Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
My first stop was my favorite place second to the bakery— the coffee shop/bookstore. It was housed in a pink and white building next to the blue and yellow building of the bakery next door.
It was called Macbeth’s Pages & Perks.
It was already busy inside the cozy store. Along the back wall was the coffee counter and all the machinery. The adjacent side of the room was lined with bookshelves and the front of the store with bistro tables. There was a comfortable couch and coffee table near the bookshelves, but it was always occupied whenever I ventured in. There were two armchairs next to an actual fireplace, but those were always the first spots to get taken.
Framed literary posters hung on the wall, interspersed between metal signs with sayings about coffee and books like “That’s what I do: I drink coffee. I read books. And I know things.” “Death to Decaf.” “Drink Coffee: Do stupid things faster with more energy.” “Heaven is a never-ending supply of coffee and books. Welcome to Heaven.”
The signs made me smile and wonder about the owner, whom I’d yet to meet. The store was run by Ewan and Martha, who had told me during a quieter moment in the shop that the owner, Isla Macbeth, was currently off sick.
Today, I was greeted by a new face behind the coffee counter. A beautiful brunette with large dark eyes gave me a smile that didn’t quite reach said eyes. “What can I get you?” she asked in a Scots accent similar to the locals. Yet I hadn’t seen her around the village before because I definitely would have remembered her.
“Americano for Tierney!” Ewan called from the opposite end of the counter, flashing me a grin of welcome.
I smiled back and nodded at the brunette. “He’s right.”
“Oh, you must be the American who bought the guesthouse,” the brunette said before turning toward the machine to start making my drink. She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m Taran Macbeth.”
“Oh, are you Isla’s daughter?”
Undeniable pain tightened Taran’s features. “You met Mum, then?”
“No.” I hesitated, not sure what was happening but feeling not-great vibes. I glanced down the counter toward Ewan who gave me a shake of his head, his eyes suddenly bright with emotion.
Oh god, what was happening?
Taran finished making the Americano in silence and then set it down in front of me. “I hope you like it here.”
“I do. Thanks.”
I paid for my coffee, aware there was a line behind me but weirdly feeling the need to say something else.
“If you ever need anything …”
Taran’s expression softened. “That’s my line. But thanks. Same. If you’re a regular in here, I’ll see you a lot now. I’ve come home to take over the store.”
I heard what she wasn’t saying and battled the urge to tell this stranger how sorry I was. Now I recognized that look on her face. I’d seen it on my own whenever I looked in the mirror after my parents’ death.
Gesturing with my cup, I gave her a little wave and walked out of the coffee store feeling unbelievably sad for her.
“Tierney!”
I glanced up to find Cammie strolling toward me. The McQuarries were a tall bunch. Cameron was five ten, built like a glamor model, and had a thick mass of long blond hair. Every other week there was a new streak of color in the two bands framing her face; today it was fuchsia pink. Her nose was a little too long and her mouth a little too wide—but she had that thing, that quality, that made her attractiveness transcend the nonsensical lie referred to as “traditional beauty.”
She wore a tight-fitting rain jacket with a belted waist with her jeans and hiking boots, barely any makeup, and yet still managed to look put together. Slim gold rings with varying stones decorated almost every one of her blunt-nailed fingers, and when her right sleeve was pushed up, it revealed her tattoo, a beautiful, delicate branch of heather to symbolize her niece Heather. When her nephew was born, she had his name, Angus, wound into the tattoo in script.
Usually of a sunny disposition, I tensed at Cammie’s somber facade as she approached. She gestured to the store behind me. “Did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
Her blue eyes glistened. “Isla Macbeth has metastatic breast cancer. It’s not … They didn’t catch it in time. She’s decided not to seek treatment.”
I’d known it was something like that. I’d seen it written all over a devastated Taran Macbeth. I squeezed Cammie’s arm. “I’m so sorry. That’s why Taran is home.”
Her head whipped toward the coffee shop. “She’s in there?”
I nodded.
Cammie stared at the store for a few seconds, hesitating. Then she gestured for me to walk with her. “Taran is … was Quinn’s girlfriend in high school.”
I thought about my handsome contractor and the pretty brunette and could absolutely see it. “How sweet.”