Author’s Note

  Let’s get one thing clear: Bookmarked is spicy. Like, blushing-in-public, maybe-don’t-read-this-on-the-bus spicy. There are chapters with graphic sex. If you’re a minor—scram. If you’re my mom… I already warned you, and you read it anyway. You’ve only got yourself to blame.

  This story is complete at 31 chapters, each around 3,000 words—a nice medium-size bite of chaos, heat, and emotional damage. I’ll be releasing a new chapter every other week, so settle in and savor it slow. Or hoard them and binge later. I won’t judge.

  Chapter One

  BEE DAVIS TEETERED ON THE TOP RUNG of her father’s old wooden ladder, one hand holding a wrench and the other gripping the exposed pipes over her head. While she struggled to secure the head of the wrench around the connection of the two pipes, another bead of water collected at the base of the fitting and dropped into the waiting bucket below with a loud thwap.

  “I don’t know why my dad thought exposed pipes were a good idea for a bookstore,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

  Thwap.

  At the base of the ladder, Violet Kim craned her neck, squinting up at Bee through her thick black glasses. Her pastel hair, the same color as her name, was pulled back into a ponytail that swished as she shook her head.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to do that?”

  Bee glanced down at her employee. Home on summer break from Ithaca College, Violet was an all-star lacrosse player who was built like a house. Bee could see the outline of the young woman’s muscles beneath the sleeves of her tee shirt and had no doubt Violet would be infinitely better suited to repair the pipe than she was. Yet, Bee was the boss, and Bee wasn’t about to make her only employee do anything she couldn’t do herself.

  Thwap.

  “I got it,” she said, returning her attention to the pipe and giving it a good twist with the wrench. Only the wrench slipped from her hand and Bee lurched forward with a gasp. The tool clanged hard against the fitting on its way down to the floor and Bee watched in horror as water suddenly sprayed from the pipe connection. Below, Violet shrieked as the torrent rained down upon her head, but to her credit, never let go of the ladder.

  “The tarp!” Bee cried, stumbling down the ladder rungs. She yanked the blue plastic from beneath their feet and thrust it toward Violet. “Quick! Cover the books!”

  Violet scrambled to spread the tarp wide. She held it up against the spray, blocking the worst of it from getting to the shelves behind her. “What are you going to do?” she yelled over the noise.

  “Shut off the main valve!” Bee cried, already racing for the basement door. She flew down the stairs two at a time, nearly slipping in the dark. She pulled the shoestring that hung from the single bulb and frantically scanned the maze of pipes along the back wall, searching for the right lever.

  “Come on, come on,” she muttered, pushing her wet hair out of her face, panic rising. Finally, she spotted it and cranked the lever down with all her might.

  She hurried back up the stairs to find Violet dripping wet but grinning in relief.

  “Well, that could have been a disaster,” Bee said sarcastically.

  Violet laughed- a short, sharp bark, and pushed her water-logged bangs out of her eyes. “At least the books are okay.”

  Bee put her hands on her hips and surveyed the damage. Violet was right. Most of the books- though not all, she noted- had made it out no worse for the wear. “Thanks to you,” she said. She grinned at Violet. “You did a great job,” she said. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

  Violet shrugged casually and started to shake out the tarp. “You probably would’ve broken your neck wobbling on that ladder like that.” She eyed the old rickety contraption. “You guys need to buy a new one.”

  Bee silently agreed. But getting her dad, who held the purse strings of Bookmarked in a tight grip, wouldn’t have. Arthur Davis believed there was no need to buy something new if you already had a ‘perfectly serviceable’ option on hand. She collapsed the ladder and laid it against the wall.

  “I had to turn off the main line,” she said, gingerly picking up one of the books that had gotten the worst of the water. She turned it over in her hand. Essential Pre-Raphaelites. She felt a bloom of the old shame and quickly picked up the equally sodden book next to it. “So if you need to pee, you’ll have to go next door to the Tourism Board.”

  Violet nodded. “It’s no big deal,” she said, squatting down to help Bee collect the casualties. “What are we gonna do with these?” she asked.

  Bee stood up, her arms full of wet paper and binding. “We’ll lay them out to dry overnight,” she said, carrying them to the front of the store. “But honestly, I don’t think it matters much. These types of books don’t sell well.” She deposited the pile onto the wide wooden desk that served as the counter. Privately, she didn’t think they’d sold a single one since the day Arthur had bought them. It had been his way of showing he could be supportive of her decisions. And look how well that had turned out.

  Pasting a smile on her face, she turned to the young woman behind her. “You might as well go home,” she said. “I’ll close up tonight.”

  Violet raised her eyebrows. “You sure?” she asked. “I could stay and help—”

  Bee waived away her protestations. “No, it’s fine. Go home and get changed. It’s already,” she checked the clock on the wall behind the desk, “five-thirty.” She shot Violet a quick smile. “How many customers can I possibly get in thirty minutes?”

  Violet didn’t waste any more of Bee’s time with false protestations. She shrugged and grabbed her tattered backpack. “See you tomorrow?” she asked her hand on the door handle.

  Bee nodded and smiled, but it was starting to feel a little forced. “Sure,” she said. “See you then.” She watched the young woman leave, the bell chiming in her wake, and then looked down at the pile of soggy art history books stacked haphazardly on the front desk. Their swollen pages oozed water onto the worn wood. She sighed, picking one up and watching as clear water dripped from its spine.

  It was fitting, she decided, that her dad’s misguided attempt at support meet this kind of end. She set the book down and looked around the cramped interior of Bookmarked. Very fitting indeed.

  With Violet gone, Bee retrieved the mop from her tiny cramped office/supply closet in the back and started mopping up the water from the aged wooden floor. She had to give Violet credit; outside of that first blast of water, almost no other books had been harmed. Bee was stowing away the last of the cleaning supplies when the bell above the door sang its welcoming tune. A tourist couple, middle-aged and enamored, stepped inside.

  As they explored the aisles, Bee observed them from the front desk, her eyes lingering on the way the man’s arm looped around the woman’s waist. The affection was casual, easy—like breathing. He pulled her closer and planted a soft kiss on her temple. For a moment, Bee’s professional smile faded, replaced by a look of quiet yearning. She quickly shook off the feeling and returned to her tasks.

  The couple finally made their selections and approached the counter. Bee tallied up the total, and the old brass register chimed its approval.

  “Thank you for stopping by,” she said, passing them a paper bag filled with books. “Enjoy the rest of your trip.”

  The woman’s face lit up as if Bee had handed her a priceless treasure. “We will,” she assured Bee. “This is such a charming little town, I don’t think I’m ever going to want to leave.”

  The man chuckled. “I think your mom would appreciate it if we came home eventually.”

  The woman shushed him. “Oh, stop. She loves being with the kids. This weekend is going be like heaven for her.” She flashed Bee a smile as the man held the door open for her and then they were gone, still mock arguing, grinning at each other like teenagers.

  Once they had left, Bee went to the door, flipped the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed,’ and locked up. She watched through the glass as the couple ambled down the sidewalk, their hands clasped together as they moved down the sidewalk toward the lake.

  Bee leaned her forehead against the door, her heart heavy. Why was finding someone so difficult? In Eatonhead, her choices were slim: a few lifelong locals and a community of retirees who had made the town their sanctuary. Though she knew each by name, none had touched her heart.

  And what she was yearning for—what she saw in that couple—required heart.

  With a sigh, she carefully opened the wet books and left them to dry on the front desk. Keys in hand, she flipped the lights off and stepped outside, locking the doors behind her. The late-spring wind played with her damp hair and sent a chill through her wet tee shirt. Shivering, she took a deep breath, pocketed her keys, and set off down the sidewalk.

  Even though it was almost June, the evening air that blew off the lake was chilled. Bee wrapped her arms around her waist and ducked her head against the insistent breeze. The stores of Eatonhead were closing up around her. She smiled and nodded to Barbara, who was wheeling in a sweatshirt display rack back into her shop, The Camp Store.

  “I can’t believe Memorial Day is only a few weeks away,” the older woman commented. “It feels earlier every year!”

  “I know, right?” Bee laughed. She gave the other woman a small wave and hurried down the sidewalk.

  Barbara was right. Tourist season was right around the corner. The official kickoff was Memorial Day when the town would host its annual star-spangled bannered picnic in the park. It was a big deal, with BBQ competitions and a fireworks display. After that, summer hours would start for many of the stores in Eatonhead (including Bookmarked) as they stayed open late to catch the tourists who stopped to listen to the live music that played in the park.

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  The Memorial Park was the center of town, both literally and figuratively. Elaborate and picturesque, with old-fashioned globe lights dotting the concrete walks that crossed the green grass, it was the place that locals and tourists alike congregated. A large ornate gazebo sat at the southern end like a throne, painted white and green and overseeing all activity on the green lawns. In the summer, the town strung cafe lights from the gazebo to the lamp posts, lighting the whole park up like something out of an old movie.

  Bookmarked, along with The Camp Store and several other shops, lined the eastern edge of the park, while the town’s old movie theatre sat majestically on the opposite side. Now, the theatre was only open on Fridays and Saturdays, but like the rest of the town, it would come alive when the summer season started, playing old black-and-white movies on the weekdays for anyone who might want to stop and watch.

  Bee passed Gusto’s and was treated to a whiff of basil and garlic, making her stomach rumble. She forced her feet to move faster. With any luck, Clark would be cooking tonight, and she would get the real thing.

  Bee dodged the short line that trailed out the bright blue door of the Crooked Lake Creamery as people eagerly awaited their scoops of black raspberry and salted caramel. She turned the corner and headed toward Lake Street- toward home. A dog barked somewhere in the distance as she passed the overgrown hedge of Sandy McAddam’s place. To Bee, it would always be Sandy’s place. Of course, Sandy and her family hadn’t lived there for almost a decade. Her parents had sold the house not long after Bee and Sandy had graduated high school for a tidy sum to out-of-towners.

  It was the same story everywhere in town.

  The old Queen Anne on the corner had been bought by a rich old couple back when Bee was just a kid, and now their grandkids summered there. The big old mayoral house down the street, closer to the lake, had been purchased this last year by a well-to-do gay couple and was undergoing renovations. It felt like more than half the houses on Lake Street were dark, waiting for the summer months when their owners would come to town and open them up.

  As she rounded the corner onto Lake Street proper, Bee felt the quiet hush of the neighborhood envelop her. The maple trees’ broad canopies blocked out the setting sun, cloaking the street in perpetual dusk. In the distance, the bustle of the town square faded away until only her soft footfalls broke the silence.

  Up ahead, she could see the warm glow of lamplight spilling from the front windows of her father and Clark’s house. Bee’s steps slowed. She paused beneath the maple in front of the house, one hand trailing over the rough bark. She tipped her head back, breathing in the cool evening air. Above her, the branches rustled in a soft breeze.

  She loved this town.

  She almost hated to admit how much she loved it.

  She knew it didn’t have much. There was no Wal-Mart or Target, only the small corner grocery store. There was no home improvement store or golf course. You had to travel up to Penn-Yan or Geneva for something like that. But it did have an abundance of charm, and she knew every one of the locals. It was home.

  It always had been. Even when she’d lived in the city.

  With a sigh, she dropped her hand and climbed the stairs to the porch. They creaked under her weight. Home sweet home, even if the peeling paint and sagging floorboards betrayed its age. She paused at the front door, admiring Clark’s handiwork. He had painted the screen doors a cheerful green. The cool color brightened up the old Victorian.

  When Bee pulled open the squeaky screen door, the savory aroma of garlic greeted her, which meant Clark was cooking up something delicious in the kitchen.

  “Hey, Dad,” Bee said, pausing in the doorway to the living room. Bee’s father, Arthur, sat with the newspaper in his battered recliner.

  He peered at her over his glasses. “Bee. How was your day?”

  She shrugged. “It was fine.” She eyed his chair. Arthur preferred to be on his feet. “Your hip okay?”

  “Yes,” he said brusquely, going back to his newspaper.

  She hesitated in the doorway for a moment longer, then when it was clear Arthur had no more words for her, she followed her nose to the kitchen.

  Clark Spencer stood at the stove, his bald brown head shining under the overhead light. He wore the black and white striped apron she got him for Christmas a few years ago and hummed as he stirred the pot in front of him.

  “The doors look great,” she said, pecking his cheek. She took a deep breath. “Mmmm. That smells good already.”

  Clark turned and smiled. “I thought I’d celebrate the coming of Summer with my nan’s best pomodoro-” Then, he took in her expression. “What’s wrong?” His dark eyes scanned her face, then her body with a frown. “And why are you damp?”

  She shrugged. “That pipe is giving me issues again.”

  Clark’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh no. Not the one your father—”

  Bee nodded.

  “Yeah,” she said. “That one.”

  Clark swore. “That pipe will be the death of this family,” he said.

  She began to pull down the deep pasta bowls from the cupboard. “It’s fine for now,” she said. “I turned off the water, but we need to get it looked at.”

  Clark nodded thoughtfully and began scooping pasta into the wide bowls. He handed them to her as he finished each one, and she deposited them on the small round table in the corner of the kitchen.

  “Arthur!” Clark called as he untied his apron. “Dinner!” He turned to Bee. “We can’t keep doing this,” he said as he settled into his customary chair at the table and reached for one of the glasses of wine he’d already poured.

  “Do what?” Arthur asked, appearing in the kitchen doorway. He limped to one of the remaining chairs and dropped into it with a grimace.

  “That pipe burst again,” Clark said, taking a drink from his glass.

  “What pipe?” Arthur asked with a frown.

  His husband gave him an exasperated look. “The one you almost killed yourself on!”

  Arthur’s expression soured. “I didn’t do anything of the sort.”

  Clark snorted. “Yeah, and I’m Mariah Carey.”

  “Clark—” Arthur started, but Clark shook his head.

  “Arthur, I don’t want to argue about it,” he said firmly. “But the truth of the matter is that the plumbing in that store is atrocious. I mean, look at your daughter!”

  Both men turned to look at Bee as she was squeezing into the last remaining chair. The wooden back scraped against the wall as she moved. Clark winced, and her lips twisted into a silent apology.

  “What about her?” Arthur asked.

  “She’s soaking wet!”

  Bee would hardly say she was soaking wet. “I’m fine—” she started, but Clark held up a hand.

  “She had to turn off the water in the building today just to keep that pipe from exploding.”

  That wasn’t exactly what happened, and Bee opened her mouth to say so, but Arthur beat her to it. He looked at her with renewed intensity.

  “You did what now?”

  “The water was getting everywhere,” she explained, “so I had to turn off the main line—”

  “And just how exactly am I supposed to sell that apartment with no water?” he cut in. “Why didn’t you just fix it?”

  She frowned at him. “I tried,” she said, “but it only made things worse—”

  Her father grumbled. “Great, now I’ll have to call Joe in the morning and get it patched up.”

  Her frown deepened. “With all due respect, Dad, I think we need more than just a patch job. We need to have the whole system replaced, maybe move it to the back wall or something—”

  “And cut off water to the apartment upstairs? Can’t do that. We need the rental income.” Arthur waved his hand in dismissal.

  Bee sucked in a breath, anger simmering beneath the surface. Not this again. “If we expanded the store upstairs, we wouldn’t need the apartment revenue. That space has been vacant since I came home. It’s been two years. No one wants it.”

  Arthur’s face reddened. “We’ve been over this. The renovation would cost a fortune.”

  “But think of the potential! We could double our inventory. Barb at The Camp Shop did it, and business is booming.” Bee leaned forward, willing her father to consider.

  He banged his fist on the table, making the silverware jump. “You want to turn my store into a novelty shop? Selling sweatshirts and scented candles?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Bee shot back.

  Clark reached over and grasped Arthur’s arm. “Hey now, let’s all just take a breath.”

  But the damage was done. Bee’s eyes watered as she stared down at her congealing dinner, the pasta blurring together. She pressed her lips into a firm line and stood up, the chair back scraping the wall again.

  “You know what? I’m not hungry,” she bit out, throwing her napkin on the table.

  BEE SLAMMED THE SCREEN DOOR BEHIND HER, the bang echoing in the quiet evening air. She sank onto the top step of the front porch, wrapping her arms around her knees. The empty street stretched before her, the homes dark and still.

  She heard the squeak of the door as Clark stepped outside. He eased down beside her with a soft groan, the old wood creaking under his weight.

  “He doesn’t mean it, you know,” Clark said gently. “He just has a hard time with change.”

  Bee kept her eyes fixed on the vacant houses across the road. “He thinks I’m trying to ruin everything he built.”

  “Hey now, none of that.” Clark bumped her shoulder. “You’ve got ideas, is all. Good ones, if you ask me.”

  “Then why can’t he see that?” She dropped her forehead onto her knees. “I’m trying to help, not take over.”

  Clark smoothed down her hair. “Your father’s stubborn. You know that better than anyone.” He cupped her chin, turning her to meet his eyes. “But he loves you, Bee. Deep as the ocean. He’ll come around, you’ll see.”

  Bee’s throat tightened, and she nodded.

  “Remember when you first headed off to college?” Clark asked, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “You were so excited to get out there and take on the world.”

  Bee nodded, a wistful smile touching her lips. “I couldn’t wait to finally be out on my own.”

  “Your dad and I were so proud of you. You got that internship at the Metropolitan right after graduating, and then they hired you full-time.” Clark shook his head. “You were really going places.” Clark let out a heavy sigh and wrapped one long arm around her. “I know you gave up a lot to come back and help with the bookstore. It kills me to think you blew your chance at that life.”

  He looked down at her, his dark eyes serious. “Do you want to go back, honey? We wouldn’t blame you in the least—”

  She quickly shook her head no. “It’s too late for that,” she said, her throat tightening as she fought back a swell of emotion. “I’d have to start all over.” And there was no point in that.

  Clark hugged her tight. “We just want you to be happy, honey.”

  She looked down at her hands. “I am happy,” she said. It wasn’t much of a lie- she really was happy- for the most part.

  Clark sighed, and she got the impression that he didn’t believe her, but he let her have her lie for now. The fading sunlight stretched long shadows across the worn wooden planks of the porch steps as Bee and Clark sat side-by-side in pensive silence. Clark’s knees creaked audibly as he slowly stood up and turned to Bee.

  “Would you mind running down to the market to grab a loaf of bread? Your father will need some for his toast in the morning,” Clark asked, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners.

  “Of course,” Bee replied, standing up and brushing off her jeans. The little grocery store was just around the corner from their tiny Victorian house.

  “My knee’s acting up something awful today, or I’d go myself,” Clark said apologetically, rubbing at the offending joint.

  Bee waved off his concern and leaned in to place a gentle kiss on his black bald head. “It’s no trouble at all. I could use the walk to clear my head after...everything.”

  With a weak smile, Bee turned and set off down the porch steps. She couldn’t resist taking in a deep breath of the sweet spring air, scented with lilac and honeysuckle. As she strolled down the quiet street bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, she felt the day’s tension and sadness over her argument with her father start to lift from her shoulders. By the time she reached the cheery glow of the grocery store windows, the tight knot in her chest had loosened, and she felt- not better so much as… clearer.