Paperback
-
PICK UP IN STORECheck Availability at Nearby Stores
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
Lucy Alling makes a living selling rare books, often taking suspicious liberties to reach her goals. When her unorthodox methods are discovered, Lucy’s secret ruins her relationship with her boss and her boyfriend, James—leaving Lucy in a heap of hurt and trouble. Something has to change; she has to change.
In a sudden turn of events, James’s wealthy grandmother, Helen, hires Lucy as a consultant for a London literary and antiques excursion. Lucy reluctantly agrees and soon discovers Helen holds secrets of her own. In fact, Helen understands Lucy’s predicament better than anyone else.
As the two travel across England, Lucy benefits from Helen’s wisdom as Helen confronts ghosts from her own past. Everything comes to a head at Haworth, home of the Brontë sisters, where Lucy is reminded of the sisters’ beloved heroines who, with tenacity and resolution, endured—even in the midst of impossible circumstances.
Now Lucy must face her past in order to move forward. And while it may hold mistakes and regrets, she will prevail—if only she can step into the life and the love that have been waiting for her all along.
“You’re going to love The Brontë Plot.” —Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author
- Sweet and thoughtful contemporary read
- Stand-alone novel
- Book length: 86,000 words
- Includes discussion questions for book clubs
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781401689759 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Nelson, Thomas, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 11/03/2015 |
| Pages: | 352 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.30(h) x 0.90(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Brontë Plot
By KATHERINE REAY
Thomas Nelson
Copyright © 2015 Katherine ReayAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4016-8975-9
CHAPTER 1
Wednesday was Book Day. With so many other demands, Lucy felt it important to pick a day, name it, and savor it. By plopping it in the center of the week, she secured a shining moment to anticipate at the week's front end and a delicious one to revisit at the back. And in so doing she could endure the mercurial whims and incessant demands of her clientele any day of the week.
Book Day always began with the twist of the old key in the lock, the street still quiet, despite being located in the center of Chicago's Old Town, and a hip-check through the door that read Sid McKenna Antiques and Design. First Lucy would touch base with her favorite online booksellers, monitor the current auctions, and place bids, keeping a keen eye on special requests or tempting offerings clients might find irresistible. After, she'd open the mahogany corner cabinet first, the nineteenth-century breakfront second, and rub Fredelka Formula into her beloved books' soft leather covers, dust their gold-tipped edges with a worn linen rag, and gently separate any pages humidity had fused. And, if there was time, she'd relish a passage or two.
This Wednesday, Lucy silenced the shop's alarm and leaned against the doorjamb. She let her eyes roam, as it was one of the first mornings in which the sun beat her to work. Sid's gallery always brought a smile of satisfaction, one of complacency — as if the space was her own and not another's. But that thought never took root because she could never imagine possessing Sid's brilliance. Sid McKenna married substance with style — from the deep-red lacquered door mounted on the far wall next to the Louis XIV end table to the black-and-white monographs of unknown artists stacked on its top, and those resting beneath a carelessly laid Montblanc pen. Sid threw down a disparate but symbiotic alchemy of beauty with every flick of his wrist, and this mix of old and new with the something unexpected had firmly established him as Chicago's premier interior designer.
Lucy closed her eyes and absorbed the shop's scents. Underneath the jasmine, she caught the tang of the polish she applied to the furniture every other day, buffing each piece until it felt velvety and gleamed. She also caught the musty scent of ink on paper within the books stacked for sale, on their sides so as not to warp their fragile spines. And dancing beneath it all, she caught a hint of fresh pine from her favorite organic floor cleaner, the one she found at a one-man shop in Vermont.
She glanced to the corner. The books ... Lucy opened her bag and pulled out her latest acquisition. While it wasn't a particularly fine find, of no distinction and without provenance, the novel was one of her favorites. And it wouldn't take much to make it something special. A good inscription always helped. A story behind the story, the generational passing from hand to hand, always added interest and a few dollars.
She turned the pages, absorbing snippets — an unbroken hush; a demoniac laugh — low, suppressed, and deep; or a man growing quite savage in his disappointment — as she carried it to the right front corner of the gallery and opened the cabinet's glass case. Delicious.
"Welcome home," she whispered. She held it to her nose and inhaled the leather, dust, ink, and history in a single whiff before placing it on its side atop two others. "All the sisters, together. Again."
Lucy stepped away as a soft "Good morning" drifted across the room.
Sid McKenna leaned on the workroom doorjamb. "I tried to say that gently."
"You're not supposed to be here," Lucy moaned. "What happened to my quiet Book Day?"
Sid chuckled and held up both hands. "I know, 'trespassing on sacred ground' and all that, but I have a meeting this morning and need the Benson drawings. I'll be out of your hair in a moment."
He turned back into the workroom and grabbed things at random. At six foot two and lithe, Sid exuded an energy that, although twenty years younger, Lucy only dreamed of possessing. His brain and body moved like a kaleidoscope, myriad directions at once, but all congruent and, in the end, masterfully creative.
"What are you doing?"
"Veronica is wavering. She declared yesterday that she's 'not good at big decisions,' so I'm taking things to give her a sense of space and texture. Tactile stuff. She needs to feel that her home reflects her family and her wants and is not being imposed on her." He tossed Lucy a smooth leather ball slightly larger than a golf ball. "That ball has the same silky texture of the leather we selected for her study and the same relief stitching, but in cream. And this lamp carries the knobbiness and aesthetic of the small industrial sculpture we chose for her living room." Sid loaded his treasures into a box. "She better not like that more, though; I found it at Goodwill."
Lucy joined in the hunt. "Most of the cuttings have arrived; you can take this bag too."
"Excellent. Those have Seussian textures."
"They're smooth, they're bumpy, they're fancy, not frumpy? Something like that?" Lucy caught Sid's wink and continued to survey the room, looking for more inspiration. "Your sweater!"
Sid looked down. "What about it?"
"It's the exact color of the paint I prepped for her powder room. The one you're going to stipple with umber? Be sure to point that out."
"So it is. I knew something felt good about this color today." Sid narrowed his eyes at her. "Or you could give me a cutting of your hair."
Lucy grabbed the precisely clipped end of her low ponytail and held it before her nose. "Not funny. And it's auburn. A lovely auburn."
"You keep telling yourself that." Sid chuckled, hoisted the box high, and headed for the alley door. "Enjoy your morning and don't neglect any hapless soul who might invade the shop."
"I'll try."
She heard a faint "Adios, mi roja belleza pelo" as the door clicked behind him.
Lucy knew he was gone, but called out anyway, "Again. Not funny. It's auburn!"
* * *
Lucy usually savored the quiet. There was so little of it with Sid's clients calling at all hours and Sid himself moving in and out of the gallery like a hurricane. But today was different; eight hours with not a single walk-in or anxious client made Lucy ache for a distraction. Sid's morning meeting with the Bensons and their architect had gone long. None of her friends were free for lunch. And her mom was hosting an open house and couldn't chat.
While the gallery's price points kept most casual strollers away, the scented candles, Battersea boxes, fine pens, linen stationery, and assorted table smalls usually enticed a daily few — at this point, Lucy would settle for a daily one.
The door chimed and Lucy jerked the pen, cringing as an errant drop of ink fell to the page's corner. But eager to talk to another human, she quickly blotted it and placed the opened Moby Dick into her desk drawer to let the ink dry. She stood, smoothing both her skirt and her ponytail, and drew her hair over her shoulder as she scrambled to the front of the gallery.
"Hello?" a deep voice called as Lucy crossed from the workroom's concrete floor onto the polished wood. She slipped and caught herself.
"Whoa," he called again and hurried forward.
"All good." Lucy blew her long bangs out of her eyes and took in her visitor. He came back! The young man, about her age with dark brown, almost black hair and eyes equally dark, smiled at her. Chocolate brown — 70 percent. "Must remember not to polish that for a while. Slippery." She followed his gaze to her feet. "Or wear lower heels. One of the two. Maybe both."
"They certainly make you tall." He stood only a few inches from her now, almost eye to eye. Then, as if recognizing their close proximity, he stepped back. "I don't know if you remember me, but I was in here a couple weeks ago —"
"Kidnapped," Lucy blurted, then tucked her lips in.
"You remembered." A crooked smile escaped.
"I always remember the books." Lucy laid her hand on the base of a Chinese bell jar lamp. "Buy this lamp and I'll forget you before you hit the door." She grinned to soften the delivery. "It was for your father. Did he like it?"
"He did. He has a wonderful book collection, and Kidnapped's always been a favorite of mine, so it was a win-win."
"You've read it?" Lucy challenged.
"Is this a test?" He smiled again.
The way his smile tipped up on the left side was so perfectly imperfect that it took all Lucy's willpower not to push up the right side to match it. It had struck her with the same force the first time he'd entered the gallery too. "Perhaps," she replied. "Did you show him the fore-edge drawing?"
"I did, and I fanned the pages just like you showed me. It's remarkable how the picture is just on the tips." He held his index finger and thumb together as if dotting tiny pictures in the air.
"I know!" Lucy exclaimed. She had stepped forward again and found herself too close. She retreated, one step, then two. "So ... do you need another gift?"
"Something for my grandmother, and she doesn't need a lamp."
I won't forget you. Lucy felt her cheeks heat at the thought and spun away, fully aware her face now matched her hair. Several former boyfriends had told her that it was not a good look. A comparison to "Animal" from the Muppets had even been suggested — twice. And she didn't want this man with his adorably quirky smile to see that — to remember her flush — as his first impression of her.
Lucy surveyed the shop to buy time. She knew every item and yet she didn't want to find one too soon, because then he'd leave and might never return. She took in the Henry Moore prints on the south wall. Too expensive. Sid's potpourri of modern works. Too abstract and too expensive. The mixed media sculptures. Too industrial. Various silver pieces, perhaps a pillbox or dish. Perhaps.
She returned her gaze to the man and wrinkled her nose. "I'm going to need a little more information. Is she a scented candle kind of lady? Or a pillbox? We have Halcyon Days and Moorcroft."
"What about a book?" His whisper came out low and suggestive with a pinch of adorable uncertainty.
He's flirting? Lucy caught another of the off-kilter smiles and was lost. "I thought of that, but my range is fairly tight and a little pricey."
"They're overpriced?"
"They're valued perfectly," she shot back as she twisted the large brass key and reached for a book. "None of these are first editions, but they're beautiful and limited. And in some, like this one I put out this morning, you'll find beautiful inscriptions in the front."
Lucy opened the small volume to reveal a swirled and loopy To my darling Betty, 1898 above a more strident and straight-lined Now to you, dear Laura, 1939. "This reveals another layer of story behind the one we read within the pages, and this interaction, these inscriptions, add value to the book."
She closed the Jane Eyre and fanned the pages' edges to reveal Jane and Rochester standing beneath a tree. "And, like your Kidnapped, this copy has a fore-edge painting. The colors are amazing; it's the famous scene when Edward tells Jane that the cord between them will snap when she leaves him for Ireland."
"I like that moment and was very relieved that the tree didn't light up above their heads, but I like it better when she comes back and finds him at Ferndale." He lifted one brow. "What a woman!"
Lucy's lips unfastened. She felt her jaw fall and clamped it shut. "I'm sorry I tested you."
"English literature major." He laughed. "You assumed I couldn't read, didn't you?"
"Not couldn't. Didn't. Clearly my mistake."
"What's your favorite?" He stepped to her and picked up the books one by one.
"Story or edition?" She reached for another. "Right now it's one and the same. I always veer to Victorian literature: the Brontë sisters, Dickens, Gaskell, Eliot, Thackeray, but this one has my heart." She reached again for the Jane Eyre and handed him the soft maroon leather book. "It's one of the first bound in one volume rather than three."
Lucy pulled down Middlemarch and Mary Barton and three others and placed them on the breakfront's ledge. "These are all a little less and still very nice."
He ran his finger over the books, still holding Jane Eyre. "I suspect she'd enjoy this best." He held out the book. "I'll take it."
"Yes, but ..." Lucy shook her head.
"You love it, don't you?" He held the book out to her but didn't release it when she gripped the other side. Neither pulled. Neither moved. "You're not going to be very successful as a bookseller if you can't part with dear Helen or Jane or Adele or Blanche ... Never mind, Blanche is easy to part with, isn't she?"
Lucy felt her face redden again. To have those dark eyes looking straight at her, intense and inviting, was too irresistible, too alluring, and then to add all the characters from Jane Eyre to the mix ... Too heady altogether. Lucy's gaze dropped to the book and her mind drifted to the scene discussed — Rochester's description of the cord of communion that bound him to Jane.
"I'm James, by the way. James Carmichael."
"Lucy Alling."
"It's very nice to meet you, Lucy Alling." James held her eyes until she gently pulled the book away and headed back to her desk.
Lucy recovered on her walk and James followed. She opened the cover to show him the price, marked lightly in pencil. He afforded it the tiniest glance and returned his gaze to her. He then lifted the same eyebrow he had moments before and reached for his wallet, never breaking eye contact. She was the first to look away.
As she rang up the sale, she couldn't resist quick peeks as James paced the gallery. She almost laughed as he picked up or touched every item on display. Sid knew his job well. Always keep tactile objects at hand. You want engagement. James ran his hand down a warm wooden sculpture sitting atop a book on architectural design and lobbed a forged-iron apple in his palm like a baseball. He then stood stymied in front of a display of scented candles.
"Those smell beautiful," Lucy called out.
"My mom loves scented candles. Which is better?"
Lucy reached in front of him, brushing his sleeve with her fingers as she reached for two candles. "They both smell like the actual flowers, not sweet or cloying at all."
James shook his head as she held out one then the other. "I can't tell the difference."
"Hmm ..." Lucy weighed both in her hands as if that was the determining factor. "The jasmine's been selling better, but I think that's because I've had one lit for a couple days. I prefer the gardenia and switched to that this morning."
"Will you add one?" He tapped the gardenia candle in her hand.
"Sure." She walked to her desk and wrapped both the book and candle in plain brown paper, tying them closed with black grosgrain ribbon. She was so focused, she didn't hear James approach until she felt him near.
"Would you have dinner with me sometime?"
It took Lucy only a heartbeat to reply. "Yes."
"Okay then." He beamed. "I can stop buying books ...
Tonight?"
CHAPTER 2The door chimed and Lucy hastily backed out from beneath the Louis XIV side table, banging her head on the way up.
"Lucy?"
She sat back on her heels and felt her face flare. James stood above her with an ear-to-ear grin. "That was not a sight you needed to see." She rubbed her head.
"Are you okay?" He laid his hand on top of her head.
Lucy rested there a moment until she caught movement in her periphery. She shot up as she noticed an older woman standing beside James.
"Hi. May I help you?" She gestured back to the table. "It had a wobbly leg."
The woman looked to James, who picked up the cue. "Lucy Alling, I'd like you to meet my grandmother, Helen Carmichael, recipient of the beloved Jane Eyre."
Lucy reached her hand out and clasped Helen's within hers. It was pale and thin, cool to the touch. "It's so nice to meet you, Mrs. Carmichael." Lucy held her eyes. They were bright blue, but as they held hands Lucy saw Helen's eyes widen, then darken and narrow. Benjamin Moore #810 Blue Dragon. Lucy bit her lip and dashed a quick glance to James. He was unaware of anything amiss.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Brontë Plot by KATHERINE REAY. Copyright © 2015 Katherine Reay. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.