The Bookshop on the Corner (A Gingerbread Cafe story) (12 page)

There was no way I was going to talk to Ridge and listen to another pack of lies. Instead, I found my favorite book, one that I’d read so many times, the pages were loose, and started from the beginning. At least books could never let you down. They’d been my refuge, my go-to place in times of need, and nothing had changed. This particular book felt familiar, like an old friend. The characters drew me into their world, and I blocked out mine for the rest of the afternoon.

***

It was after dark when I made my home. The town was empty, the shops shut as I drove past. Arriving home, I was suddenly ravenous; trust my good old appetite to return once the love buzz had diminished. I pulled out a frozen dinner, and shoved it in the microwave. I found my old stuffed teddy bears and threw them back on the couch with various threadbare rugs I’d hidden away. There. It looked more like me again.

The microwave beeped and I flicked the TV on hoping for a soppy chick flick I could watch while I ate. Just as I was opening the microwave there was a pounding on the front door.

“It’s me, Sarah. Open up.”

Ridge.

I faltered for a second; I hadn’t expected him to drive here.

Squaring my shoulders, and taking a deep breath, I moved to the closed door. “What do you want this time, Ridge? Another off-the-record quote?”

“Sarah…”

I closed my eyes against the sound of his voice.

“Let me explain…”

“Was that your plan all along, Ridge?” My voice cracked and I hated myself for it. “String a girl along so you could make fun of the way she speaks, and the small town she’s from? And even worse, her friends who trusted you.”

He sighed. “I wasn’t making fun of you, Sarah, or your friends. Not at all. Can you let me in so we can discuss this?”

I rested my head against the door. I wanted to pretend the article had never happened. His voice, his presence did something to me, but I stood firm.

“No, Ridge. I trusted you and you used me for a stupid article.”

“You know we’re living out the story-book misunderstanding here, don’t you?”

I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn’t see me. “Don’t try to charm me with book talk.”

His Ridge laugh rattled through the door.

“Do you think this is
funny
?” I huffed.

He dropped his voice. “Rosaleen’s out front, so unless you want the whole town to hear you’d better open the door.”

That woman! I did a little angry dance, and shook off the rage before flinging the door open. And there he was. Why did he have to be so downright good-looking? He stepped over the threshold, forcing me to move backwards. His dark hair shone under the moonlight and, like the textbook Harlequin caricature he was, he ran a hand through it. I narrowed my eyes at him. I bet he’d been studying romance books his whole life to make women swoon.

I yelled over his shoulder, “Rosaleen, it’s dark out — you shouldn’t be walking around town alone.”

“I heard a commotion, that’s all,” she said, not moving from my driveway.

I shook my head, and shut the door.

Ridge, the man mountain, stood before me, his eyes shining with that God-damn sparkle that no one else seemed to have. He probably used twinkle-eye drops or something for that effect.

“Did I interrupt dinner?” Ridge said, glancing at my microwave meal that had dried to resemble cardboard.

“What is it you want? Because I have other obligations tonight, Ridge.”

“Like what?”

“Like what what?” I said, slightly forgetful because of the way he smelled. I was really going to miss that.

“What are your obligations?”

“I’m up to book three in a five-part series, and once I commit, I commit, you see. Not like some people.” I raised my eyebrows as high as they could go, and nodded to him.

“You think I don’t commit, when I commit?”

“Can you please stop repeating me? It’s a very archetypal reporter defense, and,
this
time
, I can see straight through it.”

He moved to the couch, and picked up a teddy bear before sitting down. “Cute.”

I snatched the droopy-armed teddy away. “So?”

He stretched his arm across the back of the couch and said, “You didn’t answer my phone calls.”

“Yes, I didn’t want to end up in another article I didn’t give you permission for.” I crossed my arms, and then uncrossed them. I didn’t quite know where to put myself.

“I can explain. And I hope you’ll listen. That wasn’t the article I wrote. My editor changed it last minute. He couldn’t get hold of me — I was out of range covering another story, as you well know — so he used my notes and, as he said, ‘jazzed it up’.”

“Jazzed it up?”

Ridge sighed. “His words.”

I stood up and paced in front of the lounge. “Hang on…he used
your
notes…so you
did
write all those nasty lines about us hicks in Ashford?” I would pay to see his notebook; scratch that, I would probably hide for the rest of my life if I read any more of his vengeful insults.

Ridge pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, he used my notes. But he spun them into something they were not. He took them out of context for the sake of the story. And it’s unforgivable.”

I stopped pacing and sat on a recliner opposite Ridge. “I specifically asked not to be in the article so why did you write notes about me, anyway?”

He looked down, and toyed with the tassel on a cushion before responding. “Because I didn’t want to forget the things you said. I was spellbound, still am. When I’m away I flick back in my notebook and read those passages, and conjure up the memory. What you were wearing, what you did. Those fluttery hands of yours…”

I wanted to believe him but it was all too neat. Like something out of a movie. For once, I wanted real life. Non-fiction.

He gazed at me, his look a mix between remorse and resignation. “Sarah, I’d never chase a girl for a story. I have more integrity than that. I want you to believe me. Your friends who invited me into their home have been hurt by the article, you’re devastated, I’m at a loss what to do, and I want you to know I would never do that, ever.”

He continued: “My version of the article said how in this huge world of ours you can stumble on a little town where nothing changes, and the people are happy with their lot.
Time forgot Ashford because Ashford forgot time
. No one hurries here. Every moment is savored, from having a twenty-minute conversation when you buy a loaf of bread, to shutting up shop two hours late because you got to talking. Don’t you see? I was saying we could all use some of that old-fashioned goodness in our lives. You’re right about New York: it’s a race against time to get everything done. Most of us don’t even
see
a real person when we go through the checkout at a supermarket — we use an automated machine and scan our groceries ourselves.” Ridge stopped and pulled out his phone. “I can show you the attachment I sent to my editor with my article. It has the date and time so you know how I originally intended it to be.” He stood up and handed me the phone.

“I
also
said that I thought I’d found paradise, especially when I locked eyes with the girl from The Bookshop on the Corner. I’d found her, the girl from my dreams, the one who stood in shadows when I slept at night, the girl I knew I would one day find and recognize immediately.”

The staccato rhythm of my heartbeat drummed in my ears as I read Ridge’s article. It was sweet, and made all our eccentricities seem like something to aspire to.

I exhaled all my frustrations. “But, Ridge, the twisted version of the article is still out there for the world to read. I don’t see how I can forgive that.”

He searched my face, before standing close enough to me that I tingled from expectation. “Agreed. I can’t forgive it either. It goes against every moral I have. Every ethic. That’s why I’ve quit, and asked for a retraction otherwise there’ll be a lawsuit from me about using sources that were off the record.” He spoke in a rush, his words hitting me hard.

He quit? The job that inspired him? That made him grow as a person?

I frowned. “You quit? Just like that?”

He folded his arms, and laughed suddenly. “Just like that. And it felt good! I can’t work for someone who does that. And if I lose you because of it, there
will
be hell to pay for that paper, trust me on that.”

I was completely lost for words. I expected Ridge would be upset at leaving a job he loved but he seemed…happy, ecstatic even.

“What will you do now?”

He smiled, the big toothy smile of his. He must get them polished to be so bright. I made a mental note to ask him about his unnaturally white teeth and his sparkly eyes.

“I’ll freelance.
That
, I can do anywhere. And I’ll travel for holidays, instead of for work…”

“I see.”

“Do you?” He cocked his head.

“Yep.”

“So…”

“So, what?” I was buying time to work out how I felt about this new development. In parts I felt guilty that he’d left his job, and worried about his future, but mostly I realized I was relieved the man I loved still loved me. And was prepared to put his career on the line to prove it.

“Talk about a plot twist,” I said, smiling.

“How are we going with the resolution?”

I threw my head back and laughed. Imagine spending a lifetime with someone who got you. So what if I lived in a fictional world ninety-five per cent of the time? He’d just have to meet me there.

“If this
were
a romance novel, and I was the dashing misunderstood hero, and you were the ultra-sexy heroine, what would happen now?” Ridge asked, pulling me into an embrace.

“Depends what genre the novel is,” I said, arching my brow.

“Pretty sure it’s erotic,” he said and winked.

***

Ridge and I held hands as we made our way to the Gingerbread Café the next morning. It was time to explain to the girls. I’d spent some time mulling over what Missy had said about bookmarking my life and realized she was right. It was so much easier to hide behind the covers of my books because there was no chance of being hurt that way. Books were my sanctuary, my escape and a place to dream without judgment or criticism. Maybe Ridge would be
my
happy ever after, and maybe he wouldn’t, but there was simply no way of knowing unless I threw caution to the wind, and lived out a real romance.

“There they are!” CeeCee bellowed, waving us into the café. “So you lovebirds have sorted it out, I see?”

I laughed, and pulled Ridge to a table. “We have. And we’re here to tell you what happened.”

She brushed the comment off. “Never mind that, let me call Missy. She’s been sobbing her little heart out over the fact that you were going to end up a lonely old cat lady. I tried to tell her you don’t—”

Lil walked over and put a hand over CeeCee’s mouth. “Save it for Spacebook, Cee. Morning, you two. You look like you could use a warm drink.” She winked at me and bustled off to make us something delectable.

CeeCee stood in the café doorway and yelled down the street, “Missy, you need to see this!”

Ridge and I held hands under the table and waited for Missy to come click-clacking down the pavement.

She strolled into the café, her mascara leaving black traces under her eyes. “Missy, what is it now?” I asked, jumping up to go to her.

“It’s these damn hormones; even magazine advertisements make me cry! Hi, Ridge,” she said, leaning down to peck him on the cheek, before giving me a tight squeeze. “You sorted it out?” Missy asked between choking sobs.

Ridge smiled. “We did. And I owe you all a huge apology; you see, what happened was—”

CeeCee interrupted. “Ridge, you save your explanations. If Sarah’s happy, we’re happy. We knew it musta been some kind of misunderstandin’.”

My friends sat at the table with us, and started gabbing. CeeCee held up her hand and said, “Wait! Wait! Hush up for a minute.” She closed her eyes, and shrieked, “I seen it!”

Lil shook CeeCee. “Don’t go and scare him off now.”

CeeCee opened her eyes wide. “You going to live in Paris awhile, o’, yes, you are. The two o’ you. Not right now, but soon. ” She slapped the table hard. “And I ain’t never been wrong yet!”

Ridge threw me a questioning glance. I shook my head. I’d tell him all about CeeCee’s second sight later. I melted into Ridge’s shoulder as we listened to CeeCee talk animatedly about our future as if it were mapped out as sure as the stars.

I squeezed Ridge’s hand under the table and when I closed my eyes I could see us strolling down the streets of Paris towards a bookshop that wasn’t my own. I’d nuzzle into Ridge’s arm as he recited poetry in French, the wind carrying the exotic words away before I could grasp their meaning.

Maybe it was time to step out of the shadows of my books, just for a little while, and see where love would take me. Paris, the city of love, seemed a good place to start.

Loved
The Bookshop on the Corner
?

Then turn the page to escape back to Ashford in

Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

Chapter One

Amazing Grace
blares out from the speakers above me, and I cry, not delicate, pretty tears, but great big heaves that will puff up my eyes, like a blowfish. That song touches me, always has, always will. With one hand jammed well and truly up the turkey’s behind I sing those mellifluous words as if I’m preaching to a choir. Careful, so my tears don’t swamp the damn bird, I grab another handful of aromatic stuffing. My secret recipe: a mix of pork sausage, pecans, cranberries and crumbled corn bread. Punchy flavors that will seep into the flesh and make your heart sing. The song reaches its crescendo, and my tears turn into a fully-fledged blubber-fest. The doorbell jangles and I realize I can’t wipe my face with my messy hands. Frantic, I try and compose myself as best I can.

“Jesus Mother o’ Mary, ain’t no customers comin’ in here with this kinda carry-on! It’s been two years since that damn fool left you. When you gonna move on, my sweet cherry blossom?”

CeeCee. My only employee at the Gingerbread Café, a big, round, southern black woman, who tells it like it is. Older than me by a couple of decades, more like a second mother than anything. Bless her heart.