Paper Hearts (15 page)

“The only way to accomplish your goal is to get rid of the doctor. When we’re done, he’ll be begging Ursula to buy the building
 
—and she’ll let you buy it from her.”

Abigail shook her head. “No. No sabotage necessary. I just need to make the people of Loves Park embrace the store.”

Mallory’s raised brows told her what a stupid thing that was to say.

“You know what I mean. They have to love this store. I just need something special to really capture their hearts.”

Mallory sighed. “Good luck with that.”

Back at home, Abigail treated herself to extra bubbles in her bath. She replayed the day’s events, including the save the date she’d received in the mail that afternoon. The save the date for Betsy’s wedding. She hadn’t spoken to her sister since the big announcement. Just one more reason she emerged from her soak more depressed than when she went in.

Even the furniture waiting to be painted couldn’t cheer her up.

She pulled on her favorite old sweatshirt, the one with the rips on the ends of the sleeves, and curled up in bed, the box of letters pulled close. While her relationship with the letters had started off rocky and suspicious, she’d actually begun to look forward to this
time with them. Mostly anonymous, they gave her the chance to imagine entire stories for their authors.

And while she had no intention of changing her position on love and romance, she did have to admit to the occasional tearjerker.

One last night was from a seventy-two-year-old man named Monty. He sent the letter to the Loves Park postmaster because his wife, Sylvie, had died the year before, and the little town was her favorite place in all their travels.

Abigail cried when she read the way the man signed the letter.

I suppose it’s silly to send a letter to you
 
—I’ll never even know who you are. But I guess I just wanted someone to know how very special my Sylvie was. Oh, if you could’ve seen her smile. It lit up the universe. Brighter than all the stars on the clearest Loves Park night.

I wish you’d known her. I pray it’s not too many more days before I see her again.

Love,

Monty

Rereading the letter now, Abigail felt her eyes fill with fresh tears. Love like that just couldn’t be real, could it? At least, not for most people. And yet Monty believed in it, even after all that time.

Abigail’s mind spun back to her childhood, hearing her grandmother and the other Valentine Volunteers reading letters just like this one. But experience spoke louder than any love letter, and her experience told her not to be fooled.

She set the letter aside. She wouldn’t be duped again, no matter how lovely it all sounded. No matter how much she wanted to believe that one day someone would love her like that, that someone might refuse to let her memory die.

A small manila envelope caught her eye. Hm. Larger than the others she’d read. Maybe there was chocolate inside.

Like she’d ever eat candy from a stranger.

Unless it was Ghirardelli. That she might have trouble resisting.

She pulled out a plain sheet of white paper, and as she did, a small stack of paper hearts fell out of the envelope, spreading over her quilt.

She sat up and read the handwritten note.

Dear Cupid,

It’s our eighth year, and you’ve probably been waiting with bated breath for our paper hearts, haven’t you? This year was full of ups and downs, all of which are reflected right here in our strands and strands of memories.

As you already know, we don’t hold on to the past; we send it to you in hopes that maybe someone else will be inspired by our little tradition. In this envelope are stacks of hearts from last Valentine’s Day all the way to this Valentine’s Day. That’s when we strung them up all around the house. We spent the whole day reading them to each other just like always, but now we’re sending them off into the world for you.

Maybe you know someone who needs to believe in love. I can tell you
 
—it really does exist. And I’m enclosing proof in our paper hearts.

Happy Valentine’s Day, until next year.

She picked up the hearts that had spilled out on her bed. Paper hearts of various sizes and colors, linked together with a white string. Some looked like they’d been carefully handwritten. Others were more haphazard as if scribbled in haste so as not to be forgotten.

The sentiments written in a masculine hand were sweet, mostly things like
You have the best laugh. Do that more often.
And
I prayed for you this morning.
And
That dress you wore tonight . . . wow.

Others, in distinctively female handwriting, were equally touching.
Thank you for loving me. I know it’s not easy.
And
Loved seeing you dressed up last night
 
—took me back to the night we met.

Abigail reread the introductory letter, trying to piece together how these hearts worked. She gathered that this couple spent a full year writing out sweet sentiments but keeping them from each other until the following Valentine’s Day, when they strung them up around the house.

She imagined the couple
 
—whoever they were
 
—spending the day in bed, looking through all the kind words that boiled down to one thing: they loved each other.

Abigail flipped through more of the hearts, loving the playfulness in many of them, when she stumbled upon one with an entirely different tone:

A dark day. I want to protect you, but you won’t let me. I’m sitting outside our room, praying that you feel how very much I love you. Come back to me. Please.

She imagined the difficulty in loving someone on their worst day and wondered how it would feel to have someone else love her, even at her worst. It had been so long since she’d been in a real relationship, she wasn’t even sure someone would be able to handle her worst.

Abigail stared at the hearts, and a longing pushed its way through her.

“Ask for what you want.”

The thought had popped into her mind uninvited, the memory of her father’s words rushing back at her
 
—long-forgotten words.

“You’ll never know if you don’t ask, Abigail,” he’d said. “And
that goes for God too.” Daddy always taught her that God put certain desires in her heart so she’d ask for them. She’d never thought to ask her father if God had given him what he wanted most.

She’d never thought to ask him what it was he wanted most.

Sometimes it still hurt knowing it wasn’t a family.

She glanced down at the letter and wondered why some people seemed to get it right the first time, and others, like her parents, got it so very wrong.

Before she knew what she was doing, a soft whisper escaped her lips. “I want
this
, Lord. I want to know the good and the bad. I want to love and be loved. Without reservation.”

The admission bubbled there, underneath her surface.

What was she saying? She didn’t want this! She didn’t want to risk any of the heartache again. Ever. Her parents had risked it, and what had it gotten them? Sorrow and misery
 
—the kind her mother still hadn’t recovered from.

She herself had risked it. And loving Jeremy had just about killed her.

She could still remember the days she didn’t want to get out of bed. Days she
didn’t
get out of bed. His wedding day had been one of the darkest days of her life, only two months after he told her she was too serious for him. He swore he didn’t meet his new wife until after he’d broken up with Abigail. She’d been so captivating that he ran right up to the altar and made it official, leaving Abigail to wonder what was wrong with her.

That kind of raw pain inside was not welcome here
 
—and not searching for love was the only way to avoid it.

And yet, as she piled the hearts in a neat stack, an unwelcome desire needled her. Had she just been fooling herself to think she didn’t believe in the possibility of love? A part of her had always believed it was God’s plan for her to be a wife and a mother. The old-fashioned kind. The kind who baked cookies and served on the PTA.

She’d spent hours trying to figure out where she’d misunderstood God. Was it possible he didn’t want her to be happy at all?

Her thoughts turned to her own great-great-grandparents. She supposed their love story was the kind that people would string up hearts over. After her dad left, Grandma told her and Betsy and Justin the story every chance she got. Probably trying to counter the example left by their father.

Abigail had loved hearing the story then. Her great-great-grandparents were two kids, really, who abandoned the home they knew out East to go on an adventure together. They left not long after their marriage, forging their way across unfamiliar territory, often with only their love to keep them going. And they’d done it. The legend said John’s writings told of his great love for Elsie, and he knew he wouldn’t have had the courage to go on if it weren’t for her. Elsie loved that man so much she’d given up everything she knew to build a life with him.

Once upon a time, Abigail had bought into the story and fully expected that one day she too would have a love story worth naming a town after.

She closed her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat, then stuffed the stack of hearts back in the envelope and begged herself to forget she ever read them. Getting caught up in someone else’s love story was no way to pass the time.

For now, at least, she’d keep these notes to herself. No sense bringing up something that seemed too personal to broadcast anyway.

And she’d do her very best to be content
 
—to stop wishing for something she knew she’d never have.

A
BIGAIL SPENT THE NEXT FEW DAYS TRYING
 
—and failing
 
—to push the paper hearts out of her mind. Despite her efforts to stay away from them, she’d been drawn back repeatedly. Over and over, she’d pulled them out and pieced them together, her imagination heading off in directions her own heart did not appreciate.

She’d read them so many times she practically had them memorized. Then, in a fit of lunacy, she’d replaced the original white string with a red-and-white polka-dot ribbon and hung the collection in her bedroom. Seconds later she’d taken them down, deciding that was just too pathetic.

Instead she now carried them around in her purse, completely pulled in by this couple and their tradition. As if keeping them on her person was less pathetic than hanging them up in her house.

Mostly she wanted to know if anyone else was aware of the hearts . . . more, she decided, than she wanted to keep them a secret. But the letter said this was their eighth year. Did the couple
send them to the Loves Park postmaster every year? Or to various places? Was the couple local? What if she knew them?

Panic washed over her. What if it was Jeremy and Lynn, his perfect little wife?

Not a chance. Jeremy was never sentimental. Besides, she knew his handwriting.

She arrived at Gigi’s house
 
—where today’s Volunteers meeting was to be held
 
—hauling the properly sorted box of letters under an arm, wondering how to ask for the previous seven years of paper hearts without sounding like she’d bought into the whole love and marriage nonsense.

She’d practically had to beg Gigi to allow her to come to the meeting at all, which she found odd. She appreciated they didn’t require that she come, but having to beg for a spot at the table made her feel like her membership was on trial.

Ursula answered the door before Abigail knocked. “You’re three minutes and twenty-five seconds late.”

“I brought scones.” Abigail held up a brown paper bag.

Ursula snatched the bag from her hand, opened it, and gave one curt nod. “You’re forgiven.”

The group assembled around Gigi’s dining room table, a large pad of paper on an easel at one end of the room. They sat down and passed out the scones, chatting about mundane things like the weather. Finally Gigi rapped a ruler on the table and the others were instantly silent.

“This meeting has come to order.”

Abigail stifled a laugh. She had no idea how seriously they took their volunteer duties. Ursula silenced her with a bushy-eyebrowed glare, and Abigail was grateful she’d made her deadline and successfully categorized the envelopes according to Gigi’s instructions. It was a good thing she’d also brought back the replies she’d written to the letters that did include return addresses.

“As you know, we have much business to attend to. The Rose
Ball is coming up, and then Valentine’s Day only weeks later.” Gigi folded her hands at her chest. “Oh, I just love this time of year.”

Abigail had never in her life felt that way about Valentine’s Day or any of the other made-up Loves Park holidays meant to make women swoon. Not even when she
was
dating. Though admittedly that helped a little.

“Why don’t we hear your report first, Abigail?” Gigi asked. The women all turned and looked at her.

“Oh.” Suddenly self-conscious, Abigail pulled the stacks of envelopes from the box and let them spill across the table. “Well, I read them.”

“You read all of them?” Tess wore a look of disbelief.

“Was I not supposed to?”

“No, it’s fine. It just takes a while to get through some of them. I usually end up scanning the ones without return addresses.”

I have no life.

“And?” Doris leaned forward in her chair like a bird perched on a wire.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Abigail tried to stay nonchalant. She couldn’t come across like she was actually
interested
in this process.

“Nothing?” Doris looked disappointed.

“Were you hoping for someone on the ledge of Longs Peak, Doris?” Ursula rolled her eyes.

“Of course not. I just like it when there’s real romance in there.”

Evelyn reached over and put a hand on the older woman’s arm. “It’s okay, Doris. I do too.” She smiled, her expression warm.

Abigail thought about some of the letters she’d tucked aside. “I guess there was romance. I didn’t realize that was supposed to be part of my report, and I wasn’t really looking for it.”

Gigi smiled warmly. “There are no hard-and-fast rules, dear. We just wanted to get your impressions.”

“I replied to this stack
 
—the ones with return addresses
 
—like you said.”

Doris had already opened one of the replies she’d written, and Abigail cringed. She should’ve sealed them. She didn’t like being checked up on like this. And in all honesty, her replies to some of the letters could have been more diplomatic.

Sure enough, Doris’s face fell as she read through the first response.

“What’s the matter, Doris?” Gigi asked.

Doris’s expression changed as she glanced at Abigail. “Oh, nothing.”

Ursula snatched the paper from Doris and read the note aloud. “‘While I found your letter a bit whiny and negative, I do understand the plight of a singleton. The best advice I can give is to realize you aren’t a fairy-tale princess and no prince is on his way to save you.’” She snorted.

The Volunteers all turned and looked at Abigail, who shrugged. “Too much?”

“Oh, dear.” Gigi swiped the stack of replies from Doris and stuffed them in a drawer. “We’ll go through them all later. Is that everything you have to report? Nothing else out of the ordinary?”

“There was one letter,” Abigail began. “From a man named Monty. It was about how he missed his wife, Sylvie. She died.”

The room sighed, and Abigail saw an open door.

“And another one from a couple who write love notes on paper hearts
 
—”

A collective gasp.

“Wonderful!” Gigi stood and retrieved a small box from a nearby countertop. “I’d almost given up hope on our favorite lovebirds. They missed last year.” She opened the box and pulled out stacks of neatly strung paper hearts.

Abigail’s pulse quickened and she fought the urge to grab the whole pile of them and run. She wanted to read them, to learn
more about this couple’s story. Instead she opened the manila envelope and pulled out the string of hearts she’d so carefully studied.

“Your set makes eight in all,” Gigi said. “Eight years of love letters from eight different Valentine’s Days. They wanted to share their love with the world. It was as if they’d soaked up everything they could from the year and had to pass it along.”

“I’d been watching for their trademark box of paper hearts to arrive. If I’d seen it, I never would’ve given it to you,” Doris said. “No offense.”

“The ones I read were stuffed in this envelope.”

Gigi frowned. “That doesn’t sound right. They always arrive in a beautiful decorated box.”

Now Abigail frowned.

“Were they tied together?” Evelyn asked.

“Yes, with plain white string,” Abigail said, noticing the frills on the strands Gigi held.

“Where’d the polka-dot ribbon come from?” Ursula snapped.

Abigail looked away. “I did that.”

She could only imagine the raised eyebrows that were now turned toward her. “You did?” Gigi said, startled.

“Yes. Don’t make a big thing of it, okay? I liked the story.” Abigail held the hearts with an unwarranted protectiveness.

Doris patted her hand. “Maybe there is hope for you yet, Miss Pressman.”

“Would you want to take the others home, dear?” Gigi asked. “Maybe you’d like to learn more about our favorite romantics.”

I thought you’d never ask.

Abigail shrugged. “I suppose that’s a good idea. Especially if something with the new ones seems off somehow.”

“You know what seems off?” Ursula swallowed the last bite of a scone. Apparently it had been the only thing keeping her quiet. “Your plans for that doctor.”

Abigail felt the heat rush to her cheeks. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard he’s raising your rent.”

She ran her fingers across the string of paper hearts, wondering how these women knew as much about her business as she did.

“What will you do about it?” Ursula apparently wouldn’t stop until she’d successfully obtained the deed to the building and booted Jacob from town, and Abigail had the distinct impression it had nothing to do with her. Ursula was mad that Jacob had turned down her offer.

“I-I have a plan,” Abigail said, stuttering like a schoolgirl giving her first speech.

Ursula raised a brow.

“I’m going to make Loves Park fall in love with me.”

Ursula cackled. “Oh, kid. It’s amazing you’ve survived this long.”

Abigail frowned. Probably not the best time to admit she’d been an English major and everything she knew about business she’d learned from her father and from stocking the small business section in her own store.

“It’s a good plan,” Abigail defended. “If Loves Park really gets behind The Book Nook, how can he possibly kick me out? He’ll look like the worst kind of person. No one wants to go to a mean doctor.”

“That’s all you’ve got?” Ursula stared.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Evelyn said, probably more out of pity than anything.

“It’s underdeveloped.” Ursula stood, walked over to the drinks Gigi had laid out on the buffet, and poured herself a cup of punch. She took a drink, poured more, and drank again. There was something distinctly masculine about this woman. And something terrifying.

“You think she needs to do more,” Gigi said.

Ursula rolled her eyes. “She’s trying to save her business. Yes, she needs to do more.”

Abigail tried not to get any more defensive. “What do you suggest?”

Ursula paced, eyes narrowed as if she was in thought. “You need a gimmick.”

“‘Sit. Read. Caffeinate.’ That’s my slogan.”

Ursula waved her off. “No, you need to give people a reason to come in the store. Every season is tourist season around here
 
—what can we do to turn The Book Nook into part of this town’s history? Like the postmarks and the Valentine’s Day celebrations.”

“I know what you’re saying,” Tess said.

“Yes,” Doris added. “You need to turn your store into even more of a Loves Park landmark than it is now. Capitalize on your status in this town.”

Abigail frowned. “How is that different from what I’m already doing? Free drinks and kids’ classes and
 
—”

Ursula cut her off. “It’s not enough. What these people want is romance. But you’re the last single girl around.”

Abigail shifted uncomfortably, figuring Ursula must have heard that she stood up Duncan at the restaurant the other night.

But Ursula didn’t mention it as she plopped into the chair beside Abigail. “People who live here and visit here love that sappy garbage. They want to feel like they’re experiencing a romantic dream or something. You have potential you aren’t using.”

“If you say so.” Abigail didn’t feel like arguing.

“Think about it. They hear the Loves Park legend. They come here with their sweetheart to fall more in love or to get engaged or married or whatever.” Ursula stopped talking, though her thought felt incomplete.

“And if you can make The Book Nook part of the hype, they’ll come to you too,” Gigi said, filling in the blanks.

Tess smiled. “It’s basically what you already planned, plugged into an electrical outlet.”

“We don’t do anything small, dear,” Gigi said. “Concerts and family days are nice ideas, but they don’t have the kind of lasting power you need.”

“You need a gimmick,” Ursula repeated.

“What do you want me to do, take out an ad in the newspaper?” Abigail said. “Give myself a tiara and a sash that claims some sort of fame I certainly don’t deserve?”

Capitalizing on her family’s so-called romantic legacy was a great idea in theory, but the truth was none of them
 
—not even Ursula
 
—seemed to know exactly how to use it to put The Book Nook on the map. Besides, Abigail had been trying to forget that blasted legacy for years. Making it part of her business felt like a complete sellout.