Ellie sat back, her mind whirling at the suggestion that her grandmother might be in possession of a valuable, unpublished manuscript. It seemed almost too fantastical to believe. Yet, it would explain the break-in and Maggie’s vague explanation. Ellie couldn’t help but wonder what other secrets her grandmother might be keeping.
“I wonder how my grandmother ended up on his trusted list?” she thought aloud. “She’s never mentioned Edmund to me in her letters or phonecalls.”
Sylvia leaned back in her chair, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Time will tell, I suppose.” She turned to Ellie, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. “So... what’s all this drama I keep hearing about your wedding gone wrong?”
Ellie’s stomach dropped. She looked around the café, searching for an escape. Her eyes met Oliver’s behind the counter, and he had noticed her. He looked as blank-faced and shocked to see her as Ellie assumed she’d looked when she first ducked inside. There was something else in his expression that she couldn’t quite place. His mouth opened, and her heart raced. Imagining he was about to throw her out, Ellie pushed her chair back, the abrupt scraping silencing the place and drawing stares.
“It was lovely to meet you both and chat, but can we pick this up later?” Ellie said hurriedly, her voice higher than usual. “My gran’s shop really needs my attention now.”
Without waiting for a response, she rushed out of the café, avoiding looking in Oliver’s direction. Once outside, Ellie exhaled deeply, leaning against the wall of the building. The familiar feeling of suffocation returned, the same one that crept up on her whenever she came back to Meadowfield. And she usually only did that for a few days at a time, each fleeting visit always timed to be a few years apart.
The village was too small, too confining.
She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. The cool morning air helped clear her head, but the weight of unresolved history with Edmund Blackwood and unanswered questions about her gran’s potential involvement still pressed down on her.
Ellie couldn’t leave.
Her breath tightened in her throat.
Not yet.
She drew in the air through her nostrils until her lungs expanded all the way under her baggy denim shirt. She couldn’t leave, not after someone had burgled the shop in search of a potentially valuable manuscript. She steeled her resolve, squaring her shoulders as she unlocked the door and stepped inside the dishevelled bookshop.
The once-vibrant space now felt stagnant, the air heavy with the scent of neglect. Ellie paused, her heart sank at the sight, but she pushed down the overwhelm.
This wasn’t anything new to her.
She was good with big projects, heavy workloads, and tight deadlines. Mousy Ellie’s less common—but just as truthful—nickname at work had been Crunchtime Ellie. When there was a movie or show with a tight deadline and a shoestring budget, Ellie would practically sleep at the studio until the finish line was in the rearview mirror.
"Right," she declared, unbuttoning her shirt cuffs and folding the sleeves back to her elbows, methodically working on each side, one at a time. "Time to get to work."
Ellie started with the front counter, clearing away the accumulated dust and stray papers. As she tidied, she searched for any sign of the elusive manuscript. She ducked down, peering under the counter, but found nothing aside from a few lost pens and a faded photograph of her grandmother and grandfather in a cracked frame. Ellie picked it up, righting the picture on the counter.
Straightening up, she scanned the books left on the shelves, running her fingers along the surviving spines for anything out of the ordinary. She could almost see the burglar flinging each book off in their frantic search. As she moved deeper down the aisles, the air thickened with the sweet scent of old paper and the faint aroma of pipe tobacco clinging to the walls—a familiar smell that tugged at the edges of her memory.
Ellie tried to place the scent. It reminded her of her grandfather, John, who always had a pipe clenched between his teeth whenever he helped Maggie in the shop. A pang of nostalgia hit her as memories of her childhood flooded back. Grandpa John died when she was ten, but she could still see him as clear as day, always shuffling about in slippers regardless of the setting.
Shaking off the thoughts of days long gone, Ellie pressed on, her search becoming more methodical. She checked the rare books section, running her fingers along the spines of the leather-bound volumes, but there was no sign of the mysterious manuscript.
Ellie’s shoulders slumped in defeat as she collapsed into the dusty armchair, sending up a small cloud that made her cough. The search had turned up nothing, and there was still so much to do, even for Crunchtime Ellie.
She ran a hand through her hair, her fingers catching a few tangles. She longed to curl up with a book, though she wouldn’t be able to pull herself away. She’d have liked to have read one of Edmund’s books, suspiciously absent from the shelves, especially given that he was a locally famous author.
What was going on with Granny Maggie?
Ellie needed to know.
Before she could dig further into the mystery of the ‘Last Draft’, the sudden screech of bicycle brakes against a tyre made her jump. She hurried to the window just as Auntie Penny skidded to a halt outside, her short red curls bouncing with the abrupt stop. For a brief moment, Ellie was sure she was about to witness her auntie go flying over the handlebars, but Penny managed to halt her momentum at the last second, as if she’d practised the daredevil manoeuvre enough times to perfectly defy death while still getting an adrenaline rush.
This was Penny at forty-five years old, and Ellie couldn’t imagine her any other way—a whirlwind of energy and enthusiasm, seemingly stuck in a state of perpetual youth. Penny dismounted and rushed towards the shop’s entrance, her mismatched layers of clothing flapping behind her.
The bell above the door jangled as Penny burst in, slightly out of breath, beaming nonethelesss. “Ellie, thank goodness you’re here! You’re urgently needed at your mother’s house.”
“What now?” she asked, unable to keep the weariness from her voice.
“There’s been an emergency!”
Chapter 6Shelf Life
Ellie’s footsteps crunched on the path as she approached her mother’s cottage, the last in a row leading into the village green square. The high afternoon sun burned out the shadows across the lush green, though Carolyn’s cottage was always a little in shade thanks to the trees surrounding the one slightly larger cottage lucky enough to have their front door opened onto the green.
As she pushed open the front door, which opened onto the cobbled road, a wave of floral fragrance assaulted her senses. Following the recent redecoration five years ago, the interior was a beige wonderland, reminiscent of an old Hollywood movie set. Gilt-framed mirrors adorned the walls, reflecting the soft glow of ornate lamps. Plush velvet cushions adorned every available surface, and delicate porcelain figurines perched on doily-covered side tables in a display of wealth and occuplence her mother didn’t possess.
What she did possess, though, was the settlement from a very wealthy film producer who had the misfortune of being Carolyn’s ex-husband.
“Mum?” Ellie called out, her voice echoing in the overly perfumed air.
She found her mother in the kitchen, surrounded by a sea of floral arrangements. She paced back and forth, her silk robe swishing with each turn. Her hair was set in large rollers, and her face bore the sheen of some expensive night cream. Whatever this emergency was, her mother was facing it with her usual grace and style.
The kitchen was so clean and bright, a dark smear of something powdery and grey on the white marble island drew her attention.
“Clay face mask,” Penny said, scrubbing at it with her sleeve. “Carolyn, look who I found.”
“Oh, darling, there you are!” Carolyn exclaimed, air-kissing Ellie’s cheek. “I was beginning to think you’d got lost on your way here.”
Ellie suppressed a sigh. “What’s the emergency, Mum?”
Carolyn waved her french-tipped fingers. “Never mind that for now. Let me have a closure look at my elusive daughter. Have you been using that anti-ageing moisturiser I sent you for Christmas? Crème de la Mer doesn’t come cheap.
