Christmas by the Book

1

Nora

Nora Walden's eyes drifted from the spreadsheet in front of her to the stacks of stocking fillers on the counter-a spotter's guide to local birds, a little gift book of the world's ugliest Christmas sweaters and a reindeer-shaped board book with a squashy red nose. Any of them was more appealing than her current reading material. Despite their deceptively Christmassy color, the columns and rows of red figures on the spreadsheet were making her feel anything but festive.

Frustrated, Nora jabbed the reindeer's nose and it let out a loud squeak. A bearded man in a wool cap nearly dropped the guidebook he'd been perusing.

"Sorry!" Nora raised her hand apologetically. "Didn't mean to startle you." Tilting her head to the side, she read the guidebook's cover. "Ah, Sri Lanka. The beaches are meant to be beautiful."

Sri Lanka was on her daughter Charlotte's gap year bucket list. The travel section had always been Charlotte's favorite section of the bookshop. Apart from a few trips to Simon's parents' house in France, the Waldens' family holidays had mostly been in the UK-hiring a canal boat or a little cottage by the beach. Booksellers didn't earn enough for luxury holidays abroad, not that Nora had ever minded. She'd been lucky enough to travel the world through books, touring South America through the works of Gabriel García Márquez and Isabel Allende, visiting India through Salman Rushdie and Vikram Seth's novels. Nora had never been to the United States, but she'd camped out on Wyoming's rugged plains through Annie Proulx's short stories and soaked up the sounds and smells of Gothic New Orleans vicariously through Anne Rice's vampires. She'd climbed the hills of San Francisco with the characters from Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City books. She felt like she knew these places as if a native through visiting them in fiction.

But Charlotte had always wanted to see the world for herself. She'd spent hours sitting cross-legged in the travel section, charting future journeys like a tiny Phileas Fogg. Nora wondered idly if Charlotte was in Sri Lanka now, sunbathing on a beach. Or perhaps she was in Mumbai. If only she would ring . . . Charlotte usually phoned or FaceTimed on Saturday afternoons, but they hadn't heard from her today-or the previous week.

The man in the wool cap put the guidebook back on the shelf.

"Can I help you find a different travel book?" Nora offered. "I can also recommend some novels set in Sri Lanka. Anil's Ghost by Michael Ondaatje is-"

"No, thanks," he said, cutting her off. "I'll just use TripAdvisor."

Nora sighed and looked down again at the Spreadsheet of Doom. No wonder the numbers looked so terrible.

The bookshop door opened with a cheerful jingle, ushering in a blast of cold air and carols from the Christmas market taking place in the square outside. Nora smiled at the woman with a dark curly bob who'd just come in. Like most of her regular customers, she knew her name. "Hi, Kath."

"It's like the North Pole out there." Kath shivered and rubbed her hands together. "I think I've lost all feeling in my fingers."

"At least the rain's holding off," Nora said, glancing out the window behind her. The Stowford Bookshop was famous for its Christmas displays, and Nora thought they'd outdone themselves this year. Bestsellers, cookbooks and local interest titles were arranged in the shape of a Christmas tree, with presents wrapped in shiny paper underneath it. But beyond the window display, ominous gray clouds hung over the bustling market.

Nora had lived in Stowford her entire life, apart from the two years she'd been away at university, so she'd seen more than her fair share of wet West Country winters. This had been the rainiest December she could remember, however. The River Coln, which meandered lazily through the village center, was so high its waters were nearly lapping over the banks.

"I'm so over this weather," Kath said, as she raked a hand through her bob. "My hair goes crazy the second I step outdoors."

Nora nodded sympathetically. "I know the feeling." Simon had always compared her wavy auburn hair to a Rossetti painting, but in this weather it tended more toward middle-aged frizz than tumbling Pre-Raphaelite waves. Even though her copper locks were now shot through with silver, Nora couldn't bring herself to chop them off into a sensible bob. She'd decided to embrace her "hair tinsel"—and in any case, it was cheaper to maintain.

But the rain wasn't just giving Nora a permanent Bad Hair Day, it was keeping customers away at what should have been one of their busiest times of the year, and making it harder and harder to ignore their leaking roof. If the weather didn't improve soon, the bookshop would finish the year in the red.

Again.

"Ooh! This is lovely," Kath cooed, warming her hands by the fireplace at the back of the shop, the flames leaping and dancing like the cast of Hamilton behind an iron fireguard. A squashy red velvet sofa and two old leather armchairs were arranged in a semicircle around a coffee table with a plate of homemade ginger biscuits-the recipe passed down from Nora's mum, Penelope. A West Highland terrier was snoozing in her basket in front of the fire.

A little boy whose parents were browsing in the children's book section toddled over to the dog. "Doggie!" he cried, crouching down next to the basket.

"Careful, Joshie!" the boy's mum warned.

"That's Merry," Nora said, going over to the little boy. "Don't worry-she loves being petted."

Merry thumped her tail and licked the little boy's hand. She'd been christened Merida, after the Scottish Disney character, when they'd adopted her as a puppy eight years ago. But she'd soon been nicknamed Merry, which perfectly suited her friendly personality. Apart from the fact that her snow-white hair shed everywhere and never stayed clean for long, Merry was the ideal family dog and the bookshop's unofficial mascot.

"I see you like dinosaurs," Nora said, pointing to the T. rex on the little boy's T-shirt.

He nodded as he gave Merry a cuddle.

"Then I've got the perfect book for you," Nora said. She went over to the shelves, found a copy of Ten Little Dinosaurs and handed it to the boy.

Helping himself to a biscuit, Joshie climbed up into one of the slippery armchairs with the determination of a mountain climber tackling Everest. As Nora returned behind the counter, he curled up in the chair and pored over the dinosaur picture book, the biscuit going soggy in his chubby fist.

Nora had spent hours in that very same armchair with her best friends-Anne of Green Gables, Pippi Longstocking and Mary Lennox-the heroines of her favorite children's books. As the shy only child of a single mum, Nora had learned from a young age that as long as you had a good book for company, you never needed to feel lonely. Which was for the best, as she had often had to entertain herself while her mother was working in the shop.

Penelope had come to Somerset for the first-ever Glastonbury Festival in 1970 and had had a fling with a drummer named Neil. The romance had ended before the headline act had even made it onstage, but Penelope had fallen in love with the area and stayed to raise the daughter she'd given birth to nine months later. The bookshop-the only one for miles around-had been a success, even though Penelope's bohemian ways had often raised eyebrows with the locals.

Nora glanced back down at her spreadsheet, anxiety gnawing at her belly. What would Penelope say if she knew how badly the bookshop was doing?

"What's wrong, Nora?" A small woman with a neat white bob approached the counter, her kind blue eyes filled with concern behind her glasses. "You look worried."

It was Olwyn Powell, a regular at the bookshop's monthly book club. Nora had known her for years, since she'd taught Charlotte in primary school.

"Oh, it's nothing, Olwyn," Nora said, hiding the shameful spreadsheet under a pile of wool-the start of a sweater she was knitting Simon for Christmas. "I was miles away. Can I help you find anything? I've just read a thriller you might like-there's a wonderful twist at the end."

Despite being one of the sweetest people Nora had ever met, Olwyn was hooked on crime fiction-the more gruesome the better.

"Oh, I'm just browsing," Olwyn said. "Now that I'm on a pension I'm trying to use the library more."

It never bothered Nora when people came into the shop to browse. Like her mother before her, Nora firmly believed that a bookshop was more than just a place to buy books. It was the very heart of a community. But these days, browsing didn't lead to as many purchases as it once had...

"How are you finding retirement? Enjoying the life of leisure?"

"I'm finding the days a bit hard to fill, to be honest," Olwyn said. "I miss the children."

"It must be quite an adjustment," Nora replied. She couldn't imagine what her life would be like if she didn't have the bookshop to run.

"I do have more time for reading," Olwyn added, with forced cheerfulness. "So that's one good thing about retirement."

Although Olwyn was putting a brave face on it, there was no mistaking her sadness. Nora hated to think that this wonderful woman, who had touched so many lives, was feeling lonely.

"Well, you're welcome to pop in here any time for a chat," Nora said.

Kath approached the counter.

"You're busy," Olwyn whispered, patting Nora's hand. "I'll let you get back to work."

"Can I help you find some poetry?" Nora asked the younger woman. "Have you read Carol Ann Duffy's new anthology of Sylvia Plath poems?" A fellow poetry enthusiast, Kath had been popping into the shop for years and Nora had introduced her to the work of Audre Lorde, Jackie Kay and Adrienne Rich.

If she'd stayed on at university instead of coming back home when Penelope got ill, Nora would have written her dissertation on Sylvia Plath. "It's a wonderful collection," she said to Kath. "I felt like I was discovering Plath for the first time."

"It sounds great," Kath replied. "But I was wondering if you could help me find some books on . . . "-she lowered her voice-"depression."

"Of course." Nora slipped out from behind the counter and headed toward the self-help section. Nonfiction was her husband's domain. From architecture to angling, there was almost no subject Simon hadn't read a book-or five-about. Every Thursday night he ran a pub quiz at the George across the road. It was notoriously tough, with teams from as far away as Cirencester turning up every week to test their wits against him. But Simon was upstairs in the flat above the shop, dealing with the leaking ceiling.

Although fiction and poetry were her main areas of expertise, Nora knew the whole shop like the back of her hand. She showed Kath the books on depression-weighty scientific studies, inspirational "I overcame depression-so can you" books, and practical guides to boosting your mood-and Kath helped herself to several.

"Matt Haig writes beautifully on mental health as well," Nora said, and Kath added Reasons to Stay Alive to her pile.

Nora didn't know the young woman very well, and she didn't want to pry, but she couldn't help feeling concerned for her. "Is everything OK, Kath?"

"They're not for me," Kath said quickly. "They're for my dad."

Nora had no idea if that was the truth, or if Kath was just too embarrassed to talk about her mental health. "Well, I'm here," she said, "if you ever need to talk."

"Thanks," Kath said, flushing.

They headed over to the counter and Kath paid for her purchases quickly, glancing over her shoulder as if worried someone would see what she was buying.

Nora shook her head as she watched Kath hurry out of the shop. It was so sad that people still felt that mental illness was something to be ashamed about. Or maybe Kath just didn't want to talk about something so personal with someone she didn't know very well. As an introvert, Nora could definitely understand that.

A howl of protest came from across the shop. "No!" Joshie wailed, as his parents clipped him into his buggy. His dad wheeled the stroller over to the till, and his mum placed a guide to potty training on the counter, along with Ten Little Dinosaurs. "He didn't want to let go of this," she said, laughing.

Nora rang up the picture book, then reached down to hand it back to the little boy in the stroller, who hugged it to his chest. I love my job, she thought happily. And the very best thing about it was finding the perfect book for someone-no matter what their age.

As she held the door open for the family, Nora said, "We do a toddler story time here every Monday morning. We're reading The Grinch this week-you should come."

"Sounds fun." The dad tousled his son's hair affectionately as he pulled the rain cover down over the stroller.

Nora shut the door behind them just as a tall man with a thick mane of wavy salt-and-pepper hair came down the stairs from the flat above the shop. "I've mopped up the drips," Simon announced, heading across the bookshop toward Nora, "and put down buckets to catch the leaks, but-" He smacked his head against one of the low oak beams running across the ceiling and shouted, "Goddamnit!"

"Oh, honey," Nora said, shaking her head affectionately. "Still?"

Twenty-five years ago, the very first time Simon strode into the bookshop, he'd immediately bumped his head on that same beam. Clad in a leather jacket and boots, he'd looked more like an indie rock star than an advertising executive. But then at twenty-three, wearing Doc Martens and ripped Levi's, Nora didn't resemble a typical bookshop owner, either.

Nora had fetched Simon an ice pack, and he'd explained that he was in the village scouting locations for a television advertisement. They'd talked so long-about their favorite books and authors-that Simon had missed the last train and ended up checking in to the George. They'd spent nearly every moment of that weekend together, with Simon helping out at the shop on Saturday and taking her for a long walk along the river on Sunday, followed by a roast dinner at the pub. Apart from Penelope, Nora had never met anyone who loved books as much as she did. Before reluctantly boarding a train back to London, Simon had kissed her-and promised to return.

The biscuit advert ended up being filmed in Stowford  and the bookshop was in some of the shots, as actors in ye olde peasant costumes filled the market square. Simon spent every spare moment of the shoot with Nora. It wasn’t until they’d been dating for weeks that Nora had learned Simon was the son of the agency’s founder, Charles Walden, and was expected to take over the business one day. But Simon had given it all up to marry her.

The biscuit brand – Golden Oaties – never caught on,  but Simon and Nora were still going strong.
Nora went over to her husband. Going up on her tiptoes, she planted a kiss on his forehead. ‘Do you sometimes regret that you didn’t run a mile after that first time?’ she asked him, running her fingers over the angry red mark from the beam. If he had, he’d be running a successful advertising agency now, instead of a failing rural bookshop.

"Are you kidding?’ he said. ‘It was love at first sight." Then he rubbed his forehead and grinned, his blue eyes twinkling. "Either that or a mild concussion."