Book Charmer

Book : Dove Pond Series

by Karen Hawkins

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Karen Hawkins crafts an unforgettable story about a sleepy Southern town, two fiercely independent women, and a truly magical friendship. Sarah Dove is no ordinary bookworm. To her, books have always been more than just objects: they live, they breathe, and sometimes they even speak. When Sarah grows up to become the librarian in her quaint Southern town of Dove Pond, her gift helps place every book in the hands of the perfect reader. Recently, however, the books have been whispering about something out of the ordinary: the arrival of a displaced city girl named Grace Wheeler. If the books are right, Grace could be the savior that Dove Pond desperately needs. The problem is, Grace wants little to do with the town or its quirky residents—Sarah chief among them. It takes a bit of urging, and the help of an especially wise book, but Grace ultimately embraces the challenge to rescue her charmed new community. In her quest, she discovers the tantalizing promise of new love, the deep strength that comes from having a true friend, and the power of finding just the right book. “A mesmerizing fusion of the mystical and the everyday” (Susan Andersen, New York Times bestselling author), The Book Charmer is a heartwarming story about the magic of books that feels more than a little magical itself. Prepare to fall under its spell.

Release date: July 30, 2019

Publisher: Gallery Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

The Book Charmer

CHAPTER 1

Grace

DOVE POND, NC

MAY 16, 2019

“Are we there yet?” Daisy asked.

“No,” Grace said for the eighth time, her eyes locked on the moving truck that slowly rumbled along in front of her Honda. Every side of the ancient truck bore the words MCLAREN’S YOU NEED TO MOVE WE CAN DO IT, LLC.

Mama G, in the front beside Grace, looked over the seat at Daisy. “We just passed the ‘Welcome to Dove Pond’ sign, so it won’t be long now.”

“We’ve been driving ?forever.” Daisy slumped, twirling her ponytail with restless fingers, a habit she’d picked up during the past few difficult months.

Daisy was a precocious child, this daughter of Hannah’s and an unknown boy from her high school. Even at the tender age of eight, Daisy was an odd, old-souled sort of kid, all elbows and knees, blurting what she thought no matter how bold or ill-advised. She was smart too, perhaps even brilliant, according to her test scores, and she could read well above her level, devouring books the way most kids her age devoured cartoons. Despite that, the child made only mediocre grades, as she was easily distracted, she and her restless mind. Just like her mother.

Grace looked at Daisy in the rearview mirror, noting the blond hair and crystal-blue eyes. Oh, Hannah, you would be so proud of her. Grace’s throat tightened and she forced herself to focus on the truck they followed.

Mama G looked up from her knitting to admire the large maples and elms that dotted the streets. “I love these trees.” She sighed happily, then returned her attention to the mittens she was making.

Shortly after Grace and Hannah had come to live with Mama G, she’d taken up knitting, saying it “calmed the nerves.” Grace thought that was strange, because no one had a more peaceful spirit than Mama G. Over the years, she’d made hundreds of scarves and mittens, most of which had ended up in Grace’s room, as Hannah had never liked them.

Grace glanced over at Mama G now. Her once-graceful hands were liver spotted and gnarled, but they never stopped moving. Normally, Mama G’s rhythmic knitting sent a flood of calm through Grace, but today it did nothing.

Right now, everything felt useless, empty. Broken.

Grace swallowed the lump in her throat and applied the brakes as the moving truck slowed in front of her. “We should be turning onto Elm Street soon.”

As if in answer to her prayers, the truck’s signal flashed and the vehicle slowly turned.

“Almost there.” Grace admired the rows of elms that shaded the road. “Our new house is at the end of this street.” New meaning “recently rented.” She silently ticked through her Things That Must Be Done list: unpack, register Daisy for school, find a caretaker for Mama G—the list seemed endless, and she winced to think about the shrinking amount left in her bank accounts. The events of the past few months had murdered her savings. But by Grace’s careful calculations, if they lived frugally over the next year, they would have enough for a down payment on a small house in Charlotte.

The thought of returning to Charlotte calmed Grace. For the past five years, she’d worked at a large financial company in one of the city’s trendier areas. She’d been happy there and, until the craziness of the past few months, she’d never thought she’d leave.

But she’d go back, and this time she’d take Mama G and Daisy. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would happen. She would make sure of it.

Behind her, Daisy leaned against her window and stared at the houses rolling past. The street was long and wide, the sidewalks shaded by the towering trees. The quality of the houses perched along the way gave Grace hope. Huge and ornate, the grand old lady houses flaunted a variety of pastel colors. Windows glinting in the afternoon sunshine, they gazed at one another with sleepy, lace-fluttered windows and wide, white-trimmed porches.

It looks like a safe neighborhood, and these houses—wow! Perhaps this will all work out. Hope blossomed, so Grace—ever cautious—tried to tamp it down, hugging her worries like a shield.

“I like these houses,” Daisy said. “I bet they have ghosts. They look like the right kind.”

Grace looked at Daisy in the rearview mirror and saw her niece’s nose pressed against the window glass. “There is no such thing as ghosts.”

Her mouth instantly tight with anger, Daisy said in a sullen tone, “How would you know?”

Grace had to clamp her mouth over a sharp reply. Just a week ago, Mama G had warned Grace to pick her battles with Daisy, and this wasn’t a hill worth dying on.

It still hurt, though. And Grace was never sure if she was giving up some sort of authority by not reprimanding Daisy about things like tone of voice and eye rolls. I don’t know a darn thing about raising kids. Not one. Yet now, here I am.

Until two months ago, Grace’s position in Daisy’s life had been “Favorite Aunt” and nothing else. Grace had loved being the FA, who breezed into town like Mary Poppins, beloved by everyone as she bestowed presents and took Mama G and Daisy on all sorts of fun adventures. Those were the days, she thought wistfully. But things were different now. Everything has changed.

Daisy muttered to herself, “I like ghosts.”

Grace tightened her grip on the steering wheel. It was silly to argue about something as ridiculous as ghosts, but she didn’t want Daisy afraid to sleep at night because of every old-house thump and creak. For all of Daisy’s bravado, she was a sensitive child and suffered from her own overactive imagination.

“Ghosts can be very nice,” Mama G said in a thoughtful tone. “The ones I’ve met were, anyway.”

Daisy leaned toward the front seat as far as her seat belt would let her. “You’ve met ghosts? Were they—”

“She’s joking, of course,” Grace interrupted. She wished Mama G wouldn’t encourage Daisy’s flights of fancy.

“Mama G, tell Aunt Grace you aren’t joking,” Daisy said in a belligerent tone. “Tell her that you’ve seen ghosts.”

Grace swallowed a sigh. Parenting was damned hard. If you weren’t being scoffed at, you were being challenged. But then again, maybe it was only difficult because she sucked at it. Part of the problem was that while she wasn’t really Daisy’s mother, Grace’d also lost her standing as the Favorite Aunt. Right now, neither she nor Daisy was quite sure what Grace was, except inexperienced.

Loneliness swamped Grace, seeping into her soul like icy water. Growing up, no matter how badly life had treated her and Hannah, they’d had each other. Even when, at seventeen years of age, rebellious Hannah had run away, leaving four-month-old Daisy with Mama G, she’d kept in touch with Grace. Grace had been in college, neck-deep in tests and papers and fighting for her place on the dean’s list, but she’d been ridiculously grateful for Hannah’s scarce text messages and rare phone calls, even though 90 percent of them had been requests for money. Still, those tiny contacts had made Grace feel that she and Hannah were still a family. But more than that, they’d allowed Grace to pretend that things were okay. That Hannah was okay, even though she wasn’t.

Two months and eleven days ago, Hannah had died, her life burned to a crisp by her own wild spirits. And Grace, still pretending things were “okay,” hadn’t been ready. There was a hole in her life now, one she didn’t know how to fill. Somehow, in losing her sister, she’d also lost all the hopes she’d been clinging to that, with time and love, Hannah would stop wandering the world like a lost soul, chasing dangerous men and even more dangerous thrills. That one day, she’d come home, realize how much she missed Grace and Mama G, and how special Daisy was, and she’d welcome them all back into her life. That they’d finally become the family Grace had always so desperately wanted them to be.

Hannah’s death had left Grace aching, angry, and empty. But it was even harder for Daisy. The little girl had loved her beautiful but distant mother with an obstinate, uncritical passion. For weeks after the funeral, she’d refused to go to school, staying in bed unless forced to get up, arguing about everything with everybody. It had taken all of Mama G’s considerable influence to convince Daisy to return to her classroom. But once there, the child had been sullen and silent, ignoring her friends and teachers alike. She did no homework and when the time came to take a test, instead of answering the problems, she filled the paper with drawings of furious dragons spewing fire. Had her previous grades not been so high and her teachers so understanding, she might have failed.

The school counselor had warned Grace that the next few months, and perhaps longer, would be difficult and that it would be normal for Daisy to continue to “act out,” at least for a while. Despite the warning, Daisy’s sudden flares of anger and her stubborn refusal to accept Grace as a parent had made a difficult situation even worse.

But more than anyone else, Grace understood anger. What was difficult was seeing the sheer pain that lurked behind every sharp word that tumbled from Daisy’s mouth and being unable to do anything to help.

Grace gripped the steering wheel harder, torn between a growing anger at Hannah for being so careless with herself, even though it had cost others, and also desperate to tell her how much she’d been loved. Everyone loved you, Hannah. Everyone except you.

“Ghosts aren’t always bad, you know,” Mama G mused aloud as she pulled a length of yarn from her knitting basket.

“Mama G, please. Don’t.”

Mama G nodded. “I know what you’re thinking, but ghosts are nothing like the silliness people put in horror movies. Ghosts aren’t scary at all. They’re just wisps of lives gone by. Shadows, really.”

“What do they look like?” Daisy asked before Grace could change the subject.

Mama G stopped knitting and pursed her lips. “Sometimes they’re a faint shape. And sometimes they’re just a memory that flickers out of the corner of your eye.”

“I’m going to meet one,” Daisy announced. “I’m going to find out how she died so I can help her find her murderer.”

“Most ghosts weren’t murdered,” Mama G said calmly, pulling more yarn from her basket. “Most died in their sleep.”

Grace knew what would happen now. Daisy, always too excitable, wouldn’t be able to sleep and it would be Grace, and not Mama G, who’d have to handle it. “Ghosts don’t exist,” Grace repeated firmly. “At all.” She wished the moving truck would find the house. It was barely creeping along, and she had no wish to continue this conversation.

Mama G didn’t look up from her knitting, but said under her breath, “Well, well. Someone is in for a surprise.”

“It’s not going to be me,” Grace said baldly. “Mama G, the likelihood of— Ah! Here we are!” Thank God. She slapped a smile on her face and was about to say something ridiculous like Welcome home! when the house came into view.

Grace’s hopes were instantly and viciously smashed.

Although as beautiful and gracious in design as its neighbors, the house at the end of the driveway was a faded shadow of the others. The pale lavender color was now more gray than purple, the wide porch was crooked, and much of the delightful trim she’d seen on the other houses was missing, the paint chipped and peeling. Grace was reminded of a jaded old woman wearing a faded housecoat, her worn smile marred by missing teeth.

“I bet this house has ghosts,” Daisy said.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s more than one,” Mama G agreed as she stored her knitting in her basket.

Dear God, please keep me from screaming. Grace drove past the moving truck, which had pulled close to the walk, and parked her car beside a large, rusty RV that sat at the rear of the driveway near a garage with a deeply dented door. She put the car in park and stared up at the house, noting the thick moss that clung to the roof.

Mama G patted Grace’s hand where it rested on the steering wheel. “The car’s still running.”

“I know.” She wondered what would happen if they just stayed where they were, locked safely away. The car wasn’t large, but it was big enough to sleep in if they lowered the seats and had pillows and blankets and—

“Look!” Daisy opened her door. “There’s a tire swing in the tree in the front yard.”

Mama G nodded. “I saw that. You’ll have to give it a try and see how high you can swing.”

“Daisy, wait.” Grace leaned forward and tried to see the swing. “Don’t get on it yet. I want to be sure it’s safe before you—”

It was too late. Daisy had already jumped out and was headed for the swing.

“I’ll get her.” Mama G climbed out of the car and started to follow Daisy but then stopped. She leaned down to look at Grace, where she sat glued in the driver’s seat. “Come inside. It may need a little work, but it’s a lovely house.”

“It’s a wreck,” Grace said flatly.

Mama G smiled, although it was a tired, worn effort. “Grace, I know this is difficult for you—”

“For all of us.”

Mama G’s gaze softened. “Right now, life isn’t fair for any of us. We’re all three mad at life, at all of this change—maybe even at Hannah.”

Grace’s throat tightened.

Mama G sat back in the passenger seat and placed her hand over Grace’s. “You have to let it go. All of it—your anger, your worries, your fears. Daisy is counting on you. And, as much as I hate to add to your problems, so am I.”

Grace grasped Mama G’s hand and squeezed it. “I owe you a thousand years of being counted on.”

Mama G smiled sadly. “Unfortunately, I think you’re about to pay them all back at once. But we have to move forward, sweetheart. And we can’t do that if we hold on to what was.”

“I’m not holding on to anything.”

“Not on purpose, perhaps. But you are in other ways. And so am I, and so is Daisy. It’s tough letting go of something you only thought you had, and that’s what Hannah was—she was a maybe. A possibly. A perhaps. She knew how to make people hope that she was more than she was ever willing to be.”

Grace didn’t think she’d ever heard a better description of Hannah. Still, it was who Hannah was, who she’d always been. Tears burned Grace’s eyes. “She never came to visit and rarely called, but I miss her. It’s so weird. It’s—” She swiped the tears from her eyes.

“I know.” Mama G patted Grace’s hand. “Everything is going to be all right.”

“I wish I believed that.”

Mama G chuckled. “Always the skeptic, aren’t you? Even when you were a child. But look. We came to Dove Pond for a new start. If we decide to, we’ll find happiness here. I know we will. This town is . . . well, it’s different. And this is where we’re supposed to be. I’m sure of it.”

Her throat too tight to answer, Grace managed a short nod, although she wished she felt sure about something—anything, really.

Mama G sighed and pulled her hand from Grace’s. “Come in when you’re ready.” She slid back out of the car and started to straighten, but then hesitated.

Grace’s heart sank anew at the flicker of uncertainty in Mama G’s usually serene face. It took all her strength not to let her voice break as she said softly, “You were going to see to Daisy. She went to the swing.”

Mama G’s face cleared. “Oh yes. Daisy.” She nodded as if that was all she needed to hear, but her face was pink with embarrassment. With a few mumbled words, she walked away, the car door hanging open in her wake.

Grace bent over the steering wheel and rubbed her aching temples. Mama G’s memory was getting worse. A month ago, Grace had found her standing in the middle of the road in front of her own home, the mail clutched forgotten in her hands as she looked around, confused and unaware that she was less than forty feet from her front door.

Warm, humid summer air swirled inside from the open door. Grace closed her eyes, remembering the neat, wonderful life she’d led only a few short months ago when she’d stupidly thought she had figured out life, success, happiness—everything. But all that had changed with one phone call from a weeping Mama G, whose every other word had been “Hannah.”

Grace had gone back to Mama G’s house and together they’d organized the funeral and tried to untangle the mess that had been Hannah’s life. While there, Grace had slowly realized that Mama G wasn’t herself. She kept forgetting things, items had been left in odd places, and doctor’s appointments were made and missed. After finding Mama G looking so confused in front of her own house, Grace had taken her to the doctor, who’d confirmed that the always-strong, never-wavering Mama G was showing signs of Alzheimer’s.

Grace’s heart, already broken by Hannah’s death, had shattered. Mama G was the rock Grace had built her life upon. And now, quite suddenly, it was Grace’s turn to make things work and to take care of not just Mama G, but the recalcitrant Daisy as well. Grace only hoped she was strong enough to do both.

At first, she’d hoped she could pack them up and take them to Charlotte with her, but it had taken no more than ten minutes of honest face-the-music thought for her to realize that she couldn’t continue to work eighty hours a week as a financial analyst, raise a devastated and angry Daisy, and take care of Mama G, all at one and the same time. No matter how many times Grace ran the numbers, the reality was grim but clear.

So, bowed but unbroken, Grace had quit her dream job, cashed in her retirement plan, paid off her lease, and moved back home to look after what was left of her small, tattered family.

She needed a new job, of course, something with far more flexibility than her previous position. While she’d been searching, one of Mama G’s cousins, a sharp-tongued woman by the name of Mrs. Philomedra Phelps, had called Grace and offered her the job of Town Clerk Level 1 for Dove Pond, North Carolina, Mama G’s old hometown. The position was well below Grace’s skill level, but offered the flexible hours she desperately needed. Attached to the offer was the rental of Mrs. Phelps’s own home at a ridiculously low amount, as she was retiring to Florida.

Grace hadn’t wanted to move, for the salary was dismal. But two days after Mrs. Phelps’s phone call, a big storm had blown through Whitlow and Mama G’s ancient house had sprung what seemed like a hundred leaks. Almost every pot in the house had been called into service to catch the water as it dripped through the eaves and dissolved the ceiling plaster, raining wet, soggy clumps onto Mama G’s furniture and rugs. When the repairman came to assess the damage, the burly man had reluctantly informed Grace that the old, rickety clapboard house was past fixing.

The day after this bleak news, the dementia specialist overseeing Mama G’s care made a chance comment that brought Grace back to Mrs. Phelps’s offer. While discussing treatment options, the specialist mentioned how she’d taken her own mother back to her hometown after she’d been similarly diagnosed and that it had seemed to ease the decline, at least a little.

The doctor hadn’t offered the comment as a cure, and indeed, she hadn’t mentioned it more than once, but the words had caught Grace’s attention. After a long and sleepless night, Grace had called Mrs. Phelps and accepted the job.

And now, here they were, moving from Mama G’s worn-out house and into another ramshackle eyesore in the picturesque town of Dove Pond.

Grace wished for the thousandth time that this was all a dream and she’d wake up to everything the way it had been, that Hannah was alive and Daisy not so angry, Mama G’s memory not chipping away like old paint, and—

Someone knocked on the window. Two men peered at her through the glass. The big man in gray overalls was mover Ricky Bob McLaren, his brown hair slicked to one side as if his comb only worked in one direction. She knew who he was because of the large patch on his shirt. At his side was his helper, a short, round, bearded man with the name TOMMY emblazoned on his much smaller patch.

Ricky Bob pointed to the truck, then to the house, and then back to the truck.

Tommy, as if helping his boss, mimicked the movements, but in an exaggerated fashion.

Grace rolled down the window. “Yes?”

Ricky Bob held out his hand. “We’ll need the house keys.”

“Mrs. Phelps should still be home.” Grace turned off the car and climbed out. “I’ll find her. She—”

“There you are,” spoke a brisk, sharp voice, followed by a clanking noise that gave Grace visions of Scrooge’s Marley. From around the moving truck, a squat, iron-haired woman in a flowered shirt and khaki shorts appeared. She leaned heavily to one side, carrying a tote filled with bottles of margarita mix and tequila, which clanged with each step. The old woman scowled at Grace. “You said you’d be here by three.”

“I said we’d be here around three,” Grace corrected, adding a smile to soften her words. “It’s barely three thirty.”

“Which is thirty minutes late. I have hours to drive and a schedule to keep.” The woman walked past Grace, the bag of bottles hanging dangerously close to the cracked driveway.

Ricky Bob and Tommy scrambled to get out of her way, scattering like chickens seeing a fox.

Grace swallowed a sharp retort. “The moving men need the house keys.”

Mrs. Phelps rolled her eyes. “The doors are unlocked.”

“Thank you,” the men mumbled as they hurried off.

Grace watched as they made their way into the house, glad to see Mama G and Daisy leave the swing and follow them inside. Grace felt safer knowing they were indoors.

Mrs. Phelps clanked her way toward the ancient RV. “I never lock the doors and Ricky Bob knows that, but then he’s an idiot.” She set the tote on the ground beside the passenger door of the rusty vehicle. “He was a sight smarter when he was fifteen, if you can believe it. But not now. Too much football. That boy’s had more concussions than most people have had colds.”

“I was told he was a good mover.”

“Better than most, providing you keep the instructions simple.” Mrs. Phelps looked Grace up and down. “My, look at you. Where are you going that you’re so dressed up?”

Grace looked down at her sundress and sandals, both of which were better suited for a day out in Charlotte’s tony Myers Park district than here in tiny Dove Pond. “It’s part of my strategy to win the world. You know—dress for the life you want, not the life you have.”

“If you dress like that in town hall, you’ll be the only one seeing it. The mayor only comes in for a few hours a day, if that. So, other than tax season, you’ll be pretty much alone.” Mrs. Phelps opened the passenger door, placed her tote on the floorboard, then slammed the door closed. “That’s it, then. I’d better get on the road. I scheduled a pee break at seven o’clock, as I should be near Atlanta by then, and you don’t want to get caught in traffic and need to pee.”

Grace managed to keep her smile, but barely. “You’re very organized. That bodes well for my taking on your old job. I’d like to talk about that, as the job description was vague. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure what the town clerk does.”

“Every damn thing,” Mrs. Phelps said baldly. She walked around the front of the RV to the driver’s door, Grace following. “You’ll process business licenses, voter registrations, and tax and fee payments. You’ll figure it out.”

Grace hoped the older woman was right. “I’ll call if I have questions. But before you leave, about the house. It’s . . . um. Not good. It’s in worse shape than I expected.”

Mrs. Phelps stopped by the driver’s door. “She’s solid. Everything works. As we discussed on the phone, I left some of the larger pieces of furniture for you. The rest is stored in the garage, so if you decide you want to use it, just help yourself. You’re welcome to it.”

“Thank you. I’m worried about the porch, though. It looks crooked.”

Mrs. Phelps fixed her icy button-bright gaze on Grace and lifted her thick eyebrows. “That porch has been crooked as long as I’ve been breathing, and it hasn’t fallen off the house yet. So long as you don’t load it up with a hundred or more fat people, it should stand for another hundred and fifty years.” Mrs. Phelps regarded Grace with suspicion. “You don’t plan on doing that, do you? Load it up with fat people? When we spoke on the phone, you said you weren’t a partier.”

“I’m not, and I don’t plan on loading the porch with anyone. I—” Grace bit off the rest of her sentence and took a steadying breath. “I would like to have someone check it out.”

Mrs. Phelps looked as if she wanted to argue, but a quick glance at her wristwatch made her snap out a reluctant, “Fine! There’s a business card for the Callahan brothers in the kitchen drawer by the stove. They own a handyman business and can fix just about anything. Call them and have them look at it. If they think something needs doing, they’ll know who to bill.”

“Great. Thank you.”

Mrs. Phelps opened the driver’s-side door, revealing a large, cracked-leather captain’s chair. She hauled herself inside, plopped into the seat, and slammed the door before saying out the open window, “As I told you on the phone, everything is included in the rent but yard care. Better watch that. If you don’t keep it up, you’ll have one of the Dove sisters on your ass about it, and you don’t want that.”

“The Dove sisters?”

“They live there.” Mrs. Phelps nodded up the street.

Grace turned to look. Two houses from them sat what must have been the largest house in Dove Pond. Painted a bold mauve and decorated with more than a usual amount of ornate white trim, it towered over its not-so-small neighbors. But it was the yard that stole all the glory. The grass was a deep, velvety green like that of a golf course, but it was a mere background for the hundreds—no, thousands—of flowers that bloomed in meticulously kept beds around the house, down the walkway, around each tree, and along the street. “That belongs on a movie set,” Grace murmured.

“They keep the place up,” Mrs. Phelps admitted in a grudging tone. “Unfortunately, they’re busybodies and will notice if you don’t mow.”

Grace imagined white-haired crones with hooked noses yelling about the height of t