Paper Hearts (6 page)

H
OW
A
BIGAIL ENDED UP
on Gigi Monroe’s doorstep after work, she really had no idea. She’d peeled herself off her desk chair in a daze, which was how she’d finished out the day until it was finally time to leave for the night. Her intention had been to go home, take a hot bath, put on pajamas, eat a bowl of cereal, and fall asleep.

Abigail acknowledged that this plan was based on the misguided notion that, when she woke up, she’d find that someone else had figured out what she should do next. Clearly she was embracing blissful ignorance as to the amount of work it would take to arrive at a good next step.

And unfortunately, she’d lost the right to pawn her problems off on someone else when she stopped living under her parents’ roof. Not that Teensy had ever had much insight when it came to her business anyway.

“The store is a fine way to pass the time until you can find
someone to marry you, Abigail,” her mother had told her only last month. “But you’re so busy all the time. It’s starting to look like more of a hindrance to you getting a life. And goodness knows you don’t need any more hindrances in that department. Plain girls can’t afford to be too busy.”

Abigail had chosen not to ask her to elaborate, tucking away the adjective
plain
as yet another insult doled out with expert precision by the woman who was supposed to love her unconditionally.

In spite of all this, the cereal-and-sleep plan seemed like the most promising option. Until she realized she couldn’t stop thinking about the ruined wedding invitations. She had to come clean
 
—the guilt was too much for her to bear. She knew the women were meeting tonight, though they’d made it clear it was just business and she didn’t need to attend. She glanced at the stack of coffee-stained envelopes protruding from her purse. What choice did she have? It wasn’t like she could fix this mistake.

Memories she’d pushed aside had come tumbling back at her as she drove to Gigi’s house
 
—all those Volunteers meetings Grandma dragged her to, and for what? All they’d done was set her up for disappointment. It turned out those letters people sent professing their undying love for each other were only snapshots of the relationships they represented. Written in moments of nostalgia by people who were pining for what they’d lost or never had. That version of love was about as true as Shakespeare’s.

Fiction.

When Gigi answered the door, her eyes went wide. “Oh, hello, Abigail,” she said loudly and over her shoulder as if speaking to the others in the next room.

Abigail felt her whole face frown.

“So good of you to join us, dear. We didn’t want to overwhelm you right off the bat with all of our meetings, or else we would have asked you to come to this one.” Gigi peeled Abigail’s jacket off as she ushered her into the house, which smelled of peppermint
and sugar cookies. “We didn’t expect you tonight, but we’re glad you’re here.”

Abigail forced a polite smile, but her mind screamed at her to dump the ruined invites on the floor and run for the hills.

As she and Gigi entered the living room, Ursula stuffed some papers into a manila folder and shoved it into her bag, and Abigail caught a glimpse of Tess hurrying into the kitchen. She returned seconds later.

Awkward glances crisscrossed around her, and Abigail had the distinct impression she’d interrupted something.

Her “I don’t have to stay” was met with a chorus of “Don’t be silly!” and “We love having you here!” and before she knew it, Abigail had been plopped down on the sofa in the circle of women, a mug of hot cocoa in one hand and two very crispy cookies in the other.

Now five pairs of eyes were fixed on her. Abigail set her mug down. “There’s something I need to tell you ladies.”

“We know, dear,” Doris said, smiling.

Abigail frowned.
No, you don’t.

“Your mother told us.”

“Teensy?” How would her mother know about the coffee disaster?

“Doris!” Ursula’s warning shot silenced the other woman.

“Don’t listen to Doris, dear,” Gigi said. “She gets confused a lot these days.”

“I do not!” Doris set her own mug down. “I’m perfectly lucid 96 percent of the time.”

Ursula leaned closer to Abigail. “Take a sip of her cocoa and see how lucid she is.”

Abigail put her hands up in surrender. “I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what, Abigail?” Tess moved to the edge of her armchair on the opposite side of the circle, the weight of her stare heavy on Abigail.

“I agreed to volunteer with you ladies because I couldn’t afford for you to boycott my shop, but none of that really matters anymore since I’ll be out of business in about a year anyway.” Abigail reached into her purse and pulled out the invitations. “Besides, I ruined these.” She stood, dropping the stack of envelopes on the coffee table at the center of the circle.

Tess gasped, picking up one of the coffee-stained invitations and turning it over in her hand. “Abigail, if you were upset, you didn’t have to take it out on this poor bride.”

Abigail sighed. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Accidents happen. That’s no reason to quit.” Evelyn sank a little deeper into her chair.

Easy for her to say. She married a rich politician. She was probably only part of this group because she was bored.

Doris crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “No, but ruining someone’s wedding invitations might be. She’s obviously not cut out for this.” Doris harrumphed, sitting back in her seat.

“Doris!” Ursula barked.

“No, she’s right.” Abigail dropped in a heap onto the sofa, the heaviness of the day settling squarely onto her shoulders. “I’m not cut out for this any more than I’m cut out for running a business.”

“Tell us what’s wrong, dear,” Gigi said, crossing the room and creating space for herself on the sofa where there was none. “Maybe we can help.”

Abigail was horrified when her attempt to swallow the lump in her throat failed. Tears sprang to her eyes as Gigi patted her knee with her fragile hand. On her other side, Tess sat up and, like the others, focused all of her attention on Abigail.

The outcast. The one who didn’t belong. That feeling was too familiar, and she’d worked hard to get rid of it. How did it keep returning, uninvited?

She’d created a place where she fit perfectly. Without The Book Nook, who was Abigail Pressman?

“Why don’t you tell us your troubles, dear?” Gigi said in a gentle, motherly voice.

“We’d like to help you if we can,” Evelyn added.

Despite every effort to withhold her feelings, Abigail listened to her own voice as it betrayed her, pouring out the events of the day: from the spilled coffee fiasco to finding Dr. Jacob Willoughby pounding holes in the wall next door to that horrible Kelly woman dropping the bomb that Abigail had only another year or two with her store.

Somehow she felt like the mourning process had already begun.

“I’ve been trying to scrounge together the money to buy the place for years, just waiting for the right moment,” Abigail said, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “And every time I made a little bit of progress, my car would break down or the price of coffee would go up.” She covered her face with her hands. “He waltzes in there with his businesswoman girlfriend and pays cash for the place. I really thought this was going to be the year everything changed.”

She felt a kind hand on her back but imagined confused glances being exchanged over her head.

“This may still be the year everything changes,” Tess said, too much optimism in her voice. “Just not the way you expected.”

Somehow Abigail didn’t find that very comforting.

“Tess is right, dear,” Gigi said. “You just have to readjust your sails.”

“I don’t see another course,” she said. “Expanding was going to save my business. That
was
me readjusting my sails.”

Across the room, Ursula scoffed.

Abigail looked at the woman through her tears. She didn’t know Ursula Pembrooke very well. Of the five Valentine Volunteers, Ursula was the most eclectic. The one who didn’t seem to mind being the talk of the town. Flamboyant and bold, Frank Pembrooke’s widow knew how to keep Loves Park on its toes.

“Businesswomen don’t cry like little girls.” Ursula popped a cookie in her mouth. “Is the doctor’s girlfriend crying like a little girl?”

“Ursula!” Evelyn’s voice warned, but Ursula clearly wasn’t used to taking orders.

“You’re not cut out for business if you’re going to give up the second it gets hard.”

Abigail sniffed. “All due respect, Mrs. Pembrooke, but it’s been hard for quite a while.”

“Hogwash.” Ursula downed her cocoa. “Why are you all staring at me?”

“Ignore her, Abigail,” Gigi said, resuming her motherly back rub.

“Don’t ignore me. I am the only one here who knows anything about business.”

It was hard to believe with her eccentric manners, but Abigail knew that Ursula Pembrooke had learned all there was to know about business from her husband. In his day, Frank had made a fortune restoring Old Town Loves Park. He’d been shrewd and callous, but brilliant
 
—and he’d withheld his knowledge from everyone but Ursula.

“Frankie always said when it comes to business, you fight or you die,” she said, wiping her lips with a napkin. “He never said, ‘Curl up in a ball and cry your eyes out.’”

Abigail again thought of Kelly. She was the kind of woman Ursula was talking about. And Abigail could say with complete certainty she was nothing like her. She shrugged. “I already lost the fight. What else can I do?”

Ursula set her plate on the coffee table with a clank and scooted forward in her armchair. “You can start by quitting the pity party. No one ever made it in business by feeling sorry for themselves, young lady.” She stood. “Get up.”

Abigail glanced at Gigi, whose horrified expression told her this
wasn’t customary behavior among the Volunteers. “Ursula, I don’t know if she’s in the right frame of mind for this.”

“You’re too soft, Gigi. Be quiet.” Ursula pulled Abigail away from the rest of them, into the open part of the living room. “Now, the way I see it, you can roll over and let this stranger push you out of your own store, or you can
fight
.”

“With what?”

“Figure it out.” Ursula tucked a lone gray flyaway behind her ear and narrowed her eyes at Abigail. “How can you force the man out of his own building? Indian burial ground? Asbestos?”

“Ursula!” Gigi gasped. “Abigail, don’t listen to her. She’s off her bean.”

Abigail shrank under the weight of Ursula’s gaze. “I’m not cut out for this, Mrs. Pembrooke.” Besides, neither of those things applied to her building.

“Nonsense. You just have to stop thinking like a polite little girl.”

Abigail frowned. “I am polite.”

“Exactly. But this is business.” She stared at Abigail, who only stared back. “Fight or die.”

Abigail started to glance toward the others for support when Ursula grabbed her by the chin and forced her eyes to focus. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Fight or die.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the others stand up. For a split second she felt like Rocky Balboa getting a prematch pep talk from Mick. Ursula clearly took her job as trainer quite seriously.

“Well?”

Abigail met the old woman’s gaze and complied. “Fight or die?”

Ursula practically melted into a puddle of disappointment. “No wonder you’re in this situation.” She turned away, though she did nothing to hide her disgust.

Abigail frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There are a million things you could’ve done to prevent this from happening, but you didn’t think outside the box.” She tapped her temple with one crinkled hand. “You’ll never make it if you think like everyone else.”

Abigail’s mouth went dry at the disapproval. She’d been here before. A long-suppressed memory washed over her, and just like that she was standing in front of Jeremy, tuning out the words she’d dreaded for two years.

“I’m just not ready for marriage, Abigail,” he’d told her.

Teensy had cried when Abigail told her the news.