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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781988281759 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Sands Press |
| Publication date: | 09/30/2019 |
| Series: | Heart of Madison Series , #1 |
| Edition description: | New edition |
| Pages: | 249 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.70(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Libby Reynolds listened to the rhythmic sound of sneakers against pavement as she ran through the historic district. As she increased her pace, she allowed her mind to revisit the day her whole life had come crashing down around her. She thought about how there had always been two lives — her real life and the life in her mind. On the day Colin moved out, she was just a woman being left by the man she still loved, standing calm and stoic outside the threshold he had once laughingly carried her over, ready to go about the business of rebuilding a shattered life. But inside? Inside, she could feel herself running through the long stone corridors of her mind, slamming heavy iron doors shut behind her as she retreated deeper into herself. She found comfort in the familiar jolt of locks and bolts slamming into place, a mental strategy she'd used even as a child to shield herself from pain.
In her real life, she was reminding Colin of his upcoming dental appointment. Did he need to reschedule, since he would still be moving into the new place across town? Should he see a new dentist, since he was already seeing new people? Or should she find someone new? A dentist, perhaps, who would remember that her teeth were a little sensitive to the cold and that she hated the laughing gas? A dentist who wouldn't ask how her husband was doing so she wouldn't have to say that she no longer had one? "And please," she reminded Colin calmly, "don't forget to leave the key. It's not as if you'll need it anymore."
She wanted to lean against the door when it closed, but she didn't allow herself that weakness. No, she had things to do and plans to make. There were dishes to wash and boxes that still needed to be packed. She'd have to figure out somewhere else to go. There was nothing here for her now but memories she didn't want. Inside, Libby's world was falling apart, but on the outside, she scrubbed the pan of the remnants of dinner. She sat through two episodes of a show she liked, barely following the plot, but watching until the end anyway. Then she took a long bath before bed and poured in her scented bath oils as an added indulgence. When Libby went to bed that night, she pulled on the shirt Colin had unknowingly left behind — one she'd slipped into a drawer while he was packing — and slept on his side of the bed. She curled up with his scent, making herself as small as she could. She thought it was almost funny that his absence took up even more space than his presence ever did.
Libby hadn't expected to start over. Again. In fact, after a childhood spent learning new faces and navigating new schools every couple of years, she'd done her level best to put down roots. She'd found a sort of contentment in the familiarity of her life. She'd finished her education, gotten a decent job, and married her boyfriend. She'd thought it was a good, if somewhat unexciting, life. Perhaps her life had only grown comfortable, like an old chair she couldn't bear to throw out. She wondered sometimes how long she'd have stayed in it if Colin hadn't decided he was leaving.
As she wound up and down the small-town streets lined proudly with antebellum homes, she thought about how she had dressed so carefully for Colin's leaving, as if it mattered that she had pulled her long, thick auburn hair into its practical French twist or selected that simple plum shift dress that he had once admired her in. She'd stood on the porch with him and spoken so calmly, keeping her voice upbeat, wry even, so that he wouldn't hear the bitterness behind the words.
Even now, running as fast as the memories flitting across her consciousness, she could see his face, how it had alternated from a careful blank to a baffled hurt at her seeming lack of emotion. Even still, Libby had gone through the practical moments of disentangling their lives — her real life from Colin's. She had kept that last hug brief, packing away the emotions that might once have risen to the surface, and turned away at the brush of lips across her cheek. Her hazel eyes had stayed dry, even though she felt her heart in her throat as she watched the man she'd loved for so long leaving her. Her goodbye was perfunctory and without inflection, as she had walked back up the stairs and into the house — never looking back.
As a person who had lived two lives for as long as she could remember, it came as no surprise that when she finally moved to a new place she would pack up both of her lives and move them with her. And she would begin to unpack them as well, along with a shirt she would fold and place at the bottom of her drawer. It was how she got here, after all. From the bustle of Marietta all the way to the other side of Atlanta. To Madison, a tiny town that charmed her even at her most disenchanted. Inner Libby started opening doors again to enjoy the view, and practical real-life Libby began circling apartments for rent in the local paper.
She'd come home.
And since coming home, she'd begun rebuilding her life. She had a job that she enjoyed, and she was learning the shape of her new life. She'd begun running nearly every day. The route soothed her and gave her plenty of time to think. She read the names of the shops she passed as she ran: Brews & Blues; Lost Horizon Antiques; Found Treasures; A View with a Room; Utopia Tea, Books, & Gifts. She contented herself with a quick look at the window displays as she ran. She promised herself that she would make time to properly explore her new town. Inside her mind there were corridors and, outside of it, there were the streets of Madison, swept clean by the city workers and already in full bloom. She turned toward her apartment, gaining speed as she went into that last mile. She thought, I can be happy here.
CHAPTER 2Seth Carver was walking through Lost Horizon Antiques, making notes on items that had been damaged by careless customers and straightening stock. He sometimes felt like a young man in an older man's world. The antique store that had once been his grandfather's and then his mother's had been the backdrop of his childhood. Now it was his. He used these quiet mornings in the shop to review inventory and plan for the week. He'd thought he was alone, so it came as a surprise when what he had taken to be part of the wallpaper spoke to him abruptly.
"'Tell me: what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?'"
He turned his head toward the voice. It sounded like you would think mothballs would if they were a tone and not texture and scent. It was fuzzy around the edges, thick and indistinct. It could have been coming from under a pile of blankets or thick winter coats instead of out of the old woman herself, so paper thin and creased that she appeared to be neatly folded into the corner where she stood. Her dress was worn so fine and so pale that the tea rose pattern on blue cotton, the roses faded to a soft pink over time, could not be distinguished from the floral wallpaper that covered the wall behind her. She stood with a straight spine, her head tilted regally, although she was probably just a hair taller than five feet with long silver hair tied back at the nape of her neck.
In those first few moments, as he turned toward her, he was reminded of the libraries he loved as a child. She smelled strongly of old books — all leather and dust and whisper-thin pages. He remembered suddenly turning the pages of books so large that he could only just pull them from the shelf to the floor and the indulgent glances of the local librarian as he flipped through the pages long before he understood the words. The memory was so immediate that it took him a moment to respond to the elderly lady herself, who was waiting patiently, head still cocked in that birdlike way.
Normally, he heard the chime from the door when anyone came into the shop. He had a moment to wonder if he should feel embarrassed that she had likely been treated to his tone-deaf rendition of one of the songs playing on the vintage record player. He flushed pink, realizing that he'd yet to respond to her at all. He stood there among the antiques, a tall man with a broad build and dark hair, somehow off-kilter. His embarrassment must have seemed palpable because she spoke up soothingly.
"That's from a poem by Mary Oliver." She paused for a moment. "So, what do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
"Good morning. I'm afraid I didn't hear you come in." He smiled at her warmly. She waited patiently, watching him with a curious expression on her face. "I thought that sounded familiar. I'm not sure if we have any of her volumes of poetry here, but I can recommend a great bookshop in town that's sure to carry it."
She smiled at him, a gentle half-smile, and waited still. She stepped forward, and Seth could finally separate her figure from the wallpaper behind her. She had one hand resting lightly on a jewelry box on display. He knew that if it opened it would reveal a small ballerina who would begin her clockwork twirl as the music played. He tried to recall the song.
Ah. Love Story. She didn't even have to open it for him to call the tune to mind. He simply remembered the last time it was opened. The owner of this particular booth had taken it down to dust, and he'd opened it up and then watched as the ballerina inside twirled around. He had watched it for longer than Seth had expected. He hadn't meant to trespass on what seemed to be a private moment, but when the man looked up at him and smiled, Seth had known he was forgiven. The man had spoken up.
"Always makes me think of my wife. Not my wife now, but my first one. She's been gone a long time." He shook his head and sighed, replacing the box back on the shelf. "Of course, she'd have called that sentimental garbage. She didn't brook nonsense or fools, and I always was a bit of both."
The memory had come unbidden, but Seth was used to it. After all, antique shops are repositories of memories. He often would stumble upon ghosts of his younger self, playing with the tin soldiers in the little tin box or flipping through the comics, careful not to tear the pages and risk a scolding from his otherwise mild-mannered grandfather or his notably less mild-mannered mother. Seth returned his attention to the elderly lady before him and wondered if she'd yet to peek inside the jewelry box to see the ballerina spin.
"What brings you to town?" Seth asked when she only continued to watch him carefully. Tourists were an everyday part of Madison. Some came for the golf tournament each year, exploring the area on their way, but most were here for the Antebellum Trail. For a rural town, they were quite the cultural center. Other tourists came for the gardens or the music festivals, and still others had fallen in love with the town passing through and came back for a weekend getaway or vacation. They came all year long, looking for something and finding it here in Madison.
"I'm just here visiting. I like to look at the past," she remarked, nodding to the store around her. "It brings back so many memories."
"Can I help you find anything in particular?" he asked, ever-conscious of his role here.
"Not at all, young man," she said with a wide smile. "I'll simply have a look around and get out of your hair." She began to walk away, toward the back of the store.
With a smile, Seth replied, "Please let me know if I can help you with anything while you're here." He watched her nod and walk softly away, her feet making not a sound in the slippers she wore.
While he worked, reorganizing one of the displays, he watched her move through the store. She often reached out to touch the antiques softly, sometimes picking one up gently to examine it more closely. He smiled as he watched her explore. He walked quietly himself and touched the antiques with that same reverence, always conscious of how fragile they all were.
He thought back to what she had said when she first came in. "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" He knew the quote and the poem it came from and thought that perhaps it was just something she asked new acquaintances. He never minded eccentricities. It's best not to mind, growing up in the South where oddities were often put on display. But he thought about it while he reordered the display and she browsed. What was he doing with his life?
Seth hadn't thought his life would look like this. He'd thought by 33, he'd have a family of his own or at least the possibility of one. He knew he'd be running the shop. He'd spent most of his education learning about art and history and compiling the knowledge he would need to acquire, care for, and sell antiques. He had an eye for it, and he just plain enjoyed old things. He was afraid he was starting to become one. An old thing. An anachronism. Out of step with the times.
It's not as if he'd never had a serious relationship, of course. He'd had two significant ones, but neither had worked out. Seth had almost proposed to Marnie. He'd given it a lot of thought. They were together for almost six years, and it had seemed like the next logical step in their relationship. But then she took a job out of state and seemed to think that it was better to end things rather than to try and figure out how to bridge the distance. She didn't expect him to give up the shop or his dream. Why should she give up hers? And the fact that he was able to accept it so easily made him glad that he hadn't proposed after all. If he'd really loved her, wouldn't he have wanted to go with her? Or at least wanted her to want him there?
That was right after college when he was just starting to manage the shop. A few years later, he met Charlotte. They dated for about six months before she moved into his place. Everything seemed to be heading in a serious direction when he found the text messages. Actually, if he were honest with himself, he knew something was off long before he had proof. She'd been running late for work one day, and he'd handed her the phone when a message came up on the screen. He didn't bother to read it. After all, a picture is worth a thousand words.
After Charlotte, he just dated casually. No one he'd gone out with had made the leap from casual to serious, although he suspected one or two might have liked it if they had. But even without a committed relationship, Seth thought that his life was full, even if he wasn't where he thought he'd be at this stage. He had his business, a few good friends, and a close relationship with his family. His acquisitions were selling surprisingly well, and he didn't have to be concerned about finances. He thought he was fairly lucky, but he still thought about the poem. Was he doing what he wanted in his life or just going through the motions?
Seth looked up from his musings to see that he was alone in the shop. Shaking his head, he decided that he should really turn the record player down a little. Or else double-check the sensor on the door to make sure it was in working order. It wasn't like him not to notice his customers coming in or out during the day. He finished adjusting the last few items in the display and walked over to open the door. The door chimes sounded clearly inside the shop, so he headed to the back to cut the record player's volume down. He changed out the Beatles for Andy Williams and then wandered over to the books to see if the volume of poetry was still there.
He saw the faded hardcover nestled in between a faded hardcover copy of Lost Horizon and a paperback copy of Kindred. It was an anthology of poetry. He took it down and turned the pages quickly. He'd read the poem just the other day when he'd seen the quote online. He read the last part again now, his voice speaking softly over Andy Williams crooning Moon River.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
He wondered why the old lady had quoted that poem. He wondered what it meant to her, but Seth also thought about what it meant to him. Was he paying attention? Or was he letting life pass him by even now? He heard the chime of the front door and switched his attention to the couple entering the shop. He turned to greet them, relieved he'd heard the door over the sound of the record, and thought no more about the poem for a long time.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Left On Main"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Crystal Jackson.
Excerpted by permission of Sands Press.
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