“You did, and you returned with an education. Inspirationa!” Sylvia leaned in like she had something juicy to say. “And you have quite the local reputation.” She arched a brow, her smile set in a toothy grin. “Congratulations.”
“I’m not sure I’m too pleased about that.”
“Ah, but life is all about perspective!” Sylvia announced. “The way I see it, at least they’re talking, right?”
Ellie felt her cheeks flush, dreading what gossip might be circulating about her past. Sylvia tilted her head, studying Ellie with renewed interest.
“Hmm, given the stories, you’re quieter than I imagined,” Sylvia mused. Without warning, she looped her arm through Ellie’s, her grip strong. “You simply must come for breakfast. I insist. I want to hear all about this scandalous past of yours from the horse’s mouth, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
Before Ellie could protest, Sylvia was steering her across the street towards the café on the corner of the opposite side of South Street, which started further down than the bookshop’s side. Its whimsical sign swung gently in the breeze: The Giggling Goat. There wasn’t much point in putting up a fight, so Ellie allowed herself to be led into the modern interior, the aroma of freshly baked pastries enveloping her.
The café’s interior was a charming blend of rustic and modern elements. Exposed wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, while sleek black metal light fixtures hung at intervals, casting a warm glow over the space. An exposed stone wall ran along one side of the room, its rough texture contrasting beautifully with the smooth, polished wood of the tables and chairs scattered throughout.
Potted plants adorned every available surface, their lush greenery softening the industrial edges of the décor. The rich aroma of freshly ground coffee permeated the air, mingling with the sweet scent of baked goods displayed in a glass case near the counter.
As Ellie’s gaze swept across the room, her eyes widened in recognition. Behind the counter stood Oliver Cookson—her stepbrother on their father’s side—wiping down the gleaming espresso machine. A jolt of surprise ran through her; she hadn’t known he worked in the café. Then again, they’d barely exchanged two words over the years.
Carolyn’s voice echoed in her mind, reminding her that Oliver’s mother, Angela Cookson—she hadn’t reverted to her maiden name after the divorce—despised her ex-husband’s ‘other’ side of the family. The memory of her mother’s bitter words made Ellie hesitate, unsure how to approach this unexpected encounter.
Before Ellie could decide whether to acknowledge Oliver or not, Sylvia whisked her away to a table in the corner under a community notice board. A young woman with vibrant pink hair wrapped in two big buns on the side of her head sat there, her face lighting up as they approached. She couldn’t have been far into her twenties.
“This is Amber,” Sylvia introduced, gesturing to the girl. “She runs the Second Chances Emporium.”
Amber grinned, extending her hand. “So nice to meet you…”
“This is Ellie Swan,” Sylvia said, pulling out a chair before offering it to her. “She’ll be joining us for breakfast.”
Ellie shook Amber’s hand as she sat across from her, wondering exactly what she had heard about her given the crinkling of the corners of her eyes, which was impressive given her youthful complexion. Sylvia settled into the chair next to Ellie, removing her tweed jacket with a flourish.
“Amber is a whiz at social media marketing and all that other ‘techno stuff’,” Sylvia explained, her voice tinged with admiration. “Young Amber put my cheese shop on the map!” Sylvia glanced around the café. “Where’s Willow?”
“Waiting for a stock order,” Amber replied. “She might pop in later. Wait till you meet all of us, Ellie. You’re not going to know what’s hit you.”
Ellie’s ears perked up at the mention of Willow; it wasn’t the most common name. Could they be talking about Willow Thompson, Luke’s sister?
“All?” Ellie asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
Amber nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, the other shop owners. We meet up for breakfast every weekday. Not all of us every day, but some of us, every day. Different combinations change the dynamic. You’ll see. Willow is divine. She runs Willow’s Apothecary around the corner.”
Ellie’s suspicions grew. She was about to ask if Willow’s surname was Thompson when Amber leaned in close to Sylvia, glancing around the café. She lingered on Ellie as though trying to decide if she could trust her.
“I know,” Amber whispered. “I know what that horrid burglar was trying to steal from Maggie’s shop.”
Sylvia’s eyes lit up as she turned to Amber. “Oh, then it’s a fine job I brought along Maggie’s granddaughter. Ellie’s come back to the village to run the bookshop after Maggie’s fall.”
“T-that’s not quite right.” Ellie felt her cheeks flush as she stammered. “I’m here to help get the bookshop in order, but I’m not sure if I’m—”
Sylvia cut her off, leaning in with excitement. “But what were they trying to steal? And do you think this has anything to do with that break-in at Willow’s shop last week? My shop is right next door to Maggie’s. Should we all be worried that we might be next?”
“I don’t know... to any of that.” Amber’s eyes darted around nervously, and she lowered her voice. “But I’d say you were safe, unless you were sent a copy of Edmund Blackwood’s final manuscript.”
“Who?” Ellie asked.
Sylvia gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “You haven’t heard of him? I’m shocked!”
“I hadn’t heard of him either until all this gossip about his ‘Last Draft’,” Amber admitted. “He was hardly relevant when I was growing up.”
“What gossip?” Ellie asked, moving her chair further under the table with a scrape against the floorboards. “What draft? Who is he, and what does this have to do with my gran’s broken hip?”
“Well, there was a rumour,” Sylvia said, leaning in, “that Edmund Blackwood left copies of his final manuscript before he passed away. Three copies entrusted to three people around the village. I’d bet he didn’t want the greedy publishers to profit more off him with new content. And as I’ve learned during my short time in this fine village, there’s often no smoke without fire.”
“I heard that Maggie was one of the people who received a copy of Edmund Blackwood’s final manuscript,” Amber said, her eyes fixed on Ellie as though waiting for an admission of guilt. This was the first Ellie had heard about Edmund Blackwood, let alone any connection her gran might have to his final work. “The burglar was trying to get their hands on it when Maggie confronted them and got hurt.”
“But why would someone go to such lengths?” Ellie asked.
Sylvia set down her teacup with a soft clink. “Well, my dear, there is another rumour circulating. They say Blackwood believed this to be his greatest work.”
Amber nodded eagerly, her pink hair bobbing. “Maybe the publisher sent people to recover it? They could be missing a real asset. If he was big enough, that is.”
“Oh, he was,” Sylvia assured them, her eyes taking on a faraway look. “Edmund Blackwood was the king of murder mysteries when I was a young girl. My father forbade me from reading anything that wasn’t considered a classic, but I loved what he called ‘trash.’” Her mouth puckered into a wicked little grin. “I’d sneak copies into the stables and read them hidden in the hay. Edmund was a genius with his detectives, but his quality declined as time went on. I thought it was me, and that I was getting older and not enjoying them the same as I did as that girl curled up in the stable. But the press started to suggest his mind was going, and I’d hear whispers at galas and dinners about him being in serious health decline. The mysteries wouldn’t make sense, characters would appear and reappear as different people, and he was notoriously reclusive and difficult to work with.”
Ellie leaned forward, intrigued despite herself not being the biggest fan of gossip—one of the main reasons she’d avoided the break rooms at the studio. At Happy Bean, most breaks had been spent in a shell-shocked silence. She asked, “So what happened?”
Sylvia’s lips curved into a smile. “Edmund found his stride again towards the end. A final wind, if you will. His last four books were lauded by critics, and he got to see some success again. I, for one, thoroughly enjoyed his final few works, and if there is another out there, I would very much like to read it.” She winked and added, “Hint hint, Ellie.”
“This is the first I’m hearing about it.”
“Hmm,” Sylvia’s grumbled as her eyes narrowed. “Yes, I trust you. Your grandmother has never once minced her words with me, which I appreciate more than anything in a person.”
