Hope Between the Pages Pepper Basham (thriller book recommendations TXT) 📖

of her dear husband, gone over a year now. Could it be so long? The memory came with a strange mixture of long ago and immediate all at once.

When Mr. Vanderbilt died everything at the house changed, Mother had said. The number of parties and the number of servants decreased. A light, which once glowed from the very core of the house he built, somehow faded with his absence, though Mrs. Vanderbilt and her daughter, Cornelia, endeavored to keep it alight. Remembered.

And it was, in every limestone brick of the grand estate. In every beloved book.

“A capital prospect, Edith,” an Englishman responded. Perhaps the same older gentleman I had heard earlier? “I only wish I’d come early enough to tell George what I thought of his magnificent estate. But I shall tell you, for you are part of him.”

“Yes, and I feel certain he would smile gently at your compliment and then turn the conversation away from himself,” Mrs. Vanderbilt responded, her voice brightening. “Anyone for tea?”

“Mrs. Vanderbilt, I must say I’m a bit perplexed.” This from the younger of the two Englishmen. I noticed through my reflected spying that he had picked up a book from the side table.

My heart erupted into a pitter-patter. Had I chosen well?

“What do you mean, Oliver?” his father questioned.

Oliver. Ah, they must be the Camdens. The housekeeper had spoken of their arrival. Oliver Camden. A very pleasant name to the mind.

“Only this.” He raised the book for their inspection. “Before breakfast I was speaking to Father about wanting to read an adventure or childhood classic, and here I find on the table one of the very books I mentioned.”

I couldn’t tame my smile. The beautiful evergreen color marked the cover of Tarzan.

“And here, look.” He returned to the table and brought another book from its place, one of my particular favorites as far as adventures were concerned. “King Solomon’s Mines? And…” He laughed, a sound so warm and alive it made me think of an azalea-scented breeze in late spring. “Dracula?”

“I’ve never seen anyone become so excited over books.” The lady, Lorraine, sat shaking her golden head, her expression disclosing her distaste of Mr. Oliver’s passionate reaction.

I actually appreciated his response. Some of the upstairs group, excepting the Vanderbilts, kept their opinions and emotions so dulled, one would wonder if the house wasn’t filled with magnificently costumed mannequins.

“Then I’ve not surrounded you with the right people, Lorraine.” Mrs. Vanderbilt had regained her humor, a smile in her words, though the direction of my mirror did not afford me a view of her face. “A happy remedy with Oliver around, I’d say.”

“If that isn’t the understatement of the week,” came the elder Mr. Camden’s response. “I think without books the poor boy would shrivel up and die under constant estate work and gardening.”

“Though, Father, I do enjoy gardening.”

How could I ever fail to appreciate a mutual book lover? Even if I’d never speak to him.

“Sadie Blackwell, what on earth are you doing?” A forced whisper erupted from behind me.

My smile fell from my face and heat shot up my neck. I turned to meet the pinched face of the new housekeeper, Mrs. Potter, her beady eyes taking in my position, my undeniably red face, and my extended mirror.

“Spying? You are spying on the guests?” Her harsh tones lifted into a squeak before she released a very unBritish-like groan. “This shall not be borne. Just you wait until Mrs. Vanderbilt hears of it.”

Chapter 2

Present Day

Biltmore Village, Asheville, North Carolina

If one possessed a wizard’s hat, it seemed almost criminal not to wear it now and again.

Clara Blackwell adjusted the tall, pointy gray hat on her head as she balanced a stack of books against her chest and weaved through the rows of bookshelves toward the back of the shop. An eager collection of children had already started gathering on the carpet by Clara’s usual reading nook, many sporting their own wizardly apparel. She caught her smile with her teeth. Story time had to be one of her favorite parts of owning a bookshop. Of course, there was a long list of other wonderful elements, such as the smell of fresh-brewed coffee mixed with “book,” the breath-halting excitement of unwrapping a new shipment, and the pride each morning in opening the doors of a one-hundred-year-old family dream come true. Yes, those were all wonderful…but story time? Well, inspiring children’s imaginations to come alive through the wonder of books certainly fit within the top five best parts of Blackwell’s Books & Things.

From what she knew about her dad and had heard about her great-grandmother, the story-delight ran in her blood.

“You wore your hat, Miss Clara,” called six-year-old Amy Ferguson, the first to catch sight of Clara.

The rest of the children turned in her direction, and she unveiled her grin. “If we’re reading about wizards and dragons, I thought I ought to come prepared too.”

“You said this book has a princess in it.” Five-year-old Sophia’s eyes squinted with a hint of suspicion beneath her towering princess hat.

“It does.”

Her cherub grin inflated.

Blake groaned, his brow wrinkling all the way up to his erratic red curls.

“And a sword-fighting knight,” Clara reassured the eight-year-old. She took her seat, lowering her voice to a whisper. “And a surprise at the end.”

The comment brought the little group to alert, and Clara settled in to reading The Dragon’s Secret Fire, her favorite book her father had written.

As usual, the crowd remained spellbound until the very end, with a few giggles about the surprise, an expectation of which Clara never grew tired. After dismissing the kids to plunder the children’s books and merchandise, Clara joined her mom behind the counter. That book always garnered a few purchases from the crowd.

“He would have loved it, you know.” Eleanor Blackwell opened up a new shipment of books, the careworn wrinkles of her face softening into a smile. “Reading one of his books to the children every year during his birthday week.”

Clara smoothed a hand