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

Clara breathed in the cool air like a tonic to her fuzzy brain. “Do I smell heather?”

Max grinned and gestured with his chin toward a field on their left that shimmered with lavender hue. “You do.”

“It’s beautiful.” She sighed, scanning the landscape ahead. “All of it.”

“And you haven’t even seen Fenwick yet.” He raised a brow and turned his gaze back to the road. Clara followed.

As if unfolding from the inside of a fairy-tale pop-up book, the hills fell away to reveal a handful of stone and white-limestone houses tossed as if at random along the roadside. A steeple pierced the sky from the highest point in the village, its gray stone a marked contrast to the sapphire day. Shops, a restaurant, and—Clara laughed—a pub by the name of The Lady and the Magpie all cloistered in a little bundle along one main street, a few showcasing thatched roofs.

Christmas decor hung in various places along the street, culminating with the tree in the center of town. A three-story tan limestone structure displayed a decorative, hand-painted sign which read Fenwick Flats while massive trees grew up in various places around the buildings connected by hedgerows or rock fences. Max took her into a small shop called Roths, where he purchased some bottled waters and a couple of “baps,” an English take on sandwiches, evidently.

“Let’s put them in your basket and eat them by the lake, shall we?”

With an answering grin, she followed him down the street, swerving around parked cars, and nearly tipped her bike over as she turned a curve where a whole pig hung in one window and a goose in the other. Clara’s laugh exploded. Butcher shops in England and America were definitely different.

The buildings became less frequent and the trees parted to reveal the lake right before them. They crossed a picturesque rock bridge which led to an old church ruin perched on the edge of the lake, the mountains rising almost as if out of the water.

Max came to a stop at the rock fence surrounding the church’s graveyard. “This is St. Peter’s Chapel, or was.” He left the bike and held hers as she dismounted. He took the baps from her basket. “Since you are fond of old things, I thought you might enjoy a walk about the town and a view from the oldest spot in Fenwick.”

“It’s remarkable.” She fell in step beside him along the shoreline, the breeze ruffling her hair. She glanced back up at the church, its roof gone and walls crumbled in certain places. “That ruin just gives the whole setting more character.”

Max led the way toward the church, weaving around a rock wall and some old headstones to where a stone bench waited, facing the lake. Another strange wave of awareness spilled through Clara, or perhaps it was just her imagination wandering in and out of this new world to which she’d been introduced. Had Oliver attended this church? Maybe before he’d traveled to the front lines?

“How old is this place?”

Max took a drink of his water and relaxed back against the bench. “Reverend Brigsby, one of the local clergy, said it’s fairly new. Built in the mid-1700s on the spot of an older church.”

Fairly new? Only the age of Clara’s country. “And what happened to it?”

“A fire started one night in the spring of 1916, but no one ever discovered the cause. With the war taking so many young men from Fenwick, some speculate a troubled loved one ventured in to pray and accidentally set the fire.”

Clara stared out over the tranquil scene, to a goose, wingspan broad, gliding to almost touch the water. “There was so much loss during that time.”

He stared ahead and nodded.

“I suppose that’s why we should appreciate this beauty all the more for what they died for. This peace and freedom. The ability to sit here on this bench and eat a bap.” She raised the remainder of her sandwich. “With a new friend who has excellent taste in how to spend an afternoon.”

His lips crooked. They sat in silence for a few minutes, finishing their lunch, and then Max stood, ushering them back along the shoreline.

“I’ve heard there are other ruins like this one all over England,” Clara said.

“There are some particularly memorable ones in the highlands of Scotland.” He took her empty wrapper and tossed it in a bin along their way. “Have you never been?”

“I haven’t traveled very much, not with my dad’s illness and then my mom’s.” Clara rolled the bottled water between her palms, casting another look over the lake to distract from the sudden emotion rising in her throat. “After Dad passed away, it just seemed easier to keep life simple.”

“I understand that.”

She offered him a smile. “Being so close, I suppose you travel to Scotland as often as you like.”

“I visited when I was younger.” He looked away. “But I don’t travel much anymore.”

“Why not?”

He leveled her with such a look her feet faltered to a stop. “Why not?”

“Yes. Why not?”

His countenance hardened and he glanced to the sky before marching toward the bicycles. “We should return to the house. Clouds are coming in.”

She watched his retreating form, replaying the conversation in her head. Did he have something against Scotland? Shaking out of her stupor, she raced after him. “Wait, Max. What did I say? I don’t underst—”

“What did you say?” He swung around, his amber eyes aflame. “Why don’t you think I travel, Clara? Look at me!” He gestured toward the scarred side of his face. “Do you have any idea? People stare. They look away. I’ve even frightened children.”

Having worked in a bookshop for years, she realized some children were easily frightened or shy, but could his face really scare them? His scars seemed almost invisible to her now. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about that.”

“How can you not think about it?” A humorless laugh burst out of him. “It’s right in front of you every time you look at me.”

“I