# The Best Gift

Irene Hannon

After her beloved aunt Jo passed away, sassy redhead A. J. Williams inherited her aunt's bookstore…and the store's handsome manager, Blake Williams. Like oil and water, A.J. and Blake didn't mix. A.J.'s motto had always been Go with the Flow, and God Will Lead the Way, while Blake lived a practical, conservative life. But they had to find a middle ground when they were forced to work together to solve a problem that could affect both their lives.Could their budding friendship - and a bit of divine guidance - lead to the love of a lifetime? Because with Aunt Jo's legacy, anything was possible….

## A.J. glanced at the tall man who was looking at her with resignation.

Was this Blake Sullivan? If so, he sure didn’t match the image she’d created in her mind. She’d envisioned a bookish type, fiftyish, possibly balding, sporting a paunch. A fussy, precise and stern curmudgeon.

She’d been dead wrong about the physical description. Blake was tall, with dark brown hair and intense cobalt-blue eyes. His crisp oxford shirt, beige slacks and well-polished leather shoes bordered on being preppy. His attire also showed off his athletic build.

A.J. could only imagine how she appeared, standing there dripping rainwater on the hardwood floor of the bookstore, her hair no doubt plastered to her head. She could read enough from the look in his eyes. So much for first impressions.

“I’m looking for Blake Sullivan.”

Blake waited a moment, as if trying to decide what to do. Finally he approached her. “You’ve found him.”

She extended her hand. “I’m A. J. Williams. Your new partner.”

## IRENE HANNON

is an award-winning author who has been a writer for as long as she can remember. She “officially” launched her career at the age of ten, when she was one of the winners in a “complete-the-story” contest conducted by a national children’s magazine. More recently, Irene won the coveted RITA® Award for her 2002 Love Inspired Never Say Goodbye. Irene, who spent many years in an executive corporate communications position with a Fortune 500 company, now devotes herself full-time to her writing career. In her “spare” time, she enjoys performing in community musical theater productions, singing in the church choir, gardening, cooking and spending time with family and friends. She and her husband, Tom—whom she describes as “my own romantic hero”—make their home in Missouri.

## The Best Gift. Irene Hannon


The Lord is near. Have no anxiety, but in every

prayer and supplication with thanksgiving

let your petitions be made known to God.

—Philippians 4:5–6

To my darling niece, Maureen Elizabeth,

who came early to claim our hearts with her

sunny smile. We love you, snowflake!

Dear Reader,

As I write this letter, I am in the midst of making plans for my parents’ fiftieth anniversary party, and legacies are on my mind.

The dictionary defines legacy as a gift by will, especially of money or personal property. But a legacy doesn’t have to consist of material things. Nor does it have to follow someone’s departure from this earthly life. In fact, the best legacies aren’t. They are living things, given daily, so that the lucky recipients find themselves richly blessed with the things that matter most. The things money can’t buy.

My parents have given me such a legacy. I will be forever indebted to them for magical Christmas mornings, memorable family vacations and special moments of infinite sweetness. I am grateful to them for teaching me that it’s better to give than to receive. For making home a word to be revered and honored. And for providing a shining illustration of what marriage is all about. Their legacy to me includes the gifts of acceptance. Laughter. Encouragement. Respect. Family. And, most especially, absolute love that is unconditional. Unlimited. Forever. That is a legacy beyond price.

In this first book of my new series for Love Inspired, SISTERS & BRIDES, Aunt Jo offers A.J. and Blake a legacy. But it is up to them to recognize it—and to have the courage to claim it. Because love doesn’t always come in the form we expect. And it often requires a leap of faith. But with God’s grace, with trust in His abiding presence, we can learn to overcome our fears and find our own happy endings.

Just like my mom and dad did.


## Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

## Prologue

Morgan Williams glanced impatiently at her watch, then gave an exasperated sigh. “I wish he’d hurry. I have a plane to catch.”

A.J. turned from the window, which framed a row of flame-red maples against a brilliant St. Louis late-October sky. “Chill out, Morgan,” she said wryly. “The advertising world can live without you for a few more hours.”

Morgan gave her younger sister an annoyed look as she rummaged in her purse for her cell phone. “Trust me, A.J. The business arena is nothing like your nonprofit world. Hours do matter to us. So do minutes.”

“More’s the pity,” A.J. responded, turning back to admire the view again. “Life is too short to be so stressed about things as fleeting as ad campaigns.”

Morgan opened her mouth to respond, but Clare beat her to it. “Don’t you think we should put our philosophical differences aside today, out of respect for Aunt Jo?” she interjected gently.

Morgan and A.J. turned in unison toward their older sister, and A.J. grinned.

“Ever the peacemaker, Clare,” she said, her voice tinged with affection.

Clare smiled. “Somebody had to keep the two of you from doing each other bodily harm when we were growing up. And since I was the only one who didn’t inherit Mom’s McCauley-red hair—and the temper that went with it—I suppose the job had to fall to me.”

A.J. joined Morgan on the couch. “Okay. In honor of Aunt Jo, I declare a truce. How about it, Morgan?”

Morgan hesitated, then tucked her cell phone in her purse. “Truce,” she agreed with a grin. “Besides, much as I hate to admit that my kid sister is sometimes right, I am occasionally guilty of taking my job too seriously.”

“Occasionally?” A.J. rolled her eyes.

“Enough, you two,” Clare admonished with a smile.

A.J. laughed. “Okay, okay. You must whip those kids into shape whenever you substitute teach. In a nice way, of course. Their regular teacher is probably astounded at their good behavior when she gets back.”

Clare’s smile faded, and she looked down to fiddle with the strap on her purse. “I do my best. But I still have a lot to learn. It’s been so many years since I taught…it’s harder some days than others.”

A.J. and Morgan exchanged a look. “Hang in there, Clare,” Morgan encouraged. “We’re here for you.”

“It does get easier. Not overnight. But bit by bit. Trust me,” A.J. added, her own voice suddenly a bit uneven.

Clare blinked rapidly several times before she looked up. “Sorry. I usually have my emotions better under control. I guess Aunt Jo’s memorial service today just brought back…a lot of memories.”

Her voice caught on the last word, and A.J. and Morgan simultaneously reached for their sister’s hands. Clare gazed down and took a deep breath. “A circle of love,” she said softly.

“The three musketeers,” A.J. added, using one of their childhood nicknames as she grasped Morgan’s hand to complete the circle.

Morgan squeezed both hands. “One for all, all for one.”

Suddenly the door to the inner-office opened, and the sisters dropped their hands as they all turned toward attorney Seth Mitchell.

For a long moment the distinguished, gray-haired man standing in the doorway studied Jo Warren’s three great-nieces, taking full advantage of the opportunity to examine them up close rather than from a distance, as he had at the service this morning. He was pleased to note that none flinched at his unhurried perusal.

A.J. was tall and lean, with long, naturally curly strawberry blond hair, too unruly to be tamed even by strategically placed combs. She seemed perfectly comfortable in her somewhat eclectic attire—a calf-length skirt and a long tunic top, cinched at the waist with an unusual metal belt—and looked at him with genuine curiosity, as if the current situation was immensely interesting to her.

Morgan, who wore her dark, copper-colored hair in a sleek, shoulder-length style, was dressed in chic business attire that spelled “big city” and “success.” She gave him a somewhat bored, impatient “let’s-get-on-with-this-because-I-have-better-things-to-do” look.

Clare, the shortest of the three, wore her honey-gold hair in an elegant chignon that complemented her designer suit and Gucci purse. She had hope in her eyes when she looked at him—as well as a deep and lingering sadness.

Yes, they were just as Jo had described them, Seth concluded. A.J., the free spirit who took an interest in everything around her and was grounded in the here and now…perhaps too much so. Morgan, the somewhat jaded high-powered executive who might need some help straightening out her priorities. And Clare, whose double tragedy had left her in need of both emotional and financial help. Now, more than ever, Jo’s legacy made sense to Seth.

He moved forward. “Good morning, ladies. I’m Seth Mitchell. I recognize you from Jo’s description—A.J., Morgan, Clare,” he said, correctly identifying the sisters as he extended his hand to each in turn. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your great-aunt. She was a wonderful lady.”

They murmured polite responses, and he motioned toward his office. “If you’re ready, we can proceed with the reading of the will.”

He didn’t speak again until they were all seated, at which point he picked up a hefty document. “I’ll give each of you a copy of your great-aunt’s will to take with you, so I don’t think there’s any reason to go through this whole document now. A lot of it is legalese, and there are some charitable bequests that you can review at your leisure. I thought we could restrict the formal reading to the section that affects each of you directly, if that’s agreeable.”

“Absolutely,” Morgan replied. “Besides, my plane for Boston leaves in less than three hours. I know Clare needs to get back to Kansas City, and A.J. has a long drive to Chicago.”

Seth looked at the other two sisters. When they nodded their assent, he flipped through the document to a marked page and began to read.

“Insofar as I have no living relatives other than my three great-nieces—the daughters of my sole nephew, Jonathan Williams, now deceased—I bequeath the bulk of my estate to them, in the following manner and with the following stipulations and conditions.

“To Abigail Jeanette Williams, I bequeath half ownership of my bookstore in St. Louis, Turning Leaves, with the stipulation that she retain ownership for a minimum of six months and work full-time in the store during this period. The remaining half ownership I bequeath to the present manager, Blake Sullivan, with the same stipulation.

“To Morgan Williams, I bequeath half ownership of Serenity Point, my cottage in Seaside, Maine, providing that she retains her ownership for a six-month period following my death and that she spends a total of four weeks in residence at the cottage. During this time she is also to provide advertising and promotional assistance for Good Shepherd Camp and attend board meetings as an advisory member. The remaining half ownership of the cottage I bequeath to Grant Kincaid of Seaside, Maine.

“To Clare Randall, I bequeath my remaining financial assets, except for those designated to be given to the charities specified in this document, with the stipulation that she serve as nanny for Nicole Wright, daughter of Dr. Adam Wright of Hope Creek, North Carolina, for a period of six months, at no charge to Dr. Wright.

“Should the stipulations and conditions for the aforementioned bequests not be fulfilled, the specified assets will be disposed of according to directions given to my attorney, Seth Mitchell. He will also designate the date on which the clock will begin ticking on the six-month period specified in my will. “

Seth lowered the document to his desk and looked at the women across from him. A.J. still looked interested. Morgan looked aggravated. Clare looked uncertain.

“There you have it, ladies. I can provide more details on your bequests to each of you individually, but are there any general questions that I can answer?”

“Well, I might as well write mine off right now,” Morgan said in disgust. “There’s no way I can be away from the office for four days, let alone four weeks. And what is Good Shepherd Camp?”

“Who is this Dr. Wright?” Clare asked with a frown. “And what makes Aunt Jo think he would want me as a nanny?”

“When can I start?” A.J. asked.

“Let me take your questions and comments one at a time,” Seth said. “Morgan, you have the right to turn down the bequest, of course. But I would advise you to get some legal and financial counsel first. Jo bought that property years ago, when Seaside was just a quiet, backwater village. The area is now a bustling tourist mecca. So her property has increased significantly in value. As for how to meet your aunt’s residence stipulation—I’m afraid I can’t advise you on that. Good Shepherd is a summer camp in Maine for children from troubled homes. Your aunt has been involved with the organization for many years.

“Clare, Dr. Wright is an old friend of Jo’s from St. Louis. I believe she met him through her church, and even when he moved to North Carolina, they remained close friends. He’s a widower with an eleven-year-old daughter who apparently needs guidance and closer supervision. As to why Jo thought Dr. Wright would be interested in having you as a nanny, I can’t say.

“A.J., I’d ask you to give me a couple of weeks to tie up some legalities before you contact Mr. Sullivan. I’ll let you know when it’s appropriate to call.”

He paused and glanced at his desk calendar. “Let’s officially start the clock for the six-month period on December 1. That will give you about a month to make plans. Now, are there any more general questions?”

The three women looked at him, looked at each other, then silently shook their heads.

“Very well.” He handed them each a manila envelope. “But do feel free to call if any come up as you review the will more thoroughly.” He rose, signaling the end of the meeting, and extended his hand to each sister in turn. “Again, my condolences on the death of your great-aunt. Jo had a positive impact on countless lives and will be missed by many people. I know she loved each of you very much, and that she wanted you to succeed in claiming your bequests.

“Good luck, ladies.”

## Chapter One

It wasn’t fair.

Blake Sullivan stared at the letter from Seth Mitchell. How could Jo do this to him? Okay, so maybe she’d never actually promised to leave the entire business to him, but she had certainly implied as much. After all, they’d been friends for twenty-one years. And he’d walked away from a successful career in investment banking three years ago to rescue Turning Leaves, when Jo’s waning energy began to affect the business and her ongoing generosity had finally depleted her financial cushion. He’d enjoyed it so much that he’d stayed to turn the sleepy, neighborhood bookshop into a thriving enterprise. Without him, the business would have been bankrupt by now.

And what was his reward for three years of diligent labor on her behalf? She’d left half the business to her flighty, do-gooder great-niece who probably didn’t know the difference between a balance sheet and a balance beam.

Blake felt his blood pressure edge up and forced himself to take a slow, deep breath. Getting worked up about the situation wasn’t going to change it, he reminded himself. Maybe if he and Jo had had more time to discuss it, things would have turned out differently. But the fast-acting cancer that had struck so suddenly and taken her so quickly had left them little time for business discussions. By the time she’d told anyone about her illness, it was far too late to discuss any succession plans.

Blake fingered the letter from her attorney, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He could just walk away, of course. Let the business disintegrate in the hands of Jo’s inexperienced and probably disinterested heir. But he’d poured too much of himself into the bookshop, cared too much about it to let it die.

Which left him only one option.

And that did not make him happy.

Blake watched the caller ID disappear as the line went dead. Jo’s niece again. He couldn’t avoid her forever, but he needed more time to think things through. Especially since he’d received Jo’s brief, enigmatic letter, which had arrived a couple of days after Seth Mitchell’s.

He lifted it from the kitchen counter as he waited for the microwave to reheat the cannelloni from his favorite restaurant on The Hill—a splurge that would wreak havoc with his well-disciplined diet, especially with the Thanksgiving Day triathlon looming on the horizon. But he’d needed a pick-me-up after the news from Seth.

Blake scanned the single sheet of paper once more.

Dear Blake, I know you will be disappointed by my bequest. Please understand that I fully appreciate all you have done these past three years to make Turning Leaves successful, and that my gratitude goes deeper than I can say. I have valued our friendship and our partnership, and one of my great joys has been to watch you grow into a fine man.

At the same time, I feel a special obligation to my nieces. A.J. needs an anchor in her life, and I am hopeful that Turning Leaves will provide that for her. She has been drifting these past few years, for reasons that even she may not fully comprehend, but which you may eventually come to understand. I would consider it a final favor for an old friend if you would help her learn the business we both love. With great affection, Jo.

The beeper went off on the microwave, and Blake retrieved the cannelloni. He didn’t understand some of Jo’s comments, but he did understand the part about the final favor. And as rational thought had prevailed over the past couple of days, he’d come to acknowledge that as much as he’d done for Jo these past three years, it was he who was deeply in her debt.

As he poured a soft drink, he thought back to the summer when he was thirteen. It was a couple of years after Jo’s husband died, and she had just opened her shop. Pure chance brought them together. Or fate. Or maybe Providence, if one were religiously inclined. But whatever it was, it had changed his life.

Blake’s parents had decided to spend the summer in St. Louis, for reasons Blake couldn’t recall. They were always going somewhere on a whim, for a rally or to hang out with friends or simply for a change of scene. Jo had hired his father to do some carpentry and odd jobs at the shop. Blake hadn’t known anyone in St. Louis, and after thirteen years he’d learned that it didn’t pay to try to make friends in a new town, because in a few weeks or a few months his vagabond parents would be on the road again. So he’d simply tagged along with his father to Jo’s. And those had been some of his happiest days.

Jo had taken him under her wing, giving him odd jobs to do and regaling him with stories of her world travels and the exotic places she and her husband had visited. She’d discussed politics with him, and philosophy, as if he were an adult, which did wonders for his shaky thirteen-year-old self-esteem. He owed his love of learning and books to Jo. And so much more. Something about him must have made an impact on her as well, because she’d stayed in touch with him when his family moved on at the end of the summer. He still had her letters tucked in a shoe box in his closet. During his teenage years, she was the one stable person in his unsettled, unpredictable world, and he clung to her voraciously, sharing with her his fears and his hopes. She’d always encouraged him, and when it came time for college, she’d come through for him again, providing a significant amount of the funding for his education.

So even though he’d rescued Turning Leaves, his efforts were small repayment for all she’d been to him. Friend. Confidante. Supporter. Benefactor. And now she had one last request. Help her great-niece learn the business.

How could he say no?

“Blake, A. J. Williams is on the phone for you.”

Blake frowned and transferred his gaze from the computer screen to the flickering phone light.

“Bad time? Should I get a number?”

Slowly, Blake shook his head and looked over at his assistant manager. There was no sense avoiding the inevitable. “No. I’ll take it, Nancy. Thanks.”

She hesitated at the doorway. “Is everything okay?”

Blake heard the trepidation in her voice, and nodded. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

As a divorced mother with two part-time jobs, Nancy worked hard to provide for herself and her ten-year-old daughter. She’d been unsettled ever since Jo’s death, clearly unsure about the future of Turning Leaves. Blake had tried to be reassuring, but he couldn’t offer much encouragement since he felt the same way.

Blake looked back at the flashing light. Too bad he hadn’t hung around long enough after Jo’s memorial service to meet her nieces—and get a few insights about his new partner. He took a deep breath, picked up the receiver and punched the flashing button.

“Blake Sullivan.”

“Mr. Sullivan, this is A. J. Williams, Jo Warren’s great-niece. I believe you’ve heard from Seth Mitchell about my aunt’s bequest of Turning Leaves?”

The voice was a bit breathless, but bright and friendly. His was cautious and curt. “Yes.”

There was a hesitation, as if she expected him to say more. When he didn’t, she continued. “Well, I’m getting ready to make travel plans to St. Louis and wanted to talk with you about the timing of my arrival.”

Deep inside Blake had harbored a dim hope that A.J. would pass on her inheritance. From the little he’d heard about her through the years, a bookshop didn’t seem like the kind of thing she’d be interested in. Now that hope flickered and died. “There’s no rush from my end.”

His less-than-friendly reply was met with a moment of silence. Okay, maybe his comment wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy. But it was the truth.

“Well, according to Seth Mitchell, the clock starts ticking on December 1. But I see no reason to wait until then. I can wrap things up here pretty quickly.”

Now it was his turn to hesitate. But only briefly, because he wanted an answer to his next question. “May I ask you something, Ms. Williams?”

“Yes.” Her reply was immediate, but cautious.

“How much interest do you have in Turning Leaves?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is this a lark for you, or do you have a serious interest in the business?”

There was a moment of silence. “Maybe a little of both,” she finally said. “I’m ready for a change, and the business sounds interesting. I don’t really have any long-term plans.”

“Then let me make you a proposition. I happen to care about Turning Leaves. And I do have long-term plans, which revolve around this business. So my proposal is this—I’ll work with you for six months so you can claim your inheritance. At that point, you give me the option to buy your half of the business at a mutually agreeable price. That lets us keep Jo’s legacy alive, and frees you to pursue your next…lark.”

On the other end of the line, A.J. felt the stirrings of her Irish temper. This man was treating her like some irresponsible airhead who flitted from one distraction to another. She hardly considered her years in Afghanistan, nor the past two working in Good Samaritan, Inc. headquarters, a “lark.” Nor the rigorous years of training that went into earning her M.B.A. She didn’t like his inference one bit. In fact, she didn’t think she liked Blake Sullivan. But she didn’t have to, she reminded herself. She just had to work with him for six months. And she’d had plenty of experience working under difficult conditions with difficult people. Maybe Mr. Sullivan would even discover that she wasn’t quite as capricious and flighty as he seemed to think. Starting right now. Because she wasn’t about to make any promises for anything six months down the road. That was a lifetime. And a lot of things could happen between now and then.

When she spoke again, her voice was brisk and businesslike. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Sullivan. I’ll agree to consider your proposal when the time comes. But I can’t make any promises. I might decide to stay on at Turning Leaves. However, if I do decide to sell, I would certainly give you first consideration.”

Blake frowned at the unexpected response. Her tone had cooled considerably, and he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t exactly been friendly. And he couldn’t argue with her counterproposal. He would have offered the same thing. So it appeared he was stuck with Jo’s niece for the next six months. Unless he just walked away. But he couldn’t do that. Not after pouring himself into the business for the past three years. Yet could he stand by and watch it potentially falter in the hands of an inexperienced and seemingly strong-willed partner? For once in his life he wished he was a praying man, because he sure could use some guidance.

While Blake considered her counteroffer, A.J. did pray. Because she needed the bookshop. And she needed Blake, with his years of experience, to help her run it. Though she loved her work at Good Samaritan, the spartan pay in a high cost of living city like Chicago made it more and more difficult for her to keep up with daily expenses. She had known for several months that she’d have to make a change. The options were simple: Stay in Chicago and find a better-paying job, or move on to something—and someplace—entirely new. After praying, she’d been leaning toward the latter option. So when Jo’s legacy had fallen in her lap, she had seen it almost as divine intervention, a reaffirmation of her decision to pack up and move on. And even if she decided to sell after six months, the legacy would give her a financial cushion to fund whatever direction her life took.

“All right, Ms. Williams. I’ll accept your terms. If you could put them in a letter to me, I’d appreciate it.”

“You have my word.”

“In the business world, it’s better to have things in writing.”

He could hear anger nipping at the edges of her voice when she spoke. “Fine. I’ll put something in the mail today. Would you like it notarized as well?”

He ignored the touch of sarcasm in her tone. “That won’t be necessary. When are you planning to come down?”

“I have to close up my apartment and give notice at my job. In a couple of weeks, probably. I’ll call ahead to let you know my plans. And feel free to call me in the interim if you need anything.”

“I think we’ll be just fine.”

Without you.

The words were unspoken. But the implication came through loud and clear.

Three hours.

A.J. was three hours late.

Blake glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time and shook his head in exasperation.

“I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” Nancy said as she passed by with a stack of books to restock a display. “It’s such a nasty day out…maybe the weather delayed her.”

As if to reinforce her comment, a crash of thunder shook the building.

Blake wasn’t buying it. “For three hours? Hardly likely. She probably forgot what time she said she was going to arrive.”

Nancy looked at him curiously as she arranged the books. “Boy, you sure formed a strong impression of her from a couple of phone conversations. It’s not like you to make snap judgments.”

He shrugged stiffly. “Well, let’s hope I’m wrong. Look, why don’t you head home? I doubt we’ll have many customers on a night like this, and I can close up. Besides, didn’t you say Eileen wasn’t feeling well? I’m sure you’d rather be home with her than holed up here with a grouchy bookseller.”

Nancy smiled. “Well, if you’re sure, I’ll take you up on your offer. She just has a scratchy throat, but after that bout with strep last year I’m extra cautious. Mrs. Cook takes good care of her when I’m gone, but I’d feel better if I could check on her myself.”

“Go. And be careful. It’s a downpour.”

Forty-five minutes later, as he worked on payroll in the back office, he heard the front door open. He glanced at his watch. Quarter to eight. It was either a last-minute customer or his tardy new partner. And he had a feeling he knew which it was. His lips settled into a grim line as he quickly logged off the computer and headed out front.

Blake had no idea what to expect when he stepped into the main room, but the dripping mess that greeted him wasn’t it.

A woman stood just inside the entrance as a puddle rapidly formed at her feet on the gleaming hardwood floor. Her wet, strawberry blond hair straggled out of a lopsided topknot, and damp ringlets were stuck to her forehead. He couldn’t quite decide what she was wearing—some sort of long-sleeved, hip-length tunic over what might once have been wide-legged trousers. Right now, the whole outfit was plastered to her willowy frame like a second, wrinkled skin.

She doesn’t even know enough to come in out of the rain. The thought came to Blake unbidden, and he shook his head.

The slight movement caught A.J.’s eye, and she glanced over at the tall man who was looking at her with a mixture of disgust and resignation. Was this Blake Sullivan? If so, he sure didn’t match the image she’d created in her mind. She’d envisioned a bookish type, fiftyish, probably wearing glasses, possibly balding, maybe a little round-shouldered, sporting a paunch. A fussy, precise and stern curmudgeon.

Well, the latter qualities might prove to be true of the man standing across from her. But she’d been dead wrong on the physical description. Blake Sullivan was tall—she classified anyone who topped her five-foot-ten frame as tall—with dark brown hair and intense, cobalt-colored eyes. His crisp, blue oxford shirt, beige slacks and well-polished leather shoes bordered on being preppy, though the effect was softened by rolled-up sleeves. His attire also showed off his athletic build—broad chest, lean hips, flat abdomen. And his shoulders were definitely not rounded.

A.J. tried not to flinch under his scrutiny. She could only imagine how she appeared. No, on second thought, she didn’t even want to go there. She could read enough from the look in his eyes. So much for first impressions.

With more bravado than she felt, she straightened her shoulders, tilted up her chin and gazed directly at the man across from her. “I’m looking for Blake Sullivan.”

He waited a moment, as if trying to decide whether he wanted to have anything to do with the pitiful vision in front of him or simply turn around and run. Finally, with obvious reluctance, he approached her, stopping a couple of feet away to fold his arms across his chest. “You’ve found him.”

She swallowed and extended her hand. “I’m A. J. Williams.”

Short of ignoring her courteous gesture, Blake had no choice but to narrow the gap between them so he could take her hand.

At closer range, he realized that A.J. was tall. She was probably a couple of inches shorter than him, but whatever shoes she had on put them almost eye-to-eye. If she’d been wearing any makeup prior to her dash through the storm, the rain had efficiently dispensed with it, giving her a fresh, natural look that actually had a certain appeal. There was a light dusting of freckles across her small, slightly turned-up nose, and thick lashes fringed deep green eyes highlighted with gold flecks. His gaze dropped to her lips, and lingered there a moment too long before he reached for her extended hand.

Given her height, he was surprised to discover that her hand felt small and delicate in his. But her grip was firm. At least it was until he felt a tremor run through it—and then throughout her body. He frowned.

“Are you okay?”

“A little ch-chilled. I’ll be okay once I ch-change out of these wet clothes.” She withdrew her hand from his self-consciously.

“Don’t you have an umbrella?”

“Of course. Somewhere in the U-Haul. Along with my coat. It was sunny and warm when I left Chicago. It generally gets nicer when you head south. But obviously not today. Then I had to park down the block because all the spots in front of the shop were taken. Which is why I’m sporting the drowned-rat look.”

Blake pointedly glanced at his watch. “It was quite a bit warmer here earlier. When you were supposed to arrive.”

A.J. flushed. “I’m sorry about that. But I didn’t plan on running into major road construction. Or having a flat tire. I’m a little out of practice, so it took me a while to change it.”

And she’d paid a price for doing so. Even before the blowout her hip had already begun to throb from her long hours confined behind the wheel. Dealing with the tire had only intensified her discomfort. She shifted from one foot to the other, trying in vain to alleviate the ache that she knew only a hot bath would soothe.

“You could have called,” Blake responded.

“Not without a phone.”

He looked surprised. “You don’t have a cell phone?”

“No.” Her budget barely allowed for a regular phone.

“It might be a good idea to get one…for emergencies.”

She felt her temper begin to simmer at his condescending attitude, but she wasn’t in a fighting mood tonight. Better to save her strength for the battles that she was beginning to suspect would surely follow in the days and weeks ahead. So, with an effort, she moderated her comments. “I’ll consider that. But I’d hardly classify today as an emergency. And I already apologized for being late.” Another shiver suddenly ran through her, and this time she made no attempt to hide it. “Look, can we continue this discussion on Monday? I came directly here and I’m cold and wet and hungry.”

Blake had to admit that she did look pretty miserable. The puddle at her feet had widened, and there was definitely a chill in the shop. The heating system in the older building hadn’t quite caught up with the sudden, late-afternoon plunge in temperature. So if he noticed the coolness in the air, she must be freezing.

“Monday is fine. Shall we say nine a.m.? That gives us an hour before the store opens.”

“Fine.”

He stuck out his hand. “Until Monday, then.”

She seemed surprised by his gesture, but responded automatically. And his assessment was confirmed. Her fingers were like ice. He frowned, good manners warring with aggravation at her tardiness.

“Look, can I offer you a cup of tea first? We keep some on hand for the patrons.”

Again, surprise flickered in her eyes—followed quickly by wariness. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t exactly been welcoming—or hospitable—up till now.

“Thanks. But I think a hot bath is the only thing that will chase the chill away.”

His gaze scanned her slender form, and she suddenly realized her once loose-fitting outfit had become plastered to her skin. Her face flushed a deep red, and with her free hand she tried to pry the fabric away. When that attempt was unsuccessful, she tugged her other hand from Blake’s and took a step back. “I’ll see you Monday at nine.” Her voice sounded a bit breathless.

“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

“Yes. And a real estate agent lined up tomorrow to look at apartments.”

He nodded. “Can I loan you an umbrella? It’s still pouring.”

She backed toward the door. “There’s not much point now, is there?”

He glanced at the puddle on the floor in the spot she had just vacated. “True.”

The crimson of her face went a shade deeper and her step faltered. “Oh…I’m sorry about that. I can clean it up, if you have a mop or…”

“Ms. Williams,” Blake cut her off, but his tone was cordial. “I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you follow your own advice? Take a hot bath and have a hot meal. We’ll make a fresh start on Monday. Okay?”

A.J. studied him for a moment. Did she detect a softening in his manner, a slight warmth in his tone? Or was it resignation? Or perhaps pity, because she was cold and wet and hungry and had a trying trip to St. Louis? Or was it pity for himself, because he’d been saddled with a partner who would need to be guided every step of the way?

If he thought the latter, he was in for a big surprise come Monday. But for now, she was cold, wet and hungry—and definitely not at her best. So she needed to exit. As gracefully as possible.

With a curt nod, she turned toward the door. And tried not to run.

## Chapter Two

At precisely nine o’clock Monday morning, A.J. knocked on the door at Turning Leaves. It was a gloriously sunny Indian summer day in mid-November, and as she waited for Blake to let her in, she surveyed the scene with a smile. Though Maplewood was a close-in suburb of St. Louis, this section had a small-town feel. The tree-lined streets and mom-and-pop shops hearkened back to another era, and morning walkers were already putting in their paces.

The door rattled, then swung inward as she turned back toward the shop. Blake stood on the other side, his clothes similar to what he’d worn on Friday except that he’d exchanged his blue oxford shirt for a yellow one, and his sleeves weren’t yet rolled up. His hair was damp, as if he’d showered very recently.

“Good morning.” She glanced at her watch. “You said nine o’clock, right?”

Blake ignored her question. If she expected him to compliment her punctuality, she would be sorely disappointed. It was the least he expected. Besides, he was still trying to reconcile the woman standing across from him now with the bedraggled waif who had dripped water all over his floor Friday night. Her hair was lighter in color than he remembered, and her topknot of natural curls was firmly in place. A few rebellious tendrils had fought their way out of the confining band to softly frame her face, which still seemed to be mostly makeup free. A touch of lipstick, perhaps some mascara, maybe a hint of blush—though the color in her cheeks could well be natural, he concluded. The sparkle in her eyes certainly was, enhanced by her open, friendly smile. It suddenly struck him that A. J. Williams was an extremely attractive woman. Not that he cared, of course.

When he didn’t respond to her greeting, she turned again and made a sweeping gesture. “Isn’t it a glorious day?”

Blake glanced around the familiar landscape. He’d jogged his usual eight miles before coming to work, but in all honesty he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings. He’d been thinking about his training schedule for the upcoming triathlon, a late order that he needed to follow up on at the shop, invoices that needed to be reconciled…and a myriad of other things.

“Just look how blue the sky is,” A.J. enthused. “And the sun feels so warm for November! I guess you haven’t had a hard freeze yet, because the geraniums and petunias still look great.”

Blake looked at the sky, then glanced at the flowers in the planters along the street. He wouldn’t have noticed either if A.J. hadn’t pointed them out. And for some reason her comment made him feel as if he should have. Which aggravated him. He didn’t need any guilt trips. What he needed was time to brief his new partner before the shop opened.

“If you’re ready to come in, we can get started,” he said shortly.

A.J. turned back to him and tilted her head. “No time to smell the flowers along the way, Mr. Sullivan?”

“I have work to do.” His voice sounded unnaturally stiff even to his own ears.

“I think God would appreciate it if we took a moment to admire His handiwork, don’t you?”

“I’m sure God has better things to think about. If He cares at all.”

A.J. raised one eyebrow. “Do I detect a note of cynicism in that comment?”

Blake shrugged. “Whatever. Let’s just say I haven’t seen much evidence that God cares.”

A.J.’s eyes grew sympathetic. “That’s too bad. Because He does.”

Blake frowned impatiently. “Look, can we just get down to business? Because we’ve only got an hour before the shop opens, and I’d like to show you around before the customers start coming.”

“Absolutely. I’m ready whenever you are.”

He stepped aside, and as she swept past he caught a faint, pleasing fragrance. Not floral. Not exotic. Just…fresh. It seemed to linger even after she moved away.

A.J. took a moment to look over the shop, something she hadn’t done Friday night. As she completed her circuit, her gaze returned to Blake. He was still at the door, and he was staring at her. She couldn’t quite read the expression in his eyes, but it looked as if he’d found something else to disapprove of. Her chin lifted a notch.

“Anything wrong?” She tried to keep her tone mild, but a note of defiance crept in.

Blake studied her attire. She wore a white peasant-type blouse in some wrinkly fabric, and a funky bronze cross hung from a chain around her neck. An unusual metal belt cinched her impossibly small waist. Her skirt, made of several progressively longer layers of what appeared to be a patchwork of fabrics, brushed her legs mid-calf. If his attire bordered on preppy, hers could well be described as hippie. Which did not evoke happy memories.

“Mr. Sullivan, is something wrong?” she repeated more pointedly.

He frowned. “I haven’t seen clothes like that in a long time.”

She looked down and smoothed her skirt over her hips. “Probably not. They’re from a vintage clothing store I discovered in Chicago. Pretty cool, huh?”

Actually, he had another word for her attire. But he settled for a less judgmental term. “Interesting.”

The look she gave him told him very clearly that she knew exactly what his opinion was. And that, in turn, she had judged him to be stuffy, uptight and conventional. “Very diplomatic. I wasn’t sure you had it in you.” Before he could respond, she turned back to the shop. “So, how about that tour?”

Blake thought about responding to her comment— then thought better of it. He had to work with this woman for the next six months, and it would be to both their advantages if they made an effort to get along.

“Sure. Let’s start with a walk-through.”

The shop wasn’t huge, and A.J. only made a few comments as Blake showed her around. There was a small area for children’s books, and sections devoted to books on travel, cooking, fiction, gardening and general non-fiction. There was also a reading nook, with four comfortable chairs, and a coffee and tea maker tucked in a back corner. A small stockroom and tidy office were behind a door marked “private.” Two big picture windows flanked the front door, and each featured displays of the latest releases. The older building was well-maintained, with a high ceiling and hardwood floors, and A.J. felt comfortable in the space immediately. Just as she’d felt comfortable in the tiny apartment she’d found Saturday. It, too, was in an older building, in a neighborhood that had obviously seen better days. But it was safe and in the early stages of renewal, the real estate agent had assured her.

When the tour was over, Blake waited for her to say something.

“This is a great space,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “It’s sunny and bright and inviting. There’s a nice selection of books. And the layout is…interesting.”

She’d borrowed the word he’d used earlier to describe her attire, and Blake gave her a suspicious look. “What does that mean?”

She lifted one shoulder. “We might want to think about rearranging a few things.”

He frowned. “Our customers seem to like this setup. We do quite well.”

“Yes, that’s what Seth Mitchell said. Which reminds me, I’d like to spend some time going over the accounts with you.”

A flicker of amusement crept into his eyes. “That could be a little tedious. It might be better if I meet with your accountant. Or, if you don’t have one, I’m sure Mr. Mitchell can recommend someone. But I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have today.”

The condescending tone was back, but this time A.J. was ready for him. “That’s kind of you,” she said sweetly. “I do have a few.”

“Shoot,” he said amiably.

“Okay. Let’s start with some basics. I’d like to get the details on return on capital, net profit, blue-sky value, inventory turnover rates, payroll expenses and any major debt. I’d also like to get some breakdowns on customer demographics, sales by book category, store traffic patterns and volume, and repeat customers. That’s just to start, of course.”

The dazed look on Blake’s face was totally satisfying. As was the lengthy time it took for him to recover from her barrage of questions.

“I’m not sure I have all those answers at my fingertips,” he said slowly. “It might take me a couple of days to pull the data together.”

“Okay. I jotted down some other questions, too.” She fished in her purse and withdrew two pages of additional typed questions and handed them to him. “You might as well work on these at the same time.”

He scanned the list quickly, frowning, and when he looked back at her she could read the question in his eyes. She answered it before he could ask.

“I have an M.B.A. From Wharton. I chose not to pursue a business career for a variety of reasons. But I have the background. And it’s kind of like riding a bicycle. You never forget.”

Blake felt his neck grow warm. Jo had long ago taught him not to judge a book by its cover. Yet that was exactly what he’d done with A.J. She didn’t look like a businesswoman. At least not his image of one. So he’d assumed she had no business skills. He felt suitably chastised—but he didn’t like being made a fool of. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She shrugged. “You seemed to have your mind made up about me from our first conversation. So I figured I’d wait and play my hand when the time was right. Which turned out to be today.”

So A.J. wasn’t some ditzy airhead after all, he conceded. She had business savvy. Quite a bit of it, if the questions she was asking were any indication. But it was only textbook knowledge. She might be able to analyze the balance sheet, but she had no practical experience. And he did. He knew the book business. So she needed him. Which meant he still had some leverage. And some control. That knowledge gave him some comfort. Because ever since Jo’s death and A.J.’s first phone call, he’d been watching his control erode. And it was not a good feeling.

When the silence lengthened, A.J. sighed. “Look, I’m sorry if you jumped to conclusions about me. Obviously, I have the financial background to run this shop. But I don’t have practical experience. I guess Aunt Jo hoped you’d teach me. And I’m willing to learn. So can we just start over? Otherwise it’s going to be a long six months.”

Blake couldn’t argue with that. “Maybe it would help if we set some ground rules.”

She made a face. “Why don’t we just take it a day at a time? Make up the rules as we go along?”

“You mean wing it?”

“More or less.”

“That’s not the best way to run a business.” Or a life, as far as he was concerned. He liked rules and structure. He’d had enough of “winging it” to last a lifetime.

“We’re not a Fortune 500 company, Blake. We can afford to be a little flexible.”

That was another word he hated. Too often “flexible” became an excuse for not honoring commitments.

At his grim expression, A.J. grinned. “Loosen up, Blake. Life’s too short to sweat the small stuff.”

“I don’t consider Turning Leaves small stuff,” he said stiffly, sounding uncharacteristically pompous and self-righteous even to his own ears. This woman just brought out the worst in him.

“I didn’t say it was. I was referring to your ground rules. I don’t want to get hung up on making a lot of guidelines that may not be necessary. Let’s just work things out as we go along. And before you know it, the six months will zip right by.”

The bell jangled over the door, and A.J. turned her attention to the customer who had just entered. “Oh, look at that darling little girl!”

Blake glanced at the young mother and her child. The toddler looked to be about four, and she was clutching a glazed donut. Which translated to sticky fingers— and sticky merchandise. He started forward, then stopped. The house rules said no food in the shop. But he had a feeling the house rules were about to go out the window.

Blake sighed. It was going to be a long six months.

“I’d like to start closing the shop on Sundays.”

Blake stared at A.J. as if she’d lost her mind. Their first week as partners had been remarkably smooth. She was an eager learner, and Blake was beginning to think that maybe this arrangement would work out after all. Until she’d dropped this bombshell.

“Excuse me?”

She looked up from the catalog of new releases she was perusing. “I’d like to close the shop on Sundays.”

“Why? We’re always busy on Sunday.”

“I’ve studied the traffic and sales data. We do have a lot of window-shoppers on Sunday. But it’s not one of our bigger sales days. And we’re only open for five hours, anyway. I don’t think we’ll notice much impact on our bottom line.”

This was exactly the kind of impetuous action that Blake had been afraid of. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Nancy observing the exchange, and he took a deep breath before responding.

“I don’t think changing the hours is a good idea. Everyone else on the street is open on Sunday. Our customers will be disappointed.”

“We can change our phone message and have a sign with our new hours made for the window. People will adjust.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Why is this such a big deal? Sunday hours are convenient for our customers and we always have enough sales to justify being open.”

A.J. closed the catalog and looked at him steadily. “My main reason for wanting to close has nothing to do with sales or with customers. Sunday is the Lord’s day. A day of rest. A day to keep holy. A store like ours that sells nonessential items doesn’t need to be open.”

Blake stared at her. “You’re kidding.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

He tried a different approach. “Jo was very religious. And she was open on Sunday.”

“When did she start opening on Sunday?”

“A couple of years ago.”

About the time he took over the day-to-day management of the shop. Neither voiced that thought, but it hung in the air.

“Did she work in the shop that day?” A.J. asked.

“No.”

“Who did?”

“Nancy and I alternated.”

A.J. glanced over at Nancy. She didn’t know the part-time worker very well yet, but she’d learned enough to know that the divorced mother had a tough life, that she juggled two part-time jobs just to make ends meet, and that she was a churchgoing woman with a quiet, deep faith.

“How do you feel about it, Nancy?” A.J. asked.

Nancy looked uncertainly from A.J. to Blake, then back again. “I need the job, A.J. I’ll be happy to work whatever hours you and Blake give me.”

A.J. smiled. “I already know that, Nancy. That’s not what I’m asking. How do you feel about working on Sundays?”

“Well, the money is nice.” She hesitated. “But it’s always a rush to get here after church, and then I have to leave Eileen with Mrs. Cook all afternoon. I guess, if I had a choice, I’d prefer to have Sundays off so I could spend a little more time at church and with my daughter. Six days of work ought to be enough for anyone. Even God rested on the seventh day.”

Blake stared at Nancy. “You never said anything to me about not wanting to work on Sundays.”

“I didn’t think it was an option.”

He expelled a frustrated breath. “Okay, fine. I don’t mind working. We can surely find someone to fill in every other weekend for those few hours.”

“I’m sure we can, Blake,” A.J. replied calmly. “But that’s not the point. I’m talking about principles here. And if you’re worried about losing sales, I’m sure we can find a way to make up the difference.”

“Such as?”

“I’m working on it.”

He looked at her, and the determination in her eyes told him that she was dead set on this. He didn’t agree, but he wasn’t sure it was worth waging a major battle over. Yes, they’d lose some sales. But she was right. The decision wouldn’t make or break the shop. Besides, he suspected there would be bigger battles to fight down the road. Maybe the best strategy was to let her win this one.

“Okay. If that’s what you want. I just hope you don’t regret it,” he capitulated.

“I don’t waste my time on regrets, Blake. They’re all about the past. I try to focus on today and make the best decisions I can.”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to think a little bit about tomorrow, too.”

A shadow crossed her eyes, so fleeting that he thought perhaps it was just the play of light as she turned her head. “Tomorrow has a way of surprising us, no matter what we plan,” she said quietly.

Blake didn’t know what to make of that comment. So he simply turned away and headed back to the office.

Nancy watched him go, then moved to the counter beside A.J. “I applaud your position.”

A.J. turned to her with a rueful smile. “I’m glad someone does.”

“Don’t mind Blake. It’s been a hard transition for him. He and Jo went way back, and he took her death pretty hard. Plus, he’s more or less run the shop for the past couple of years, so having a partner is a big adjustment for him. But he’s a great guy when you get to know him. He’s really conscientious, and you won’t ever meet a kinder, more considerate person. He even came over to my apartment one night last winter at three in the morning when I was worried about Eileen, and then drove us to the emergency room.”

A.J. frowned. Were they talking about the same Blake? She didn’t doubt the conscientious part, but kind and considerate? She hadn’t seen much evidence of those qualities.

When A.J. didn’t immediately respond, Nancy smiled knowingly. “You’ll find out after you get to know him. But what I really wanted to ask was if you’d like to join me for church on Sunday. After your comments about closing, I figured you must be in the habit of attending church, and since you’re new in town I wasn’t sure if you’d had a chance yet to find a place to worship. We have a great congregation, and our minister is wonderful. You’d be welcomed warmly.”

In fact, A.J. was in the habit of weekly worship, but so far she’d been too busy settling in to have a chance to seek out a new church. Nancy’s invitation was perfectly timed. “Thank you. That would be great.”

Blake came out from the office, but on his way back to the front counter, he was waylaid by a customer. Nancy glanced his way.

“I’ve invited Blake a few times, too, but so far I haven’t had any luck,” she offered, lowering her voice.

A.J. thought about his comments to her when she’d mentioned God. “He doesn’t strike me as a religious man.”

“I think he believes in God. But he wasn’t raised in a religious environment. It’s hard to convince someone who is so self-reliant that the plans we make for our life don’t always match God’s. Blake’s kind of a loner, and he’s so used to relying only on himself that I just don’t think he’s willing to put his life in anyone else’s hands. Even God’s.”

A.J. looked over at the tall, dark-haired man deep in conversation with a customer. He was angled slightly away from her, and she had a good view of his profile— strong chin, well-shaped nose, nicely formed lips. Self-reliance was a good thing in moderation. A.J. knew that from personal experience. But she couldn’t imagine taking it to such an extreme that she shut other people out of her life. Especially God. It would be a very empty existence.

Suddenly Blake glanced at her, almost as if he knew she was watching him. Their gazes met, and whatever he saw in hers—curiosity, sympathy, or a combination of both—brought a frown to his face. She responded with a smile. And even though he didn’t physically move, she felt almost as if he’d taken a step back. And posted a sign saying Private. No Trespassing.

A.J. didn’t really care if he kept his distance. Their relationship was destined to be short-lived, anyway. But she wasn’t used to having her gestures of friendship so openly rebuffed. She turned back to find Nancy watching the exchange.

“Blake doesn’t let too many people get close,” Nancy noted. “Even I don’t know much about his background, and we’ve worked together for almost two years.”

A.J. shrugged. “I respect people’s privacy. If he wants to shut people out, it doesn’t matter to me.”

But as she headed to the back room to check the new inventory, she realized that her answer hadn’t been quite honest. Because in that brief, unguarded moment, before his barriers had slipped back into place, she’d glimpsed in Blake’s eyes a stark loneliness that had touched her deep inside.

And even though they were practically strangers, even though he clearly resented her presence at Turning Leaves, even though he disapproved of almost everything she did, that loneliness troubled her. More than she cared to admit.

And she had no idea why.

“So…what do you think?”

Blake had only been gone from the shop for four days. Just a quick trip to Cincinnati to compete in a triathlon over Thanksgiving weekend. But if he’d been gone three weeks, the shop couldn’t have changed more dramatically.

He stood rooted just inside the door of the office, trying to absorb the changes that had been wrought in his absence. Gone was the table of featured books and the greeting card rack that had been just inside the display window on the left. Now the four chairs from the reading nook were arranged there, and a low, square table that he didn’t recognize was placed in front of them, with a small pot of copper-colored chrysanthemums in the center. Two chairs were on one side of the table, facing the window, with the others at right angles on the adjacent two sides. A couple of the chairs were occupied, and one of the patrons was helping himself to a cup of coffee from the coffee and tea maker that had also been moved to the front of the shop. Blake recognized him as a regular, though not someone who usually bought much.

“Well?” A.J. prompted.

Slowly, Blake turned to his partner. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement, but he could also sense some trepidation. She knew him well enough even after only a couple of weeks to realize that he didn’t like sudden, unplanned changes.

“What happened to the display table? And the cards?”

“The table’s in the back room. I moved the cards closer to the checkout counter.” She gestured over her shoulder.

He planted his fists on his hips and studied the new arrangement. It was attractive enough. But it changed the dynamics of the shop entirely. And it definitely cut down on display space.

“What did you do with the old reading nook?”

“Come see.”

She led him to the back corner, which had been transformed into a small enclosure complete with blocks, vinyl books and an assortment of toys. He frowned and looked at her questioningly. “What’s this?”

“A play area. A lot of people come in here with toddlers and young children, and it’s pretty difficult to look through books when you’re juggling a little one. Now they can safely leave their children here to play while they make their selections.”

He grunted in response.

“Several mothers have already commented on how much they like this.” There was a slight defensive note in her voice.

“And what about the area in front? You’ve lost a lot of display space. That sells books.”

“So does atmosphere. When people walk by and see patrons relaxing and enjoying themselves through the window, they might be more inclined to come in and look around. Besides, the other reading nook wasn’t being used much. The light wasn’t very good, and it was so tucked away a lot of people missed it. But it makes a perfect play spot.”

Before he could respond, the bell on the front counter rang. The regular patron Blake had noticed in the new sitting area was waiting to purchase a large coffee-table book.

“Morning, folks,” he said cheerily as they joined him.

“Good morning.” A.J. reached for the book and started to ring up the sale while Blake retrieved a bag from under the counter.

The older man took a sip of his coffee. “By the way, my compliments on the new reading area. Never did like that one stuck back in the corner. Not enough light for these old eyes. This one is real cheerful and bright.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Blake saw A.J. give him a sidelong glance, but he kept his gaze averted. “Thank you. We hope you’ll come back soon.”

“You can count on it. Thanks again.”

They watched as the man exited, the bell jangling as the door closed behind him. Blake knew A.J. was looking at him. Waiting for him to compliment her on what she’d done, especially in light of the customer’s unsolicited approval. But he didn’t want to encourage her. Change was fine, as long as it was planned. And carefully thought out. And discussed. But he had a real issue with spur-of-the-moment changes. Because in his experience, most of the time they weren’t good ones.

“I saw some new inventory in the back when I got here. I’ll log it in,” he said.

He turned to go, but her voice stopped him. “Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”

He’d been expecting a comment on the new layout, so it took him a moment to switch gears…and formulate an answer. He’d spent most of Thanksgiving Day training for the triathlon, then he’d eaten a frozen turkey dinner at home. He’d been on the road early the next morning for Cincinnati, spent Saturday competing, then drove home Sunday. His parents had invited him to visit for the holiday, of course. They always did. And, as always, he’d refused. But A.J. didn’t need to know any of that. “Yes,” he replied briefly. “How about you?”

She smiled. “I had a great Thanksgiving. I don’t know anyone here, so I joined a group from Nancy’s church to help feed the homeless downtown. And we got a great turkey dinner in the bargain.”

He frowned. Dishing up food for a bunch of down-and-out strangers didn’t sound like a great holiday to him. It hit too close to home. His parents had never resorted to a homeless shelter, but they’d come close a few times. “Don’t you have family?” Hadn’t Jo mentioned several great-nieces? But he couldn’t recall any details.

“My parents are both gone. But I have two sisters. They’re too far away to visit for such a short holiday. We’ll make up for it at Christmas, I hope.” She’d talked to them both, of course. Morgan had actually gone to work in the morning, then out to dinner with friends. And Clare had somehow managed to wrangle a holiday dinner invitation to the same place Dr. Wright and his daughter were going. There was no stopping Clare when she set her mind to something, A.J. thought with a grin. “What about you, Blake? Any family?”

Slowly he shook his head. “No brothers or sisters. My parents live in Oregon.”

“Also too far away for Thanksgiving. Maybe you can see them at Christmas.”

Not likely, Blake thought. But she didn’t need to know that. He started to turn away, but suddenly found himself speaking. “By the way, I like what you did with the shop.”

A.J. looked as surprised by the comment as he was. He had no idea where those words had come from. He’d certainly had no intention of complimenting her. But she rewarded him with a dazzling smile. “Thank you.”

Suddenly Blake felt as if he’d just hit the proverbial runner’s wall. It was a familiar experience that squeezed the breath out of his lungs and left him feeling limp when it occurred at about the twenty-one mile mark of a marathon.

But the only thing racing right now was his heart.

Which made no sense.

And it made him want to run as fast as he could away from this red-haired source of disruption in his life.

## Chapter Three

“I think I figured out a way to make up the Sunday sales.”

Blake’s stomach clenched. Barely a week had passed since A.J. had rearranged the shop, and now she was on to something else. Which meant more upheaval. Change seemed to be this woman’s middle name. Warily he looked up from the computer screen.

A.J. shifted a large box in her arms and smiled. “Chill out, Blake. Maybe you’ll like my idea.”

He doubted it, and his skeptical expression told her so.

“Maybe not,” she amended. “But here it is anyway.” She placed the box on a chair and began pulling out a variety of items, which she lined up on the desk. “It occurred to me that people who are shopping for books are often shopping for gifts. Now, there are plenty of gift shops around. But not many that carry items like these, handmade in third-world countries. Good Samaritan, where I used to work, is starting a craft program, and a portion of the profits from the sales will benefit the artists. A lot of people in those countries are in desperate need of income, and a program like this is a godsend for them. Plus, I think it will drive traffic to our shop and more than make up for any sales we’ve lost by closing on Sunday. It’s a win-win situation all around, don’t you think?”

Blake looked at the array of items now displayed on his desk. Wood carvings, metalwork, woven placemats, pottery. Some were crude folk art. Others reflected great skill and artistry. None seemed appropriate for the bookshop. Nor was there room to display them without sacrificing space for their primary product.

A.J. spoke before he could offer his opinion. “Lots of bookstores carry small gift items,” she pointed out. “And space isn’t really a problem. I thought we’d intersperse a few items in the display window among the books. They’ll add some visual interest. And I found out the jewelry store next door is getting new display cases. I asked Steve about buying one of his old ones to replace our sales counter, and when he found out what I was going to use it for, he offered to donate it. So we’ll be able to display a lot of these items without taking any space away from the books. Isn’t that great?”

Blake stared at A.J. After three years, he knew Steve Winchell, the owner of the jewelry store, well enough to say hello when they met in the parking lot. But that was about it. In less than a month, A.J. was on a first-name basis with all of their neighbors.

“Earth to Blake.”

He caught her teasing tone and frowned. “This might dilute book sales.”

“I don’t think so. In fact, I think these items will draw new customers into the shop, and they might end up buying books as well. Plus, I bet some of our regular book customers will also buy these items as gifts. We can monitor it, though. If I’m wrong, I’m certainly willing to reconsider.”

But she wasn’t wrong. Within the first week, that was obvious. Blake told himself that part of the success of the new merchandise was due to the approaching holidays. It was just a gift-buying season. He suspected sales would taper off after Christmas. But even if they did, even if they only generated a modest return, it was all incremental. Because, thanks to A.J.’s creativity, the new offerings hadn’t taken one iota of space away from books. Exchanging their old checkout counter for the display case had been an ingenious solution. But Blake hadn’t told A.J. that. She didn’t need encouragement. And he didn’t need more disruptions.

But he had a feeling they were coming, anyway.

“Blake, could I speak with you when you have a minute?”

He looked toward A.J. while he waited for a customer to sign a credit card slip. She stood in the door of the office, and there was something in her eyes that made his stomach clench.

Here we go again, he thought, steeling himself for whatever brainstorm A.J. had just had.

“Sure. I’ll be right with you.” He finished the sale, then glanced toward the young woman restocking the cookbook section. “Trish, can you watch the front desk for a few minutes?”

“Sure, Mr. Sullivan.” The perky teen who helped out a few days a week after school made her way over to the counter. She smiled brightly. “Take your time.”

She’d love that, Blake thought. Trish wasn’t the hardest worker they’d ever had. But front desk duty suited her to a T. She was sweet and friendly, which counted for something, he supposed.

When he entered the office, A.J. was studying a recent order, a frown marring her usually smooth brow. She looked up when he walked in.

“What’s up?” he asked, willing himself to remain cool.

“I’d like to cancel a couple of the selections we’ve ordered.”

Now it was his turn to frown. “Which ones?” When she named them, his frown deepened. “Those are sure to be bestsellers. Our customers will expect us to stock them.”

“Have you read the ARCs?”

“No.” He rarely had time to read the advance copies sent out by publishers.

“I took them home over the weekend. I didn’t read them thoroughly, but skimmed through enough to know trash when I see it.”

“Those authors are extremely popular. A lot of people must not agree with you.”

“A lot of people read trash.”

He folded his arms across his chest and struggled to keep his temper in check. “So you’re trying to impose your values on everyone else.”

She’d wrestled with that very dilemma all weekend. How to reconcile personal values with bottom-line business decisions. It was the same conflict she’d grappled with in graduate school. And had worried about facing in the business world when she graduated. As it turned out, she’d never had to deal with it. Until now.

Blake sensed her uncertainty and pressed his advantage. “It sounds a little like censorship to me.”

A.J. sighed and distractedly brushed some wayward tendrils off her forehead. “I know. But I’ve given it a lot of thought. I don’t see how, in good conscience, we can carry books that are so blatantly sensational. I’m fine with books that deal with gritty themes or realistically portray bad situations, but in these novels all of the gore and sex and violence is just for effect. There’s absolutely no redeeming social value.”

“In your opinion.”

“And God’s. I talked with my pastor about this. I think this is the right thing to do, Blake. Our shop isn’t that big. We can’t carry every book. So I think we should focus on carrying good books.”

Blake didn’t agree with her position. But he couldn’t help admiring her. She had principles. And she didn’t compromise them. That was a rare trait in today’s world. Jo had been like that, too. And so were his parents, he admitted grudgingly. Maybe he didn’t like their principles, either. But they’d stuck with them.

“We’re going to have some unhappy customers,” he pointed out.

“I realize that. We’ll just have to explain our position and hope they understand.”

“Our position?”

“Okay, my position.”

“We’ll also lose sales. People who want those books will go somewhere else. There’s an impact on the bottom line here.”

“I know. And I realize that affects both of us, since we each own half of the business. But I feel very strongly about this, Blake. So I’d at least like to give it a try. If we take a huge hit, I’m willing to discuss it again and consider other alternatives. But I’d like to try it for a month or two. Can you live with that?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “We won’t get back the customers we lose.”

“Maybe we’ll pick up some new ones.”

Blake supposed he could fight A.J. on this. But she had taken his concerns into consideration and was willing to discuss it if things didn’t work out. He supposed he could at least give her the time she had requested to test the waters. “Okay. Let’s try it for a few weeks. You don’t mind if I funnel any questions about this your way, do you?”

“No. It was my decision. I’ll defend it.”

And that’s exactly what she had to do a few days later when a customer asked Blake about one of the books A.J. had canceled. A.J. overheard the question and, true to her word, quickly stepped in. She glanced down at the signature line on the credit card slip the woman had just signed.

“Mrs. Renner, I’m A. J. Williams, one of the owners of Turning Leaves. I wanted to let you know that we’re not going to be carrying that title. As you can see, we’re a small shop, so we have to be very selective of our inventory. Quite honestly, not all bestselling books have content that’s worthy of our limited space. I’ve reviewed an advance copy of that book, and I’m afraid it just didn’t make the cut.”

The woman looked surprised. “That sounds like the philosophy at the Christian bookstore I go to. I didn’t realize secular bookstores were so diligent.”

“I don’t think most are. But we’re small enough that we can be a little more careful.”

“Well, that’s good to know. I have to admit, some of the novels I’ve read have shocked me. But you never know until you’ve already bought the book. It’s nice to think that a secular store has some standards, too.”

Not all patrons were so understanding, of course. But Blake had to admit that A.J. handled all the comments—and complaints—with grace and honesty.

Blake doubted that he and A.J. would ever see eye-to-eye on how to run the business. But, by and large, her decisions had been good ones. He glanced toward the reading nook. In its former location, it was rare for more than one chair to be occupied. Now patrons vied for the seats. Since they’d added the play area for children, young mothers and grandparents lingered longer in the shop. And they’d had to restock the glass display case regularly to keep up with the demand for the craft items, which had more than compensated for the sales lost by closing on Sunday.

Blake still didn’t think this latest decision would be as good for business. But it was consistent. A.J. might be a go-with-the-flow kind of woman, but in one thing she was very predictable. She stuck to her convictions.

He glanced toward her as she helped a patron select a book on gardening. Her head was bent as she listened intently to the older woman, and the late-afternoon light from the window gave her skin a golden glow. He watched as she turned to scan the selection of garden books, a slight frown on her brow, her lithe form silhouetted by the light. A moment later she reached up to select a thin volume. He was struck once again by her slender, graceful hands, recalling the night she’d arrived and his surprise when he’d reached for her hand in greeting. Because of her height, he’d been taken aback by its delicacy. And maybe he was just getting used to her funky clothes, but he was suddenly able to look past her attire and recognize that A.J. was, in fact, a lovely woman.

With a will of iron.

“A.J., do you have a minute?”

A.J. turned to find George from the Greek restaurant down the block standing at the end of the aisle. He looked agitated, and she frowned. “Sure. What’s up?”

“Can I speak with you, someplace private?”

“The office is about as private as it gets around here.” She headed toward the front desk. “Trish, I’ll be in the back with Mr. Pashos. Stay at the desk, okay? Blake should be back from lunch any minute.”

“Sure thing.” The girl happily climbed on a stool behind the counter and proceeded to inspect her nails.

A.J. led the way toward the office, and motioned George to a seat. “Is everything okay?”

He sat, but leaned forward intently and shook his head. “Nothing is okay. Do you know about this thing called TIF?”

“No. What is it?”

“It stands for tax increment financing. The government can use it to help develop areas where—how do you say?—the economic potential isn’t being maximized.”

A.J. frowned. “Okay. So why is this upsetting you?”

George stood and began to pace. “There is a developer who wants to buy this block and put in a retail and residential development. He has already started the process.”

Twin furrows appeared on A.J.’s brow. “But what if we don’t want to sell?”

“That is where TIF comes in. If he can convince the city that his development will generate more revenue for Maplewood, we could all be shut down.”

“But that’s wrong!”

“Of course it is wrong! Your aunt, she would fight this! She was the first one to open a shop here, more than twenty years ago, when this area was not so good and businesses were closing, not opening. She believed in this area. And she persuaded others to follow. Your aunt, she was good at that. After we became friends and she found out that Sophia and I wanted to start our own restaurant, she helped us. We would not have our restaurant if it was not for her generosity and kindness, may the Lord be with her. And then others followed. Joe at the bakery, and Alene at the natural food store. Rose at the deli has been here for many years, and so has Steve. Carlos at the art gallery is the newest, but he has been here for ten years, too. We were the pioneers. We took a chance and invested in this area. And now that it is hot and trendy, what do we get? They want to throw us out! It is not right! The whole character of the neighborhood, it will change!” George’s accent grew thicker as he spoke, and his agitation increased.

“There must be a way to stop this,” A.J. reasoned. “Have you talked to any of the others?”

“No, not yet. I come to you first. You and Jo, you seem the same in many ways. Kind and caring. I did not think you would want your aunt’s legacy to be sacrificed just so more money could be made by a rich developer. I think maybe you might have an idea.”

A.J. tapped a pencil against the desk, frowning thoughtfully. “Well, I certainly believe there’s strength in numbers. I guess the first thing we need to do is tell all the merchants on this block what’s going on, and then have a meeting. If we all put our heads together, I’m sure we can come up with something.”

“A meeting. Yes, that is a good way to start. But soon, A.J. We cannot waste time.”

“I agree. Why don’t we see if everyone is available Thursday night? We can have the meeting here, after the shop closes.”

“Good. I will check. And I will bring baklava. It is always good to eat when you are trying to think.” He pumped A.J.’s hand. “I knew the day you came down to introduce yourself that you would be a good neighbor, just like your aunt. I tell that to Sophia when you left. Now I know even more that it is true. I talk to you soon.”

A.J. watched George leave. His spirits seemed higher, now that they had a preliminary action plan. But A.J. wasn’t feeling so upbeat. Fighting city hall was never easy, especially when money was involved. But she didn’t want to lose Aunt Jo’s legacy before she even claimed it. So if a battle was brewing, she was more than willing to do her part.