Page 3 of Bonfire and Bliss Bookstore

I agree and tell her I love her before hanging up, realizing that will probably be the last time someone calls me Jake until we next speak. I was given the nickname Monty when growing up, since we lived with my grandparents and I had the same first name as my grandfather. When I got to college, I rebranded myself as Jake and never looked back. Guess I’ll have to get used to being called Monty again.

Ten minutes later, baggage in hand, I head outside to wait for my father. I wanted to take an Uber; I don’t want to owe him any more than I have to. But he insisted. Am I doing the right thing coming back here? Do I have a choice? I’ve visited my vovo over the years—I love that tiny woman—but I’ve rarely spent time with my father in the past decade. I haven’t known how to close the divide between us since he divorced my mom. And it’s only grown bigger over the ten years I’ve been in the city.

I blow out a breath as a woman walks past me, her luggage catching my eye as she does. It’s one of those iridescent suitcases that changes color as it rolls and the rose-gold prisms taunt me. I grit my teeth. Not the right color.

Nerves hit me at the sight of my father’s navy Volkswagen SUV rolling up to the curb; it’s rusted around the tires and likely in need of an oil change. The man behind the wheel smiles at me and I nod in return.

My dad has jet-black hair like me. His is peppered with silver streaks now, but still full. We also share the same green eyes, strong jaw, and cheekbones my mother used to wax poetic about, plus olive skin that he inherited from his Brazilian-born mother, my vovo.

Mine is now decorated with black ink, something my vovo smacks me about every time she sees me with a new tattoo. I suspect my father likes them. The ones on my arms are all nautical, and I did get my love of the sea from him.

He’s barely put the car in park when he jumps out and rounds the front, holding out his arms to me.

“It’s so good to see you, meu filhinho.”

Unlike my mother, there isn’t a hint of New York in his accent, though there is a brush of my vovo’s Brazilian Portuguese that hits the last words of almost all his sentences. Everything sounds like a question or a poem.

“Papai,” I murmur, awkwardly returning the hug. There are moments, like right now, when I wish I could forget all the years and miles that stand between us. Where, for a few seconds, I remember what a wonderful father he was for most of my life. Before he fell out of love with my mother.

I release him before he lets go of me. He recovers quickly from my coldness, grabbing my bags and talking animatedly as he heads to the trunk.

“Vovo is making tempero baiano for dinner and then I thought we could take the boat out for a sunset sail.” He’s still smiling as he looks back at me. “Oh, and I got those sodas you like!”

“That sounds great, thank you.”

And it does. My vovo’s cooking is one thing I could never get in New York, and her tempero baiano—seasoned chicken legs—is one of my favorite dishes.

He nods in response, and then gestures for me to climb into the passenger seat. By the time we hit the highway, my father has filled the silence by telling me everything that’s happened in Hope Harbor since I left, though he makes no mention of the one person I want to ask about most.

I bite back the urge to mention her name; I’ve managed to keep all thoughts of Penny—and our renewed friendship—to myself for the past few months.

As we pass the sign welcoming us to Hope Harbor, my heart rate speeds up. Scanning the once-familiar surroundings, I try to appreciate them in a new light, though all I see are the many shades of copper that don’t quite do her eyes justice. The bronzed letters on the side of a sailboat bobbing in the harbor, the sunburnt edges of the leaves on the trees as summer fades to fall, the reddish-brown brick that decorates downtown. My father continues to tell me about the town’s antics and I turn my head to face him just in time to avoid the dancing flames of fire on the sign of the local bookstore.

How the hell am I going to write my next bestseller when all I can think about is the girl who owns that shop, and the many shades of copper that danced in her eyes the last time she smiled at me?

Chapter 2

Penny

I shift the burnt-orange chrysanthemums to the other side of the cinnamon dahlias and tilt my head, considering my next move. Maybe just a few more decorations?

Snagging the sprinkling of marigolds I stole from my family’s flower farm, I place them strategically beside the maple-golden lanterns outside the front door and grin as I take everything in.

Perfect.

As soon as I snap the picture, I wish I was working with better lighting. When the sun sets in Hope Harbor, it casts the most magical golden glow over my bookstore, but I can’t wait until the evening to post, which means this will have to do.

I upload the photo to my personal Instagram page—@apennyforyourbooks—first. I started it before I opened the bookstore, and even though I don’t have many followers, there are a few dedicated accounts who always brighten my day with their sweet comments. I’m hoping my regular posting will one day pay off and I’ll go viral. I hate to say I need it, but with how slow sales are in our small town, I really do need the online sales to do something if I’m going to make it another year in this storefront.

In the caption I type, what’s better than a good book on a fall morning? before clicking out of the app and moving over to the town chat to send it there, too.

Me: The bookstore is ready for tonight!

Babs: It’s still summer! What’s with all the fall decor?

Tally: Leave my sister alone. Fall is her passion.

Rayna: And it can be her passion. Next week. AFTER labor day.