I couldn’t take any more disappointment from my mother.
“Phil, I can’t talk about this right now. I need to go.” I hung up, feeling bad about it because Phil was great. However, I couldn’t concentrate on the guilt.
Instead, all I could think about was the need to escape.
I thought of the money sitting in several savings accounts. Life insurance money left to me when my dad died. I’d used a bit for tuition, but with interest my savings were substantial. I’d been holding on to the money to buy a house, for that day when I finally met Prince Fucking Charming and settled down.
Since that seemed like a dream that would never come true, I pulled up the search engine on my phone and typed in “vacation escapes in England.” It was moronic considering I no longer had a full-time job and should probably be concentrating on finding another in Chicago. Besides, I doubted Patrick would give me a reference, so that was going to be a much harder feat than usual.
However, in that moment, nothing else mattered but getting away from my life.
As a fan of all things classic literature—Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Geoffrey Chaucer, Charlotte Brontë—England was on the top of my bucket list.
I scrolled somewhat frantically through the vacation listings until my eyes caught on a link.
MUCH ADO ABOUT BOOKS—A BOOKSHOP HOLIDAY!
The nod to Shakespeare made me click on the link.
The advertising copy made my hands shake with excitement.
Much Ado About Books was a small bookshop in the quaint fishing village of Alnster in Northumberland. I googled it and that was northern England, near the border with Scotland. At Much Ado About Books, not only did you rent the apartment above the bookstore, but the owner let you run her bookshop.
It was a booklover’s dream vacation getaway.
I could do that.
I could totally run away from my life and manage a bookstore in a little village in England, where none of my troubles or worries could get to me. And come on, someone named the bookstore after a Shakespearean play. It was fate.
It had to be.
No more men who made me doubt myself.
No more job that made me feel like a failure.
In fact, no more entire life circumstances that made me feel like a failure.
And I wasn’t just going to England for a two-week break either.
No way.
Hands shaking, I dialed the number on the ad after checking the country code for the UK. It rang five times before a woman with a wonderful English accent answered.
“Much Ado About Books, how can I help?”
“Uh, yes, hello, I’d like to speak to someone about booking a stay at the bookshop.”
“Oh . . . okay. Well, I’m the owner, Penny Peterson.”
Butterflies fluttered to life in my belly. “Hi, Penny, my name is Evie Starling, and I’d like to book the store for a whole month. Starting Monday. Please tell me that’s doable?”
Three
Alnster, Northumberland
If it weren’t for the slightly darker shade of gray in the line of the horizon, it would have been almost impossible to see where the sky met the sea on my first day in England.
Yet, I’d never seen anything more beautiful than the harbor village I now found myself in. The harbor itself was small, a semicircle carved into the coastline with stone arms curving out to almost meet. There was just enough space in the gap for the small fishing boats to escape out into the sea.
A small rocky beach led up to a pathway, and beyond that pathway to the left was a low stone wall that demarcated where row upon row of individual gardens began.
The gray of the day was broken up by a riot of colorful flowers and plants that blossomed in gardens. In each garden was a wrought-iron gate that led onto the harbor at one end and the street on the other. I gathered the gardens belonged to the terraced houses across the street behind me because small notices on the gates stated they were private.
Looking down at an older couple sitting in a garden that was decked and covered in flowerpots, staring out at the water, I thought how lovely it must be to own one. A place to sit and enjoy the harbor without tourists venturing into their sanctuary.
My eyes moved back to the water as I swayed a little against the large suitcase sitting by my side. As soon as the cab drove past the quaint English cottages and turned with the bend in the road, the water appeared on the horizon before me . . . and I knew.
I knew this was where I was meant to be, and the agitation I’d felt since saying goodbye to Greer finally settled.
“I know you better than you think I do,” Greer had said last night, clutching my elbows as we stood on the sidewalk outside O’Hare. “You feel like I’m abandoning you, don’t you? Now you’re acting insane and running away to England.”