“She’s really sweet,” I say. “She hasn’t left my side since I got her.”

Hayes walks up behind Alice and puts his hands on her shoulders. “You sure you’re up to coming back?” He reaches around and pats Sadie.

I nod. “The house was starting to close in on me. I needed to get out.” I force a smile. “And I can’t think of a better place to be than here.”

“We’re glad you’re back.” Hayes wraps me in a quick hug.

Two elderly women walk into the store, and we move out of the way. They head to the romance section after a quick greeting.

“I’m ready to get busy,” I say, breaking our little spell.

“Great,” Hayes says.

“What’s been going on?” I ask, as my eyes take in the familiar stacks and displays.

“We’ve been a little slow. Post-holiday letdown.”

“Excuse me?” one of the women calls. “I need help finding the latest Nora Roberts.”

“Be right there, Mrs. Curtis.” Hayes turns and heads in her direction.

“I’m starting a new social studies unit, Molly,” Alice says. Hayes homeschools her, and she goes to work with him every day. She’s often on the computer in the kids’ section, doing her homework, or if it’s busy, she retreats to the office, where she sits at Hayes’s big antique desk.

“What’s it about?”

“Colonial America. I’m doing a paper on the Salem witch trials.”

“Wow. That should be interesting, and you’re right here where it all happened.”

“Well, close by anyway. No one in Graybridge was accused.”

“Right.” Alice is precocious. Hayes has raised her alone since his wife died when Alice was five years old.

Hayes walks back to where we stand. “There’s a box of books that need to be shelved upstairs if you want to tackle that,” he says.

“Will do.” Sadie and I climb the wooden stairs that spiral up from the first floor. They creak delightfully, and we emerge in the children’s section, which takes up half the second-floor space. The back wall is painted with fanciful murals: Beatrix Potter, Winnie-the-Pooh, Tenniel drawings from Alice in Wonderland, the story that Hayes’s daughter was named for. In the center of the wall, in pride of place, is a portrait of Amelia Mitchell, author of middle-grade fantasy novels. Her characters, fairies and other exotic creatures, are painted around her as if frolicking in delight. Ms. Mitchell has been painted in dreamy watercolor; her fair pixie haircut frames her face, her elfin-like features making her seem like one of her own creations. Her eyes are large and gray and just Alice’s color, which is no surprise since Amelia Mitchell was her mother. She’d gained a modicum of success, publishing four books in a series before her untimely death at the age of thirty-four.