’s not starting a business too. See you at six.”

Her mother hung up before Abigail could protest. Or think of a reason to say no. Or pack her bags and drive far away.

Ugh.

What news could Betsy possibly have to share? Last time Abigail talked to her sister, she was considering some marine biology expedition in Florida. It’s what she’d done since graduating college
 
—flit from thing to thing like a bumblebee in a box of daisies. Why their mother had no problem with that, Abigail would never know, but she had to admit Betsy had a lot more vision than appearances indicated. It was unfair, though
 
—if Teensy was
disappointed in her business owner daughter, how could she not have a heart attack over her swimming-with-sharks daughter?