The Weeping Books of Blinney Lane by Drea Damara (Blinney Lane #1)

ALSO BY DREA DAMARA BLINNEY LANE Beyond Farwin Wood

THE TRINITY MISSIONS Chasing Vengeance No Death for the Wicked

Editor: David M. Johnson

the weeping books of blinney lane Copyright Š 2018 Drea Damara All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Indigo an imprint of BHC Press

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018930078 ISBN: 978-1-947727-29-8 Visit the publisher:

www.bhcpress.com Also available in hardcover (978-1-947727-28-1) and ebook

CHAPTER

ONE

O

F ALL the comforting objects in this world, few things are as reassuring and accepting as books. Books keep and reciprocate our secrets, dreams, regrets, and hopes better than any friend in the world. Sarah Allister took comfort in this thought as she walked past the shelves in her bookstore. They were full of countless stories she knew by heart. When she passed by the books she had read, they would remind her of what had been happening in her life at the time, as well as the people who had been there. Living alone wasn’t lonely when you were surrounded by that much history.

Sarah settled into the stool behind the old mahogany store counter and leaned back against its upholstered cushion. Glancing across the showroom floor, she surveyed the customers. They were a mix of regulars and Salem tourists—all of which appeared content. She enjoyed quiet mornings like this in her store on Blinney Lane. It gave her time to catch up on paperwork and sift through the plethora of mail.

Bill. Bill. Junk. Membership renewal. Sarah tossed the unwanted envelopes into an old wooden milk crate on the floor that served as her recycling bin. She turned her stool and tucked the bills into the nar11

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row banker slots of the antique bureau behind her. As she swiveled back around, she noticed movement beyond the letters of her shop window.

From the back of the painted burgundy-outlined cream letters of Allister’s Books, she spotted Francis Doltman hurrying across the cobblestone street of Blinney Lane from her own shop. Francis, or “Franci” as all the shop owners on Blinney Lane called her, wore one of her long, high-necked black dresses that were her usual attire. The spindly woman looked the same as every other day Sarah had seen her since their childhood—a tightly bound bun of charcoal-colored hair atop her head.

Franci brought her coffee every morning before their stores got too busy, for as long as she could remember. The sight of Franci racing on tiptoe with two cups in her hands should be a dull replay to Sarah, but it made her chuckle. Her friend’s tall, slim stature and arms held high with a container in each hand made her look like one of the old-fashioned lampposts that lined Blinney Lane.

Sarah got to the door just as Franci bounded up the two stone steps to Allister’s. The shop bells jangled as she pulled the heavy door open for Franci and smiled at her dear old friend.

“Good moooorning!” Franci called. Her high-pitched voice was like a bird’s at an unwanted hour. “Fresh from the pot!”

“What have we got today, Franci?” Sarah sniffed the steam rising from the coffee cup Franci handed to her, as she returned to her stool.

Franci leaned against the edge of the counter, beaming through her thin lips, and peered at her over her round bifocals. Franci prided herself on her brew-making skills and played an undeclared guessing game with her each morning.

Sarah let the steam from her cup waft under her nose once more and noticed several of her customers gawking curiously at Franci. She could be an old schoolmarm or librarian, Sarah mused. No. Franci was too cheerful to be a schoolmarm. Librarian, Sarah thought as she watched Franci’s anticipation grow. That didn’t seem appropriate either, since she was the one who dealt with books, not Franci.

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Franci ran Spices and Stems across the street, specializing in herbs and flowers that she grew herself in a greenhouse behind her shop.

She made a variety of tonics and brews that were either medicinal or mood inspiring, especially her teas and coffees. Sarah had often been her guinea pig for such concoctions over the years. Even after a few days bout of paralysis several years prior from a “bad batch,” as Franci had called it, she still looked forward to being her friend’s secret taste tester each morning. When it appeared Franci was about to burst, Sarah finally took a sip of her coffee.

“I’ve got it. Cinnamon, clove, and something else.”

“Lavender and, yes, a little something else.” Franci smiled like she had a secret.

Sarah raised a brow and pursed her lips. “Okay. What’s the deal? I know your premonitions for this mix and please don’t tell me it’s Blinney’s lavender,” she said, referring to the special qualities of the lavender that grew on Blinney Lane.

Franci gave an innocent shrug and simply said, “It’s Monday.”

“Just like it is every day after Sunday…”

Franci made an exasperated noise and gestured to the window. “I saw Henry Teager down the street making his deliveries.” Sarah gritted her teeth and rolled her eyes, as Franci jabbered on. “Have you noticed how he always wears uniform pants on Mondays but then if he makes another delivery later in the week he wears blue jeans? Seems to get more casual as the week goes on—” “Mm-hmm,” Sarah muttered unenthused. She began to flip through her mail again. Her territorial bubble was squeezed when she felt Franci lean on the counter, resting her chin to a fist.

“—It’s like he’s saying he’s ready to let loose the closer it gets to the end of the week, when our true selves come out. I can’t decide what I like better, though: the uniform slacks or the jeans. The gray slacks are so tight in the buttocks because he wears a belt and it sort of cinches everything up, you know? The jeans, though, kind of rumple up in the front. Always makes me wonder just how much is going on down there.”

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Sarah was intoxicated by the inviting scent of the coffee and, as she raised the cup to her lips, breathed in the steam. Publishers Clearing House. Electric bill. She took another sip to involve herself in something other than Franci’s Henry-monologue, but she felt a flutter in her stomach when Franci mentioned Henry’s butt.

Sarah imagined Henry strolling down Blinney Lane, pushing his hand truck full of heavy boxes—his tanned biceps trying to breathe under the restraint of his polo shirt’s elastic sleeves; solid thighs effortlessly guiding the hefty load closer and closer to her shop door. Suddenly, she was sure her pale skin matched the hue of auburn in her hair. Damn it!

“Franci! Really? Come on! He’s not a piece of meat!”

A young couple looked over at them, and she couldn’t miss the sound of their giggling. Her cheeks grew hotter as she pinned her eyes on Franci, who remained unabashed where she rested her elbows on the counter.

Sarah lowered her voice and said, “Why do you always do this? Is this what the lavender was for? Damn it!” She turned and spat some coffee-flavored saliva into the garbage can, then slammed her coffee cup down on the counter, releasing her grip on it like it was on fire.

She eased back against her chair, gazed out the window, and folded her arms across her chest. Her hands detected moisture that had seeped through her thin blouse under her arms. A dull burning began to dwell at the base of her sternum and she pressed her shirt inward between her breasts to apply pressure to the pain. “Ugh, I think you gave me heartburn,” she groaned. “What was this one supposed to do? Encourage hot-bloodedness?”

“Oh, come on, Sarah. It’s powerful stuff, but coffee or not, you can’t deny the pull toward a man like Henry Teager. You two have danced around each other like school children for years,” Franci added matter-of-factly and laid a knowing stare on her.

Sarah rubbed at the discomfort in her chest and sighed. “Franci, nothing changes here in our little part of the world. We both know that.

I’m not going to insult years of friendship by denying that there’s…”

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“Yes?” “Okay! Some kind of pull, but you and I both know it’s not that.

It’s just that I…choose to ignore it. I have to ignore it. And we both know why,” Sarah said firmly.

Franci’s mood crumpled like a paper doll. She picked at the plastic lid of her coffee cup in silence, muttering dejectedly, “A girl can dream, can’t she?”

Sarah fought back a laugh, shaking her head. If ever a bubble had burst. Poor, Franci. The woman seemed to live vicariously through her and this obsession that she should end up with Henry Teager. In some ways it was flattering, but for the most part, it was just sad.

Franci was thirty-eight and had lived her whole life with her widowed mother above their shop. Sarah pitied her plain yet hot-blooded friend more than most of the other shop owners on Blinney Lane. They were all trapped there by the same curse with only each other to keep them company. Anyone of them looking for love was like a spider, waiting in its web for someone to venture down the dead-end street that held them all hostage.

Sarah had never “built a web.” She’d had enough of a run-in with love to last her a lifetime. Franci, however, was a very hungry spider, but to her disadvantage, she was an awkward, plain, old-fashioned looking spider. And those kinds of spiders didn’t turn many heads. To her credit, anything Franci lacked in beauty she made up for in compassion toward others. Her friend mostly fed her aching heart with the passing smiles and occasional compliments from the nerdier male tourists who happened through Spices and Stems and found her quirkiness appealing.

Sarah was grateful she didn’t long for companionship, lust, love, or whatever it was that Franci so desperately wanted. Sarah was only two years her junior, but she never thought of herself as a doomed spinster.

She was perfectly content with her solitary lot in life. Content except for the occasions when Franci vocalized her observations about Henry Teager. In spite of having to ignore Henry’s charm, kindness, and abundant sexuality, as she would never be able to divulge the secrets of Blin15

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ney Lane to him, she had other reasons to deny the annoying pull she felt to him.

She had loved once in her life, maybe twice. The last time, she’d fallen for a handsome customer who loved books as much as she did, but as time passed, he grew less and less patient with her refusal to wander very far from Blinney Lane. She hadn’t been able to muster telling him why she couldn’t take vacations or go out for dinner more than three blocks away from her shop. He would have thought she was insane if she had, and he would have gone insane if she’d actually shown him proof as to why.

And the first time she fell in love… There was no doubt that it had been honest-to-goodness, head-over-heels love, but it had ended in such tragedy and heartache that she was sure she’d taken a second chance simply to erase the pain and memories of the first.

In the midst of the memories, she became cognizant of the silence that sat between her and Franci as they stared out the window. Apparently, they had both become lost in their thoughts. She shifted her attention back to the mail for something mundane to do but there was nothing dull about the sight of the next letter in the stack. It was from her brother Richard in New York City.

“That’s odd.”

“Hmm?” Franci peered over at the letter. “From Richard?”

“Yes. The only time I get a card from him is on my birthday or Christmas.”

She sliced the letter opener through the top of the envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper that bore the unmistakable penmanship of her brother. As she read the pages, her heart began to race.

Franci clasped her shoulder.

“He’s sending my nephew Ricky…here.”

“Oh, how nice! He hasn’t been here in a few years. It’ll be nice to visit with him. How long is he staying?”

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Franci’s perpetual optimism shook Sarah from her trance. She met her friend’s gaze with a stern look. “Franci! He’s sending him here to stay with me…for the whole summer. By himself.”

Franci’s exuberance crumbled from her face. “The whole summer?

But that’s too long! Doesn’t Richard remember anything? He should know that’s too dangerous. It’s too long for an Allister to be here.”

Sarah let the letter fall to the counter. “He should know, but apparently he seems to think Ricky will be safe, since I’m here to look out for him.”

“Safe? Ha! What a fool! Men are just as susceptible to the curse of Agatha Bl—” “Franci!”

Franci slapped her hand over her mouth and gasped. “Oh, goodness. I’m sorry.”

It wouldn’t be the first time someone had nearly uttered the name of Agatha Blinney, nor would it be the last. A mere slip of the tongue could spark the ever-lurking energy of the curse that so tightly confined their lives already.

Sarah let out an exasperated breath as Franci glanced around the room. She knew Franci was looking for signs that the curse had been fanned to fuller flames. She never worried too much about saying Agatha’s name. Sometimes nothing would happen. Other times it merely caused a few days of manageable chaos—books falling off shelves for no reason, complaints of blisters from customers who bought lotions at the holistic shop across the street, or bouts of shouting from people who drank Franci’s coffee. It created just enough havoc to remind the shop owners that Agatha’s power was still very present. Like they could ever forget. What worried her at the moment was the situation she was about to be faced with—the situation they were all about to be faced with. The arrival of another Allister could tilt the curse off course enough to make life temporarily unpleasant.

No one minded much when seasoned relatives visited Blinney Lane, ones who were aware of the curse and its rules. She and her brother, 17

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however, had never uttered a word about it to Ricky. They thought he deserved a normal life.

Franci attempted her rant about Richard’s request again. “Men are just as susceptible to the curse as women. How old is Ricky now?”

“Seventeen,” Sarah muttered; she could hear the defeat in her voice as she said the word.

“Oh, dear. Almost a man.” Franci grabbed the phone on the counter and shoved it toward her. “Call him. You call that silly brother of yours right now and tell him he can’t do this to you or to his own son!”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? What’s the number? I’ll call him myself! That Richard. What an idiot!”

If she were in better spirits, she would laugh at Franci’s unintimidating display of hostility. “Ricky arrives tomorrow. Richard is leaving to go overseas on business this week.”

“Tomorrow! He sure didn’t give you much notice, did he?” Franci adjusted her bifocals and then chewed on her thumbnail.

“Yeah, it seems he planned the arrival of his letter perfectly. No time for rebuttals.” Freaking Richard. He was going to owe her for this.

“What about Allison? Does Ricky ever see his mother anymore?”

“No. She’s been out of the picture for four years now, and she wasn’t much of a mother to begin with.” Pity began to creep over her now that she’d had some time to absorb the situation her brother had relayed in his letter. He really didn’t have much choice but to send Ricky to Salem.

Franci began to pace, but she stopped biting her nails to add, “Surely, they have friends in New York he could stay with or Richard could take Ricky with him on his trip.”

Sarah picked the letter back up, knowing full well what it said. She spoke in her learned calm manner she used whenever one of her neighbors went into a tizzy about the curse. “Richard will be gone for three months, to six different countries, with the CEOs of his firm. And Ricky.” She let out a sigh. Maybe her tone wasn’t so polished today. “My dear little 18

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nephew seems to have thought car theft and joyriding were rites of passage amongst his friends. ‘Court-ordered familial supervision and community service.’ I guess leaving the country for the next few months with all the work he has to do would limit Richard’s ability to properly ‘supervise’ Ricky. It sounds like Richard really didn’t have any other options. He told the judge I agreed to let Ricky work here and stay with me.”

“Without your actual consent first? That’s, that’s illegal!”

Sarah laughed, but it came out more like a cough, as she slumped into her chair and ran her hands through her long, thick hair. “No, Franci. That’s family.” She rested her elbows on the counter and dropped her face in her hands. “Ugh. I hope to hell nothing happens to him. What am I going to do with him? What if he gets trapped here like the rest of us?”

She felt Franci’s hand pat her on the back. “Don’t worry, Sarah.

We’ll help you. I’ll whip up the best protection blends I have, and Mary can do the same with her masking soaps. Do you want me to go ask her for you?”

“Would you mind?” she asked, trying to sound hopeful. Really, though, she didn’t want to be the one to break the news to their neighbor, Mary. If Franci got shaken up over the news of Ricky coming, Mary would cause an earthquake.

“No, no. Not at all. And we’ll get Ricky out of the shop as often as we can.”

“Ha! So he can go lift cars downtown? How am I supposed to bail him out if I can barely make it to the jail?” she asked, lifting up her wrist and shaking the charm bracelet on it. The trinkets that dangled from it rattled together.

Sarah watched Franci’s look of concern morph into one of anguish as the woman glanced at Sarah’s other wrist, which was covered up by the long sleeve of her blouse. Franci’s hand then went to the high collar of her black dress and rubbed at her neck, a faroff look in her eyes. Sarah filled with guilt instantly. She’d made the 19

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woman remember a lifetime of awful sensations. She pulled Franci’s hand away. “I’m sorry, Franci.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s not like I could forget they’re there anyways.” She patted Sarah’s hand and smiled. “I’d better go before mom reorganizes the entire inventory.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll let you know what Mary comes up with,” Franci said as she started toward the door.

“Thanks, Franci. And thanks for the coffee.” She picked up the cup and fanned herself with one hand in a swooning manner. Franci chuckled, but her lightheartedness was clearly gone for the time being. Probably because her damned charms had rattled again when she’d faked the swoon to cheer Franci up. Could she be a lousier friend?

As soon as the door closed, Sarah let out a long breath. She rotated the bracelet around her wrist. Had she only imagined the twinge of pain she felt in the scars she had hidden under the thick leather band every day since the summer she turned eighteen?

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CHAPTER

TWO

NEW YORK CITY

R

ICHARD ALLISTER paced back to the suitcase on his bed with a stack of undershirts in his hand. He tucked them into the remaining space and stared blankly at the contents as he fidgeted with his tie.

He had everything he needed for his trip. He’d packed and repacked his suitcase three times already. He was just avoiding the obvious. Sarah was going to hate him.

He couldn’t turn down this trip. It was supposed to promote new investors. He was the lead financial manager of the company. New high-dollar international clients were critical to taking his firm from the multi-million dollar to the multi-billion-dollar level.

Glancing in the mirror, he saw that it was too cruel to lie to him.

The worry on his face was evident. He hadn’t slept well since the verdict on Ricky’s grand theft auto joyride. There were dark circles under his eyes. His black five-o’clock shadow, which matched the thick hair on his head, made his corporate appearance seem disheveled. Damn, Alison.

Why couldn’t she have been more of a mother? Everything about his 21

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reflection said haggard, overworked single father. Maybe if he’d chosen a better spouse, one less materialistic, his life might not have ended up the way it had. Maybe then he wouldn’t have had to bombard his little sister with the sneaky way he’d duped her into doing him a favor.

Richard dropped onto the bed and looked around his obscenely impersonal penthouse bedroom. His perusal halted on the awful monstrosity of a large, red, steel blob-like structure on the wall opposite his bed. Alison had insisted that it helped “balance the lines in the room.”

It still made no sense to him. He should take that damned thing down once and for all. He didn’t even feel comfortable in his own home, not that he was ever there much. How had that happened?

Sarah still lived in the apartment above the bookstore where they had grown up. He used to feel guilty that she was the one who was stuck there. As the years had passed, however, he had grown to envy the coziness, the quaintness, and the history of Blinney Lane in that sleepy little corner of Salem. He shoved off the bed. Okay, maybe not all of the history.

He hadn’t forgotten everything about the peculiar place where he had grown up. He hadn’t forgotten how nearly every word and every action seemed to have a repercussion, especially for his sister. It made her so tense and worrisome, but things had never been so severe for him on Blinney Lane. No. He had made the right decision about Ricky.

No one, in the time he could remember before he left home, had ever fully figured out all of the quirks of Agatha Blinney’s curse. He was certain, though, that once it took hold of one family member of each of the shops on Blinney Lane, it left the rest of the family free to leave.

The only time the curse claimed more than one family member was when someone was getting on in age. It’s as though it sensed a replacement would be needed soon. Sarah was still young and healthy. The curse had chosen her to replace their father. Unlike his sister, he’d been free to leave. The curse wouldn’t want Ricky. It already had an Allister.

Curses. Good God. If his colleagues or another living soul ever heard 22

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him mention curses. He hadn’t thought about it in such a long time.

Sarah. Sarah probably hadn’t been able to forget so easily.

It was easy to tell whom the curse claimed—it caused the scars of Agatha Blinney to appear on the chosen ones. Sarah got marks around her wrists when they were just teenagers. He had assumed that she had read too many of the cursed books in their shop or said the name of Agatha Blinney too many times. The elder shop owners had always warned them that when they approached the age of eighteen they might get the scars of Agatha Blinney. He hadn’t believed it when his eighteenth birthday came and went, his skin unmarked.

He barely noticed the red blob on the wall now as he stared at it and thought of the summer that Sarah got her marks. Their mother had been so upset, not wanting to see any of her children bound to the shop as their father had been. She questioned Sarah repeatedly about what she might have done to make the scars appear. Sarah had cried and swore she’d followed all of the ridiculous Blinney Lane rules. When it became apparent that Sarah’s scars were there to stay, he’d simultaneously felt guilt and relief.

He’d been so self-centered back then, not wanting to be the one stuck on that niche tourist strip only ten shops long on a dead-end street. He didn’t even like books. It had been a relief to no longer worry about disappointing his father by not taking over the family business.

There had been no need once Sarah was chosen to stay. He had wanted to see the world and meet normal people. He wanted to live a life without fear of the unnatural things that occurred on that street.

“You never believed all that hogwash,” he chided himself, as he tore his gaze away from the wall. What’s eating at you?

If he was honest, he’d had to force himself to forget all the abnormalities he had witnessed on his home street. He’d done a good job of doing so over the years, except for the occasional dream. That’s what he always told himself the memories were. Sitting in his room, which so deeply contrasted the place where he grew up, he could no longer deny it.

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There was one memory he recalled with perfect clarity: Deronda. There was no fancying her a dream. As unreal as she had been, Deronda had been very real.

Neither his sister nor he ever mentioned Deronda’s name when they spoke on the phone every few months. Sarah could never come to New York City; the curse wouldn’t let her. The few times he’d visited over the years, after he moved away for college and to start his new life, they hadn’t brought it up then either. Maybe the fact that he was sending his only child back there made the memories resurface. There was no denying it, as much as he’d fooled himself over the years. The time he’d spent with Deronda hadn’t been a dream. No. He was terrified to remember it, or he would have gone mad. The gnawing sensation inside of him now—he knew exactly what it was. What he did remember, as he reflected for the first time with such clarity about the place where he grew up, was that his little sister had saved his life and sacrificed so much for him. God, he hated himself.

Richard groaned and pressed his fingers to his eyes. He rubbed away the stinging of tears. He hadn’t avoided Blinney Lane or Sarah because he was afraid of the hocus pocus that went on there. He’d avoided them because there was nothing he could do to help Sarah.

And this is how he was repaying her?

“I’m such an asshole.”

The word reminded him of his dear teenage son who was supposed to be packing for Salem in the next room—the son who’d called him that when he’d told him he was sending him there for the summer.

Richard walked down the hallway, and the rock music from Ricky’s room grew louder as he approached.

There was a bright yellow hazardous sign on the door and several New York Giants stickers. He felt himself smile, thinking how they sure messed up the lines of the plain white walls of the penthouse. With a heavy breath he knocked on the door, prepared to do battle.

“Ricky?”

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A squealing guitar solo and chainsaw bass sound emanated through the door, but no sound of Ricky’s acknowledgement. He pounded harder. “Ricky!”

The door jerked open and his shirtless, ripple-chested teenage son glared up the three inches that he still held on him. How much more difficult would parenting the troublesome boy be when Ricky surpassed him in height? He took in the last look that he would get of his son for a few months.

They had the same thick black hair, but Ricky’s was spiked stupidly upward and canted to the side. The same light gray eyes glared into his. How could he look so much like him and hate him so much?

He’s a teenager; he hates everything.

“What?” Ricky snapped in a tone that warned his time and privacy were being invaded.

“Are you packed?”

Ricky turned his back and retreated further into his hovel of a room. “Yeah.”

“We went over this, Mr. Gone in Sixty Seconds! This is your own fault. I’m not happy with the situation either, but I’m not carting you all over Europe and Asia with my bosses. You want to go stay with your mother?” Maybe the threat would bring him down a peg.

Ricky spun back around. “Why? If we knew where she was do you think she’d actually want me there?”

“All right. Easy, Earnhardt.” Ricky scowled and turned his back on him again. “Look, don’t give your aunt any grief. You hear me? Turn that crap down!” Ricky hit the volume button on his stereo and stared out the window, hands on hips. “She’s got a business to run. It’s a quiet little place not used to teenagers.”

“More like a retirement home,” Ricky muttered.

“What?”

Ricky shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah.

I got it.”

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Richard ran his hand through his hair. Maybe Sarah would have better luck with him than he had.

“Just try to help her out as much as you can, will you? Keep your nose clean and don’t cause her any problems. She’s doing both of us a favor with this. Ricky, are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, I heard you. Play nice with Aunt Sarah. Smile at the old ladies. Read a book. I got it.”

Richard started to close the door. Staring at his defiant son, he realized it was the first time he was grateful that Ricky didn’t like to read. “No one expects you to read any books, son. Just do what you’re told.”

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CHAPTER

THREE

S

ARAH BUSIED herself, making a list of things Ricky might need.

She never had guests stay so long in her apartment above the shop, nor had her parents from what she could remember. Ricky had visited only four or five times since he was born. He and Richard always stayed at hotels during their visits to keep Ricky safe from Blinney Lane.

She had enough linens for him, though she’d have to add to her weekly grocery order. Would he question why she didn’t go to the grocery store or any place not on Blinney Lane for that matter? She hated lying, but a lot of lying was probably in her near future.

Focus on the positive, Sarah. It would be nice to have someone else to cook for. She always ate alone. Richard had been a terrible cook, and he probably didn’t make many home-cooked meals for his son.

Maybe Ricky would prefer to go out in town for junk food. At least that would get him away from the bookshop for a while. How was she going to keep him entertained when he was at the store?

She couldn’t let him wander around the city by himself, especially after what Richard had said he’d done to get into trouble. Was he no longer the sweet little boy who used to love listening to her stories?

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Locks. Maybe she should get some more padlocks. She wrote the word down and then let her head rest in the palm of her hand.

The scraping sound of slow footsteps against the wood floor approached. Sarah heard the phlegmy garbled voice of Mr. Wexton, one of her obnoxious regulars. She rubbed her temples to avoid eye contact. Mr. Wexton showed up at least three times a week to peruse her out-of-print section.

His emphatic breath of exasperation was not to be missed as he called: “Nothing new. Let me know if you get anything new in Sarah.”

The bell on the door jingled and she knew she was almost home free. Without looking up, she said, “Will do, Mr. Wexton.” When the door slammed shut, she let out a long breath. The shop appeared to be empty and she yelled, “What did I do to deserve this?”

“It’s Monday,” said a deep, wholesome voice she would know anywhere, causing the tiny hairs on the back of her neck to stand up.

She peered through her fingers and saw a black leather belt on gray uniform slacks. Slowly lifting her flushed face, she saw a green polo shirt stretched across a wide chiseled chest. Her eyes did the rest of the work as she sat dumbly in her stool, taking in the Adam’s apple on the center of a tanned muscular neck, then a firm square jaw, and supple lower lip of the most handsome smile she’d ever seen. She locked eyes with Henry Teager’s light green ones.

With his relaxed high and tight haircut, Henry had that all-American boy look. She loved that he never used gel—he looked naturally perfect. He smiled down at her, the corner of his mouth higher on one side in the shape of a happy, innocent smirk. It made her want to melt into a puddle and hide under the counter at the same time. Say something, stupid!

“Hello, Henry.” She cleared her throat after her voice came out, sounding like a little girl’s.

“Rough day already? It’s only eleven.”

“Ha, tell me about it.”

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Henry lifted a clipboard off the top box on his hand truck and set it on the counter for her to sign. She looked around for her pen as though it required all of her attention. “How are you today?”

“I’m great. Beautiful weather out there. Not too hot yet.”

Easy for him to say; he didn’t have Franci’s coffee! She scribbled her name on the invoice, having to pause for a second to remember it.

“And I’m on my favorite street on my route, so I can’t complain.”

That got her to laugh and forget to avoid his dangerously sexy eyes.

“What did we do to receive that honor?”

Crap! Why was he still looking at her? He leaned on his hand truck, propping one of his brawny legs on the footrest. It didn’t look like he was leaving anytime soon. The way her nerves were jumbled today, she might not be able to handle a dose of Henry. He seemed to like lingering in her shop.

“I love Blinney Lane. You know that. The people are so friendly, some of the best you’ll ever meet,” Henry said with a smile and glanced out the window. It warmed her heart to hear her home and friends complimented. “I get the most unique orders from the specialty shops here.

It sure breaks up the monotony of my day after all the office deliveries I make. Heck, the distributor I work for sells stuff I wouldn’t even know existed if it weren’t for the Blinney shops. I don’t know. I think I just love how nothing seems to change here. You can always count on Blinney Lane, even though the rest of the world moves on around it.”

Sarah held back her private opinions on why Blinney Lane couldn’t change. Henry was an outsider. What did he know? It was actually one of the things she liked about him. He was her dream of the joy of the outside world—the one book she had never read.

“Well, change is coming tomorrow, whether we’re ready for it or not.”

“What? Barnes & Noble moving in?”

“No. Worse, I think. My teenage nephew is coming to stay with me for the summer.”

“Richard’s boy?”

29

� DREA DAMARA �

“Yeah. Little Ricky. Well, I guess he’s not that little any more.

Gosh, I haven’t seen him in four years. He’s seventeen now.”

“Seventeen? Yeah, that could be worse.” Henry pretended to wince. “I can’t imagine being seventeen and spending my summer in a bookstore.”

“Hey, what happened to loving this place?” She would have given him a playful slap on the arm if it didn’t require touching him.

His face turned red and he fidgeted. A man who blushes. How could someone so rugged looking be so sensitive?

“Oh, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I just meant I spent my summers outside playing ball and swimming. Heck, if I hadn’t been so busy trying to be a pro-athlete I probably would have been hanging around in here throwing glances at Richard’s little sister,” he said with a wink. She looked back to the clipboard and made an unintelligible sound that was meant to be a laugh. “I guess I didn’t do anything very productive…is what I meant to say,” Henry added and cleared his throat.

He grabbed the clipboard from her after what seemed like an eternity and wheeled his hand truck to the end of the counter. She watched him slip the boxes off with ease in a place that would leave her enough room to get by, as he did every week. Thoughtful. Everything about him had always been thoughtful. He looked at her. She thought he would say something, but it turned out to be another awkward silence.

“Well, uh, you need me to order anything for Ricky?”

“Yes, actually.” She grabbed her list.

“Some Playboys and Def Leppard albums?” Henry smirked and reached for the note in her hand.

“Def Leppard? What do kids even listen to now? God, I think you just made us sound old.”

His fingers grazed hers as he took her note. “We’re not that old, Sarah.”

The softness in his voice in combination with his good looks was simply cruel. He shouldn’t be allowed around women. Her breath caught 30

� THE WEEPING BOOKS OF BLINNEY LANE �

in her throat. She never knew what to say or do when he said something flattering. She was far too plain, boring, and bookish for him to be interested in her, no matter what Franci said. Franci’s encouragement aside, she blamed any awkwardness between them on herself. What woman wouldn’t react the way she did to Henry? The harder she tried to not behave like a ninny when he was around, the more she failed. Still, it was difficult to deny that the compliments he threw out were specifically intended to remind her that she was a woman and he was a man. Maybe it was wishful thinking. The shop bell chimed like a savior.

“Hi, Sarah!” A thin, blue-eyed teenager with dirty-blonde hair waved with one hand, the other gripping an embroidered backpack. The ruffle on the bottom of her jean skirt swayed above bright horizontally striped knee socks, complimenting her cute boho appearance.

“Good morning, Shelby.” Sarah smiled in relief at the distraction.

Shelby was her undeclared helper around the store.

The slim girl walked with a bounce in her step over to the accent chairs by the front window, which served as a reading nook, and tossed her backpack down with familiarity. Shelby dropped into a chair and let her striped-clad legs bounce up in the air with the motion. Her Converse sneakers tapped back to the floor with a thud.

Henry looked from Shelby back to Sarah. “Okay, scratch the Playboys. Good luck.”

“Ha! That girl’s sixteen going on PhD. I doubt she’ll even notice him.”

31

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Drea Damara grew up in Illinois, working on her family’s farm.

Raised in a home of seven with one television, she spent her free time reading or roaming the woods on her family’s farm. Damara wrote poetry in her early teens and saw her first work published at nineteen.

She set writing aside to join the Army and later returned to the Middle East conducting similar work as a civilian.

Damara enjoys writing multiple fiction genres. She currently is working on her next novel.