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Authors: Barbara Davis
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she chose to let it go. Writers were known for being a bit manic about their routines. Some couldn’t write without music; others required absolute silence. Some could write in the midst of utter chaos, while others shut themselves away from the world, sometimes for weeks on end. She’d heard tales of lucky pens, hats, scarves, and rocks, all of which seemed ridiculous to everyone but the writers who staked their creativity on them.
“Good, then,” Michael said, picking up his fork again. “I’ll bring in the rest of my boxes and get set up.”
They lapsed into silence as they finished breakfast. Lane continued to study him through lowered lashes. He was an enigma, undeniably gorgeous, and at times even charming, and yet there was a frostiness about him, too, a careful wall he erected whenever it suited him. Perhaps he saw her attempts to be sociable as an annoyance. He’d made no secret of the fact that his main reason for wanting to stay at the inn was that with it closed there would be no one to bother him. Well, if that was the case, she had no problem giving Mr. Forrester all the space he wanted.
With breakfast over and the kitchen clean, Lane threw a batch of applesauce muffins in the oven, then set to work on a shopping list—or, more accurately, a wish list. There really was no telling what she’d find on the shelves, or if the Village Mart was even open yet, but as long as she had rice, beans, and pasta in the pantry they weren’t goingto starve. Next, she zipped several bread heels into a sandwich bag and pulled on her jacket. She was eager to get back to something like her normal morning routine—breakfast, dishes, walk to the light, then up to her writing room. But first she needed to tell Michael she was going.
He had wasted no time making himself at home, she saw as she stepped into the den, his laptop and books already spread over the softly polished library table he had pressed into service as a desk, a teetering stack of thick texts within easy reach on the seat of a green leather wingback. She really could see why he’d chosen to work here. It was a man’s room, gleaming with dark wood and softly worn leather, stately and proper right down to the globe and lectern she hadn’t had the heart to leave in storage. And he looked good standing there, right somehow, in front of the dark shelves, a pair of volumes tucked beneath his arm.
“Don’t tell me you actually found something that might help with your research.”
Michael started, looking vaguely guilty as he stepped away from the shelves. “Not really, no. But I have to say you’ve got a pretty impressive collection here.”
“Thanks, but I can’t take credit. They were here when I bought the place. Well, not here. They were up in storage. I salvaged what I could, but a lot were moldy. Others fell apart the minute I touched them. God knows how long they were up there in the heat and damp.”
Michael let his eyes drift back to the shelves. “What happened to them? The damaged ones, I mean.”
“I had to toss them. It broke my heart to do it. All those classics, even some first editions, all ruined. It would have made the nuns sad, I think.”
He made a sound like a snort. “Sad nuns—now, there’s a cheerful thought.”
“You should look through the binder in your room. There’s somehistory in it about the inn. It’s called the Cloister House because it was a convent at one time. Then, in the late sixties, I think it was, the church converted it to a boys’ home. I’ve always assumed the books were part of the curriculum. One day I’ll get through every one.”
“That sounds fairly ambitious.”
“Oh, but I’ve already started. Here, I’ll show you.”
She pointed to the top shelf. “I’ve read all those, and I’m up to
Anna Karenina
on the second shelf.
Madame Bovary
is next. Rather racy reading for schoolboys, though, I must say.”
“Maybe the top shelves were off-limits for the boys, and the racy stuff
“Good, then,” Michael said, picking up his fork again. “I’ll bring in the rest of my boxes and get set up.”
They lapsed into silence as they finished breakfast. Lane continued to study him through lowered lashes. He was an enigma, undeniably gorgeous, and at times even charming, and yet there was a frostiness about him, too, a careful wall he erected whenever it suited him. Perhaps he saw her attempts to be sociable as an annoyance. He’d made no secret of the fact that his main reason for wanting to stay at the inn was that with it closed there would be no one to bother him. Well, if that was the case, she had no problem giving Mr. Forrester all the space he wanted.
With breakfast over and the kitchen clean, Lane threw a batch of applesauce muffins in the oven, then set to work on a shopping list—or, more accurately, a wish list. There really was no telling what she’d find on the shelves, or if the Village Mart was even open yet, but as long as she had rice, beans, and pasta in the pantry they weren’t goingto starve. Next, she zipped several bread heels into a sandwich bag and pulled on her jacket. She was eager to get back to something like her normal morning routine—breakfast, dishes, walk to the light, then up to her writing room. But first she needed to tell Michael she was going.
He had wasted no time making himself at home, she saw as she stepped into the den, his laptop and books already spread over the softly polished library table he had pressed into service as a desk, a teetering stack of thick texts within easy reach on the seat of a green leather wingback. She really could see why he’d chosen to work here. It was a man’s room, gleaming with dark wood and softly worn leather, stately and proper right down to the globe and lectern she hadn’t had the heart to leave in storage. And he looked good standing there, right somehow, in front of the dark shelves, a pair of volumes tucked beneath his arm.
“Don’t tell me you actually found something that might help with your research.”
Michael started, looking vaguely guilty as he stepped away from the shelves. “Not really, no. But I have to say you’ve got a pretty impressive collection here.”
“Thanks, but I can’t take credit. They were here when I bought the place. Well, not here. They were up in storage. I salvaged what I could, but a lot were moldy. Others fell apart the minute I touched them. God knows how long they were up there in the heat and damp.”
Michael let his eyes drift back to the shelves. “What happened to them? The damaged ones, I mean.”
“I had to toss them. It broke my heart to do it. All those classics, even some first editions, all ruined. It would have made the nuns sad, I think.”
He made a sound like a snort. “Sad nuns—now, there’s a cheerful thought.”
“You should look through the binder in your room. There’s somehistory in it about the inn. It’s called the Cloister House because it was a convent at one time. Then, in the late sixties, I think it was, the church converted it to a boys’ home. I’ve always assumed the books were part of the curriculum. One day I’ll get through every one.”
“That sounds fairly ambitious.”
“Oh, but I’ve already started. Here, I’ll show you.”
She pointed to the top shelf. “I’ve read all those, and I’m up to
Anna Karenina
on the second shelf.
Madame Bovary
is next. Rather racy reading for schoolboys, though, I must say.”
“Maybe the top shelves were off-limits for the boys, and the racy stuff
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