Nora felt sorry for the women lining up to discard their signs, but she refused to spend another second thinking about them. Inside the bookshop, her customers were waiting. Sheldon was waiting. The books were waiting.
Nora opened the door to the ringing of sleigh bells.
To her, it was the music of coming home.
Chapter 15
If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?
—William Shakespeare
The Secret, Book, and Scone Society usually held their meetings in the bookshop. They’d start off with a potluck supper, chatting away while they ate. Over dessert, they’d talk about that week’s book pick.
Tonight, June, Estella, and Hester had called for an emergency meeting. There would be no dinner, no chitchat, and no literary discussion. There would be offers of comfort. And a scone.
Hester had baked the pastry that afternoon. At the end of her workday, she’d put on a fresh apron and fired up the oven. She’d tuned the radio to the classical station and assembled ingredients on the prep counter. As Schubert’s Piano Sonata in B-flat Major, D.960 filled the kitchen, Hester had mixed and rolled dough, thinking of Nora the whole time.
Once the scone was in the oven, Hester had sat at the counter with a cup of coffee, conjuring an image of her friend. She’d thought about how the tail of Nora’s whiskey-colored braid would stick out of her moped helmet. Of her shirts with bookish sayings. How she accessorized most outfits with a book-print scarf, tote bag, necklace, or pair of socks. Of her burn scars.
Images scrolled through Hester’s mind. Nora standing behind the counter of Miracle Books, shopping in the flea market, and hiking with her treasured walking stick. Nora laughing at a joke or listening intently to a customer’s personal story. Next, Hester pictured her friend stretched out on the sofa. A soft blanket covered her body and a book was propped open on her stomach. Sunlight streamed in through the window, turning the book pages from ivory to gold.
Now, Hester stood in front of that same sofa, offering the small bakery box to Nora. “When I make a comfort scone for a stranger, I do my best to get the flavors right, but it doesn’t always work. Making one for someone I know is much easier. I hope you taste a hug in every bite.”
“I brought some homemade comfort too,” June said, holding out a chunky knit blanket made of dove-gray cotton. “I wish I could take credit for this beauty, but this is all Dominque. She’s had trouble sleeping for the past few days, and this is what she did with her time. That’s how she and I first bonded—over our insomnia issues. We thought we were the only women who’d knit when we couldn’t sleep. Turns out, there are lots of us.”
“But you’re the only one who walks around with a posse of cats. You’re the most unique insomniac in town,” Estella said with a smile. She took the blanket from June and wrapped it around Nora’s shoulders. “I’m not crafty, but I have a treat for you too. Get comfy on the sofa, okay? June’s going to make a cup of tea, and I’m going to refresh a part of you that’s probably feeling like hell.”
Nora snorted. “That would be all of me. Shoulders. Lower back. Feet. Head. Brain.” She paused before adding, “Heart.”
“That’s why we’re here, baby.” June shooed Nora toward the sofa. “Just sit back and let us do our thing.”
Estella filled a plastic washbasin with warm water and carried it into the living room. She sprinkled Epsom salts into the water. “I use lavender-scented salts at the spa, but I know you’re not a lavender fan, so you’re getting green tea. It’ll turn the water a funky color, but it’ll help restore your balance and energy. Come on, get your ten little piggies wet.”
Nora peeled off her socks and slipped her feet into the water. It was hot, but not too hot. The warmth traveled through her feet and into her calves. It felt lovely.
A few minutes later, June placed a steaming mug of tea on the table.
“I feel bad,” said Nora. “You’ve all had long days. You should be taking it easy but you’re here, spoiling me.”
Estella put her hands on her hips. “So you’re done soaking?”
“No,” Nora cried, which made everyone laugh.
June stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea. “Why do women have such a hard time letting people take care of us? It makes no sense because the better we feel, the more we can do. The more we can give. Instead, we take care of everybody else until we’re running on fumes. When are we going to learn that self-care isn’t selfish?”