Chapters (51)
- Cover
- Praise for A Season for Second Chances
- Also by Jenny Bayliss
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Discussion Guide
- About the Author
- What’s next onyour reading list?
The woman in the long blue floral coat with curly gray hair flowing to her waist had been leafing through a book of prints by the Dutch Old Masters for nearly twenty minutes, and Nory was beginning to twitch. One of the only downsides, so far as Nory could see, to spending your life surrounded by beautiful books was that people kept wanting to buy your favorites.
Andrew pushed a mug of coffee into her hand.
“Stop staring,” he hissed. “You’ll put her off the sale.”
Nory narrowed her eyes and stared harder. “That is one of the most comprehensive books we have on the Old Masters’ still lifes,” she whispered. “The quality of the prints is exquisite. They don’t print books on that kind of paper anymore.”
“Which is reflected in the price tag, which is why we need this sale. Now stop intimidating our only customer and help me decipher this inventory.”
She allowed herself to be led away to the large mahogany desk at the back of the shop. Andrew was on an eternal quest to try to keep track of the vast and eclectic jumble of books for which they had long since run out of shelf and stacking space. Nory didn’t feel that the alchemy of bringing books together with readers could be contained in a spreadsheet.
Face-to-face sales may not have been her strong suit, but Nory had a gift for finding rare and beautiful books and matching them with owners who would treasure them forever. It was like she could feel the books calling to her. She could sift through a box of dime-a-dozen titles and find the hidden gem. Not only that, but she would instantly know who the book was destined for. Andrew called her the book whisperer. And it was this talent that kept people coming back for more. In her desk drawer, she had a small leatherbound book with the names of all her repeat customers and the books they had purchased. When a fresh consignment of titles arrived at the shop, she would reach for the book of names, fingers tingling with the promise of matches to be made; book love was a magical thing.
Matilda murmured in her papoose, which was attached to Andrew’s front. Matilda was four months old now and Nory wondered how long Andrew could continue to carry her around for hours at a time without developing a stoop. Matilda spent two days in the shop with Andrew and three days at home with his husband, Seb, who worked in graphic design. In January, Matilda would start at nursery and Andrew was already fretting.
The woman in the floral coat began to walk toward the desk, zigzagging slightly as she negotiated the piles of books on tables and footstools, organized in an order known only to Nory, and Nory felt herself tense. Andrew rested a steadying hand on her shoulder.