HTP Fall Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: The Roaring Days of Zora Lily by Noelle Salazar

Set during a period of rapid social and technological change, The Roaring Days of Zora Lily follows a struggling young seamstress from her long nights sewing costumes in the smoke-filled speakeasies of Seattle to designing gowns for Hollywood’s biggest starlets.

2023, The Smithsonian's National Museum of American History: A costume conservator is preparing an exhibition featuring movie costumes from the 1920s to present day. As she gingerly places a gown once worn by Greta Garbo on a mannequin, she discovers another name hidden beneath the designer's label, leaving her to wonder—who is Zora Lily?

1924, Seattle: Poverty-stricken Zora Hough spends her days looking after her younger siblings while sewing up holes and fixing hems for clients to bring in extra money, working her fingers to the bone just to survive. But at night, as she lies in the bed she shares with one of her three sisters, she secretly dreams of becoming a designer like Coco Chanel and Jeanne Lanvin.

When her best friend gets a job dancing in a club downtown, Zora is lured in by her stories of music, glittering dresses and boys. She follows her friend to the underground speakeasies that are at once exciting and frightening—with smoke hanging in the air, alcohol flowing despite Prohibition, couples dancing in a way that makes Zora blush and a handsome businessman named Harley. It’s a world she has only ever imagined, and one with connections that could lead her to the life she's always dreamed of. But as Zora's ambition is challenged by tragedy and duty to her family, she'll learn that dreams come with a cost.

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Washington, DC, 2023



The fluorescent lights blinked on in a domino effect, one after the other, a faint buzzing sound filling the room as I stood squinting in the unnatural light.

I inhaled, taking in my small slice of heaven within the storied walls of the Smithsonian National Museum of American History. The long room with its high ceiling, soothing taupe walls, and wood floors—weathered in spots from years of conservators standing and pacing as they labored over the works of great minds—brought a sense of peace as soon as I stepped inside.

The museum had been my happy place since I was a little girl, when my mother would walk with me from our baby blue–painted row house on Capitol Hill, her slender fingers wrapped around my pudgy ones. We’d wander past sprawling parks, melancholy monuments documenting history, to the austere but magical facade housing wonders my six-year-old eyes could barely comprehend. By the age of eight I knew all the regular exhibits like the back of my hand, and waited anxiously for the monthly newsletter that arrived in our mailbox, telling us what traveling exhibits we could expect next. It was one such exhibit, a gallery of gowns worn by British royalty, that had burrowed itself inside me in such a way that a dream was born.

“I’m going to work here one day,” I’d told my mother, pushing back a strand of dirty-blond hair as I stared up at a jewel-colored gown once worn by Queen Elizabeth the Second.

I was twelve.

I wanted to exist within these walls. It was my church, and I believed in its teachings wholeheartedly. I had drunk the water. Read the great books. And prayed to the gods of knowledge and creativity. I wanted to be part of whatever it took to bring history to life for others. And for the past nine years…that’s exactly what I’d done.

I stared at the scene sprawled out before me.

“Sanctuary,” I whispered, tucking a blond-highlighted strand of hair behind my ear.

Gleaming table after gleaming table sat covered in silk, satin, lace, and velvet. Gowns and dresses and blouses previously only seen on movie screens and in photographs now lay delicately in wait of tending to, their sparkle and sinew in contrast to the stark lights and tepid surroundings. Mannequins, my constant companions, stood at the ready, waiting for their moment.

Thread in every color imaginable, like a rainbow of rotund spool soldiers on a rolling rack, waited to be chosen. Needles in pincushions, strips of bias tape, shimmering appliqués, ribbons, seam rippers, clear drawers filled with buttons and clasps and snaps, and boxes upon boxes of straight pins, their colorful heads a happy bouquet of tiny plastic globes, were scattered across every surface, peeking from where they’d fallen to the f loor, rolled beneath furniture, and stuck—I bent to pull a pink-headed pin from the rug beneath my feet—in a variety of inconvenient places.

The door clicked open behind me and I smiled.

“Good morning, Sylvia,” a familiar voice said.

“Morning, Lu,” I said to the one member of my team who, like me, couldn’t wait to get to work.

Every day, my friend and fellow fashion-obsessed cohort, Lu Huang, and I arrived within minutes of one another, and a full half hour before anyone else. Working as conservators for the museum was a coveted get for us. A dream job that every morning caused us to rush from our respective homes, grabbing an insufficient breakfast on our way out the door, and wondering hours later why we were so hungry. We lost track of time constantly, surviving on coffee and bags of chips from the vending machine, and leaving friends and family waiting on us as we turned up late to holiday parties, dinners, and events we’d implored others to attend but couldn’t possibly get to on time, and having forgotten to blend the concealer we’d hurriedly dotted on in the train, with paint under our nails and bits of thread or glue on our jacket cuffs.

In Lu I’d found not only the perfect work companion, but a kindred spirit. Over the nine years we’d worked together, we’d enjoyed laughing over our shared love of no-nonsense ponytails, and waxing poetic about old films and vintage fashion. We sat in her living room or mine, rewatching the movies that had shaped us and sharing stories of our schoolgirl walls plastered with images of iconic women of the silver screen, while our schoolmates favored posters of half-clothed men. So, when the idea for the newest exhibit started floating around our superiors’ offices upstairs, we’d spent many a night poring over which films we’d choose if asked, and then deliberated, scrapped, and chose again until we had the perfect array.

Out of curiosity, we began to inquire with movie studios about the costumes we’d be interested in displaying, running into new obstacles with each call we made. Several times we chose a beloved film only to find half the costumes had been lost in a fire, were part of a decades-long legal battle, or were just plain lost—a travesty over which we consoled ourselves with a huge plate of nachos and a pitcher of margaritas. Eventually, the decisions about which movies to include boiled down to three simple things: Where were the costumes we’d need? Would they be available to us for the time required? And what kind of shape were they in?

Once we’d gotten the green light that the exhibit was on, we finalized our list, made the calls, gathered confirmations, and began the design for the wing the costumes would be shown in. And then we waited, barely able to contain ourselves as one by one the garments that would be featured in The Hollywood Glamour Exhibition arrived.

We chose two movies per decade, going back one hundred years to the 1920s. Every piece that had been worn by the female lead was sent to us from studios, museums, or estates. Once in our possession, my job as costume curator, along with my staff of seven, was to remove each gown or outfit from its protective garment bags or boxes, and go over it with a fine-tooth comb, looking for tears, stains, missing buttons, and the like. We’d been working for months. Some of the more intricate gowns needed extensive rebeading or sequin replacement, and many of the older pieces needing patching inside to hold the outside fabric together. In two cases we’d had to sew exact replicas of the linings, and then carefully fit them inside the original, giving it something to cling to, extending its life.

A pantsuit from the forties had lost an outside pocket and matching the fabric had been hell. The brim of an iconic straw hat that belonged to another outfit had been scorched by a cigarette and needed to be patched. Each garment presented its own set of unique problems, and we were giddy as we worked to solve each puzzle.

With our intention for each item to be viewed from all sides, it was crucial they looked as flawless as possible. Thankfully, my team were experts in their field, and excited at the opportunity to handle costumes worn by some of the most famous women in film history.

“Can’t believe we’re down to the final film,” Lu said, running a finger over a strip of fringe hanging from a black evening gown. “I think this batch is my favorite.”

I nodded, taking in the room of costumes from the 1928 film The Star. Each piece had been worn by the iconic Greta Garbo and was the epitome of elegance and class. And a notable diversion from the designer’s usual style.

“It’s so odd Cleménte changed her MO for this one film,” I said, tilting my head as I took in the distinct wide neckline featured in each of the eight pieces. Even a blouse and jacket had been designed to show off the actress’s collarbones. The pieces were alluring, but Cleménte had always been known for a more modest style.

Michele Cleménte had been a well-known designer in the ’20s and ’30s, her signature style demure, with higher necklines and longer hems. But for this movie, she’d completely diverged.

“It is strange,” Lu said, frowning. “The studio must’ve wanted something exact.”

“Then why hire her?” I asked. “Not that she didn’t do a lovely job. The clothing is exquisite. I’d wear them all now.”

“And look fab doing it.”

I felt myself blush with pleasure at the compliment. Being tall and willowy had its advantages. Unfortunately for me, I had neither the opportunity nor the bank account to wear clothes as fine as the ones before us.

“Thanks, Lu,” I said, bending to peer closer at the large white beaded star on the white satin gown that was to be the centerpiece for the entire show.

Aside from the star, the rest of the fabric had been left unadorned, letting the beaded element shine before one’s eye went to the skirt, which fell in soft overlapping layers to the floor. It was a stunning piece of art. But a confusing one. Because it

had no resemblance to any piece ever sewn before by Cleménte. At least not any piece I’d seen in my years of studying the different famous designers. It didn’t have her specific way of hand sewing or her distinctive technique of tying off a knot, or even her tendency toward geometric shapes. But it was the neckline that really threw me off. Cleménte had preferred to leave a lot to the imagination. It was her calling card during a time when everyone else was showing more skin. And yet for these, she’d completely gone off-script.

The rest of the crew arrived at nine on the dot and the quiet of the room rose to a dull roar as individual desk lights were turned on, loupes donned to scrutinize the tiniest details, and we all began to sew, glue, and chat our way through the day.

“Syl?”

I glanced up and winced as my back protested from having been bent over a table for the past hour. Lu stood, her coat over her arm, by the door. Everyone else had vanished.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Nearly seven.”

“Shit. How does that always happen?” I pulled the loupes from my head.

“You happen to be in love with a dress,” Lu said. “That’s how.”

“Story of my life.”

“Explains so much.”

“Does it?”

“I mean, it definitely explains why you haven’t had a date with a real live human in a while. Only—” She gestured to the mannequin beside me.

We laughed. She wasn’t wrong.

Lu was the only person who truly understood me. The only person besides my sister who I’d ever allowed to see inside my guest room closet where dozens of scavenged vintage dresses, trousers, jackets, and hats hung, waiting to be delicately cared for like the ones I lovingly handled at work.

“You gonna stay?” Lu asked, watching me as I looked back at the dress spread out before me.

I rubbed my eyes and stared at the tiny white beads I’d been replacing. We’d named the dress The Diaphanous Star, and I’d been carefully sewing on one bead at a time for the past two hours. It was a delicate task as the fabric they clung to was nearly one hundred years old. I had to work slowly and thoughtfully to keep from shredding it.

“Yeah,” I said, rotating my head. “I want to get this star done. How’d you do today?”

I glanced over at the black evening gown she was working on.

“I’m close,” she said. “You can barely see the snag in the back now, and I should be able to replace the bit of fringe that’s missing tomorrow.”

“Perfect,” I said, reaching over to wake my laptop and clicking on the calendar. “We are ahead of schedule, which bodes well should we have any catastrophes.”

Lu knocked a small wooden box holding scissors inside it.

“Don’t jinx us,” she said and then waved. “See you B and E.”

“See you B and E,” I said.

B and E. Bright and early. We’d made it up one day after the youngest woman in our group rattled off a bunch of acronyms as if the rest of us should know what they mean. We used it constantly. She didn’t think it was amusing. This of course made it that much funnier.

I pulled my loupes back down and resumed placing the beads that formed the shimmering star. Thirty minutes later I sat up, set the magnifying glasses on the table, and arched my back in a well-deserved stretch.

“Okay, you,” I said to the dress. “Time to get you on a mannequin.”

Sliding my arms beneath the gown, I lifted it carefully and carried it to the far end of the table where a mannequin with roughly Greta Garbo’s 1927 torso measurements stood in wait,

minus its arms which would be attached once I got the dress on it.

Unfortunately, the wide neckline made it hard to secure.

“You’re pretty,” I muttered, trying to keep the dress from slipping to the floor while I reached for one of the arms. “But a pain in my ass.”

I clicked an arm into place, moving the capped sleeve over the seam where the appendage attached to the shoulder, and making sure the hand was resting just right on the mannequin’s hip. Satisfied, I reached for the other arm and did the same on the other side.

“Not bad, headless Garbo,” I said, straightening the gown and smiling at the beaded star glimmering under the lights.

I grabbed my notepad and made my way around the dress, writing down problems that still needed to be addressed. Loose threads, the unraveling second tier of the skirt, and a bit of fabric that looked like it had rubbed against something and was scuffed. There was a stain on the hem in back, and one of the capped sleeves sagged, leading me to investigate and find a spot inside where the elastic was stretched out of shape.

My eyes moved along every inch of fabric, bead, and thread, my fingers scribbling notes as I took in what was easier to see with the dress hanging rather than sprawled on a tabletop. As I scrutinized the neckline in back, I noticed the tag was exposed and reached up to tuck it in. But as I pulled the material back, the tag fluttered to the floor.

With a sigh, I bent to pick it up. I could leave the fix until morning, but as I had nothing but an empty apartment waiting for me, I began the task of detaching the arms of the mannequin and sliding the dress back off and onto the table.

“Always something with you ladies,” I said, grabbing a needle and thread. “Can’t complain, I guess. Hottest date I’ve had in a while.”

But as I turned my attention to the spot the tag had fallen

from, I frowned and pulled the dress closer, peering at a small, elegant stitch no longer than the length of the tag that had covered it.

“Is that…”

I grabbed my loupes and looked again, the stitching now magnified and leaving zero doubt that beneath the tag, in white thread and a beautiful freehand stitch, was a name—and it wasn’t Cleménte’s.

Sitting back, I removed my glasses and stared at the gorgeous dress with its beautiful wide neckline and capped sleeves, the beaded star, the tiered skirt that was so unlike Cleménte in style, and wondered aloud to the empty room—

“Who the hell is Zora Lily?”




From THE ROARING DAYS OF ZORA LILY by Noelle Salazar. Copyright © 2023 by Noelle Salazar. Published by MIRA, an imprint of HarperCollins.

About the Author

Photo Credit: Noelle Salazar

Noelle Salazar was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, where she's been a Navy recruit, a medical assistant, an NFL cheerleader, and always a storyteller. As a novelist, she has done extensive research into the Women Airforce Service Pilots, interviewing vets and visiting the training facility—now a museum dedicated to the WASP—in Sweetwater, Texas. When she’s not writing, she can be found dodging raindrops and daydreaming of her next book. Her debut The Flight Girls, was an instant bestseller, a Forbes Hypable book of the month, and a BookBub Top Recommended book from readers. Her second novel, Angels of the Resistance: A Novel of Sisterhood and Courage in WWII was also published to wide praise including an Amazon Editors’ Fiction Pick of the Month. Noelle lives in Bothell, Washington with her family.

Social Links:

Author Website: https://www.noellesalazar.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/noelle__salazar/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/noellesalazar

Twitter: https://twitter.com/noelle_salazar

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18424925.Noelle_Salazar

HTP Fall Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: The Book Club Hotel by Sarah Morgan

This Christmas, USA Today bestselling author Sarah Morgan returns with another heartfelt exploration of change, the power of books to heal, and the enduring strength of female friendship. Perfect for fans of Emily Henry and Jennifer Weiner.

With its historic charm and picture-perfect library, the Maple Sugar Inn is considered the winter destination. As the holidays approach, the inn is fully booked with guests looking for their dream vacation. But widowed far too young, and exhausted from juggling the hotel with being a dedicated single mom, Hattie Coleman dreams only of making it through the festive season.

But when Erica, Claudia and Anna—lifelong friends who seem to have it all—check in for a girlfriends’ book club holiday, it changes everything. Their close friendship and shared love of books have carried them through life's ups and downs. But Hattie can see they're also packing some major emotional baggage, and nothing prepares her for how deeply her own story is about to become entwined in theirs. In the span of a week over the most enchanting time of the year, can these four women come together to improve each other’s lives and make this the start of a whole new chapter?

Buy Links:

BookShop.org  |  Harlequin  |  Barnes & Noble  |  Books A Million  |  Amazon

Hattie

“Maple Sugar Inn, how may I help you?” Hattie answered the phone with a smile on her face because she’d discovered that it was impossible to sound defeated, moody or close to tears when you were smiling, and currently she was all those things.

“I’ve been planning a trip to Vermont in winter for years and then I spotted pictures of your inn on social media,” a woman gushed, “and it looks so cozy and welcoming. The type of place you can’t help but relax.”

It’s an illusion, Hattie thought. There was no relaxation to be had here; not for her, at any rate. Her head throbbed and her eyes pricked following another night without sleep. The head house­keeper was threatening to walk out and the executive chef had been late two nights running and she was worried tonight might be the third, which would be a disaster because they were fully booked. Chef Tucker had earned their restaurant that coveted star, and his confit of duck had been known to induce moans of ecstasy from diners, but there were days when Hattie would have traded that star for a chef with a more even temperament. His temper was so hot she sometimes wondered why he bothered switching on the grill. He could have yelled at the duck and it would have been thoroughly singed in the flames of his anger. He was being disrespectful and taking advantage of her. Hat­tie knew that, and she also knew she should probably fire him but Brent had chosen him, and firing him would have severed another thread from the past. Also, conflict drained her energy and right now she didn’t have enough of that to go around. It was simpler to placate him.

“I’m glad you’re impressed,” she said to the woman on the phone. “Can I make a reservation for you?”

“I hope so, but I’m very particular about the room. Can I tell you what I need?”

“Of course.” Bracing herself for a long and unachievable wish list, Hattie resisted the temptation to smack her forehead onto the desk. Instead, she reached for a pad of paper and pen that was always handy. “Go ahead.”

How bad could it be? A woman the week before had wanted to know if she could bring her pet rat with her on vacation—answer: no!—and a man the week before that had demanded that she turn down the sound of the river that ran outside his bedroom window because it was keeping him awake.

She went above and beyond in her attempts to satisfy the whims of guests but there were limits.

“I’d like the room to have a mountain view,” the woman said. “And a real fire would be a nice extra.”

“All our rooms have real fires,” Hattie said, “and the rooms at the back have wonderful views of the mountains. The ones at the front face the river.”

She relaxed slightly. So far, so straightforward.

“Mountains for me. Also, I’m particular about bedding. After all, we spend a third of our lives asleep so it’s important, don’t you agree?”

Hattie felt a twinge of envy. She definitely didn’t spend a third of her life asleep. With having a young child, owning an inn and grieving the loss of her husband, she barely slept at all. She dreamed of sleep but sadly, usually when she was awake.

“Bedding is important.” She said what was expected of her, which was what she’d been doing since the police had knocked on her door two years earlier to tell her that her beloved Brent had been killed instantly in a freak accident. A brick had fallen from a building as he’d been walking past on his way to the bank and struck him on the head.

It was mortifying to remember that her initial reaction had been to laugh—she’d been convinced it was a joke, be­cause normal people didn’t get killed by random bricks fall­ing from buildings, did they?—but then she’d realized they weren’t laughing and it probably wasn’t because they didn’t have a sense of humor.

She’d asked them if they were sure he was dead, and then had to apologize for questioning them because of course they were sure. How often did the police follow we’re sorry to have to tell you…with oops, we made a mistake.

After they’d repeated the bad news, she’d thanked them po­litely. Then she’d made them a cup of tea because she was a) half British and b) very much in shock.

When they’d drunk their tea and eaten two of her home­made cinnamon cookies, she’d shown them out as if they were treasured guests who had honored her with their presence, and not people who had just shattered her world in one short con­versation.

She’d stared at the closed door for a full five minutes after they’d left while she’d tried to process it. In a matter of min­utes her life had utterly changed, the future she’d planned with Brent stolen, her hopes crushed.

Even though two years had passed, there were still days when it felt unreal. Days when she still expected Brent to walk through the door with that bouncing stride of his, full of excite­ment because he’d had one of his brilliant ideas that he couldn’t wait to share with her.

I think we should get married…

I think we should start a family…

I think we should buy that historic inn we saw on our trip to Ver­mont…

They’d met in England during their final year of college and from the first moment she’d been swept away on the tide of Brent’s enthusiasm. After graduating, they’d both taken jobs in London but then two things had happened. Brent’s grand­mother had died, leaving him a generous sum of money, and they’d taken a trip to Vermont. They’d fallen in love with the place, and now here she was, a widow at the age of twenty-eight, raising their five-year-old child and managing the historic inn. Alone. Since she’d lost Brent she’d tried to keep every­thing going the way he’d wanted it, but that wasn’t proving easy. She worried that she wasn’t able to do this on her own. She worried that she was going to lose the inn. Most of all she worried that she wasn’t going to be enough for their daughter. Now Brent was gone she had to be two people—how could she be two people when most days she didn’t even feel whole?

She realized that while she’d been indulging in a moment of maudlin self-pity, the woman on the phone was still talking. “I’m sorry, could you say that again?”

“I’d like the bedsheets to be linen because I do struggle with overheating.”

“We have linen bedding, so that won’t be a problem.”

“And pink.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d like the linen to be pink. I find I sleep better. White is too glaring and drab colors depress me.”

Pink.

“I’ll make a note.” She grabbed a notepad and scribbled Help followed by four exclamation marks. She might have writ­ten something ruder, but her daughter was a remarkably good reader and was given to demonstrating that skill wherever and whenever she could, so Hattie had learned to be mindful of what she wrote and left lying around. “Did you have a partic­ular date in mind?”

“Christmas. It’s the best time, isn’t it?”

Not for me, Hattie thought, as she checked the room occu­pancy. The first Christmas after Brent had died had been hid­eous, and last year hadn’t been much better. She’d wanted to burrow under the covers until it was all over, but instead, she’d been expected to inject festive joy into other people’s lives. And now it was the end of November again and Christmas was just weeks away.

Still, providing she didn’t lose any more staff, she’d no doubt find a way to muddle through. She’d survived it twice, and she’d survive it a third time.

“You’re in luck. We do still have a few rooms available, in­cluding one double facing the mountains. Would you like me to reserve that for you?”

“Is it a corner room? I do like more than one window.”

“It’s not a corner room, and there is only one window in this particular room, but it has wonderful views and a covered balcony.”

“There’s no way of getting a second window?”

“Sadly not.” What was she supposed to do? Knock a hole through the wall? “But I can send you a video of the room be­fore you make your choice if that would help.”

By the time she’d taken the woman’s email address, put a hold on the room for twenty-four hours and answered the rest of her questions, half an hour had passed.

When the woman finally ended the call, Hattie sighed. Christmas promised to be a nightmare. She made a note under the reservation. Pink sheets. Linen.

How would Brent handle it? It was a question she asked her­self a million times a day and she allowed herself to glance at one of the two photographs she kept on the desk. This one was of Brent swinging their daughter high in the air. Both were laughing. Sometimes, she’d discovered, remembering the best of times sustained you through the worst.



Excerpted from The Book Club Hotel by Sarah Morgan. Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Morgan. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

About the Author

Photo Credit: Ev Sekkides

USA Today bestselling author Sarah Morgan writes lively, sexy contemporary stories for Harlequin. Romantic Times has described her as 'a magician with words' and nominated her books for their Reviewer's Choice Awards and their 'Top Pick' slot. In 2012 Sarah received the prestigious RITA® Award from the Romance Writers of America. She lives near London with her family.

Find out more at www.sararahmorgan.com

Social Links

Author Website  |  Facebook  |  Twitter aka X  |  Instagram  |  Goodreads

HTP Fall Reads Blog Tour: What you are looking for is in the library by Michiko Aoyama

For fans of The Midnight Library and Before the Coffee Gets Cold, a charming Japanese novel about how the perfect book recommendation can change a readers’ life.

What are you looking for? is the question that Tokyo’s most enigmatic librarian, Sayuri Komachi, poses to those who come to her for their next book. The list of recommendations she gives, however, always contains one unexpected addition that promises to give its the borrower the motivation they didn’t realize they needed to change their life.

Each visitor comes to the library from a different juncture in their career, family, or stage of life, from the restless sales attendant who feels stuck at her job, to the struggling working mother who dreams of being a magazine editor. The conversation that they have with Sayuri Komachi – and the surprise book she lends each of them – will have life-altering consequences.

With heartwarming charm and wisdom, What You Are Looking for is in the Library is a paean to the magic of libraries, friendship, and community, perfect for anyone who has ever found themselves at an impasse in their life and in need of a little inspiration.

Buy Links:

BookShop.org  |   Harlequin  |  Barnes & Noble  |  Books A Million  |  Amazon

Two days later, I’m standing outside the elementary school with my laptop in hand. I follow the directions from the Community House home page and walk along the school fence until I reach a narrow road. There it is: a two-story white building with a sign over the canopy at the entrance that says “Hatori Community House.”

I go through a glass door and see an old guy with bushy gray hair at the front desk. In the office behind him, a woman with a bandana sits at a desk writing something.

“Um, I’m here for the computer class,” I say to the old guy.

“Put your name down here. It’s in Meeting Room A.” He points at a folder on the countertop. A sheet of paper inside has a table with columns headed Name, Purpose of visit, Time of arrival and Time of departure.

Meeting Room A is on the ground floor. Going past the front desk to the lobby, I turn right and find it im­mediately. Through an open sliding door I can see two students sitting at long tables facing each other with their laptops open: a girl a bit older than me with soft wavy hair and an old guy with a square face.

The teacher turns out to be a woman, not a man. Ms. Gonno is probably in her fifties.

I go over and introduce myself. “Hello, my name is Tomoka Fujiki.”

She gives me a friendly smile. “Please, sit wherever you like.”

I choose to sit at the same table as the girl, but at the other end. She and the old guy are concentrating so hard on their own stuff they take no notice of me. I open up my laptop, which I’d already started up at home since I haven’t used it in ages and which took forever to boot. My fingers feel like bananas on the keyboard, probably because I only ever use a smartphone. I should probably do some practice in Word as well.

“Ms. Fujiki, you want to learn Excel, don’t you?” says Ms. Gonno, glancing down at my computer.

“Yes. But this computer doesn’t have Excel.”

She looks at my screen again and moves the mouse around a bit. “Yes it does. I’ll make a shortcut for you.”

A green icon with an X for Excel appears at the edge of the screen. No way! Excel has been hiding in my computer all along?

“I can see you’ve used Word, so I assume you have Office installed.”

I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about… But I did ask a friend at college to set up Word for me when I couldn’t figure it out for myself. Maybe that’s how it got in there. This is what happens when you leave stuff up to other people.

For the next two hours, I learn all about Excel. Ms. Gonno wanders between me and the other two but I get special attention, because I’m the newcomer, I suppose.

The most amazing thing I learn is how to perform addition by highlighting cells. Just press a key and bam! with one touch they all add up! It impresses me so much I can’t help cheering, which Ms. Gonno seems to find funny.

While practising as instructed, I overhear the conver­sation between Ms. Gonno and the other students. I get the impression they are regulars: the old guy is building a website about wildflowers, while the girl is setting up an online shop. I feel like such a waster. All the time I’ve been lazing around in my apartment doing noth­ing, not far away these two have been getting on with stuff—learning things! The more I think about it, the more pathetic it makes me feel.

When it’s nearly time to finish, Ms. Gonno says, “There’s no set textbook, but I’ll give you a list of rec­ommended titles. Don’t restrict yourself to these, though. Have a browse in a library or bookshop and see what you can find for yourself that’s easy to follow.” She holds up a computer guide and smiles. “You might like to look in the library here in Community House.”

Library. What a nice-sounding word. So comforting. I feel like I’m a student again. Library… “Am I allowed to borrow books?”

“Yes, anybody who lives in the ward can borrow up to six books for two weeks. I think that’s the rule.”

Then the old guy calls for help and Ms. Gonno goes over to him. I make a note of the recommended titles and leave.

~

The library is also on the ground floor. I pass two meeting rooms and a Japanese-style room at the back of the building beside a small kitchen. The door is wide open with a sign on the wall that says “Library.” Rows and rows of bookshelves fill an area about the size of a classroom. A counter to the left of the entrance is marked “Check­outs and Returns.” Near the front counter a petite girl in a dark-blue apron is arranging paperbacks on a shelf.

Feeling shy, I approach her. “Excuse me, where are the books on computers?”

Her head jerks up and she blushes. She has huge eyes and hair tied back in a ponytail that swings behind her. She looks young enough to still be at high school. Her name tag says “Nozomi Morinaga.”

“Over here.” Still holding several paperbacks, Nozomi

Morinaga walks past a reading table and guides me to a large shelf against the wall. “If you need any recommen­dations, the librarian is in the reference corner.”

“Recommendations?”

“You tell her what you’re looking for, then she will do a search and give you recommendations.”

I can’t find any of the books Ms. Gonno recom­mended on the shelf. Maybe I should consult the li­brarian. Nozomi said she was at the back, so I make my way to the front desk, then look toward the rear. That’s when I notice a screen partition with a sign hanging from the ceiling that says “Reference.”

Heading over, I poke my head around the corner, and yikes! My eyes nearly jump out of their sockets. The librarian is huge… I mean, like, really huge. But huge as in big, not fat. She takes up the entire space be­tween the L-shaped counter and the partition. Her skin is super pale—you can’t even see where her chin ends and her neck begins—and she is wearing a beige apron over an off-white, loose-knit cardigan. She reminds me of a polar bear curled up in a cave for winter. Her hair is twisted into a small bun right on top of her head, and she has a cool kanzashi hairpin spiked through her bun with three white flower tassels hanging from it. She is looking down at something, but I can’t see what exactly.

The name tag around her neck says “Sayuri Komachi.” Cute name.

I edge a bit closer and clear my throat. Ms. Komachi’s eyes roll up to look at me, without moving any other part of her body. The whites of her eyes are enormous. She’s stabbing a needle at something the size of a Ping-Pong ball balanced on a mat the size of a handkerchief. What is she doing? Putting a jinx on someone? I almost scream out loud.

“Ah…it’s, ah…it’s okay,” I manage to squeak, but all I want to do is turn tail and get away as fast as possible.

“What are you looking for?”

Her voice…it’s so weird… It nails my feet to the floor. As if it has physically grabbed hold of me somehow. But there’s a warmth in it that wraps itself around me, mak­ing me feel safe and secure, even when it comes from that unsmiling face.

What am I looking for? I’m looking for… A reason to work, something I’m good at—stuff like that. But I don’t think that’s the kind of answer she expects. “Um, I’m looking for books on how to use a computer.”

Ms. Komachi pulls a dark-orange box closer. I rec­ognize the design of white flowers in a hexagon shape. It’s a box of Honeydome cookies. I love these. They’re dome-shaped, with a soft center, and made by Kuremi­yado, a company that specializes in Western-style con­fectionery. They’re not exactly gourmet, but just a little bit special and not something you can just pick up in a convenience store.

When she lifts the lid, I see a small pair of scissors and some needles. She must be using an empty box for her sewing things. Ms. Komachi puts away her needle and ball, then stares at me.

“What do you want to do on the computer?”

“Excel, to begin with. Enough to tick the boxes on a skills checklist.”

“Skills checklist,” Ms. Komachi repeats.

“I’m thinking I might register on a career-change site. I’m not that happy with my current job.”

“What do you do?”

“Nothing great. Just selling ladies clothes in a general department store.”

Ms. Komachi’s head tilts to one side. The flower tas­sels on her hairpin shake and sparkle.

“Is being a sales assistant in a department store really not such a great job?”

I don’t know what to say. Ms. Komachi waits patiently for my reply.

“Well, I mean… Anybody can do it. It’s not like it was my dream job or anything I desperately wanted to do. I just kind of fell into it. But I live on my own, so I have to work to support myself.”

“You managed to find employment, you go to work every day and you can feed yourself. That’s a fine achievement.”

Nobody’s ever summed up my life in this way before. Her answer makes me want to cry. It’s as if she sees me, just as I am.

“But all I do to feed myself is buy stuff from the con­venience store,” I blurt out clumsily, though I know that’s not what she really means by “feed yourself.”

Ms. Komachi’s head tilts to the other side. “Well, the motive doesn’t matter so much as wanting to learn some­thing new. That’s a good attitude to have.”

She turns to the computer, places both hands on the keyboard and pauses. Then she begins typing, at amaz­ing speed! Shoo‑tatatatata! Her fingers move in a blur and I nearly fall over myself in surprise.

Ta! She gives one final tap, then delicately lifts her wrists from the keyboard. Next moment, the printer springs into action.

“These should be suitable for a beginner on Excel.” Ms. Komachi hands me the sheet. A Step-by-Step Guide to Word and Excel, Excel for Beginners, Excel: Fast Efficient Notebooks, A Simple Introduction to Office. Then I notice, right at the bottom, a title that stands out.

Guri and Gura? I stare at the words. The kids’ picture book about two field mice, Guri and Gura?

“Oh, and this too.” Ms. Komachi swivels on her chair slightly as she reaches below the counter. I lean forward a bit more to sneak a look and see a wooden cabinet with five drawers. She opens the top one, which seems to be stuffed with soft, colorful objects, picks one out and hands it to me. “Here you are—this is for you.”

Automatically I hold out my palm and Ms. Komachi drops a lightweight object on to it. It is round and black, about the size of a large watch face and with a straight bit poking out. A frying pan?

The object in my hand is a felted frying pan with a tiny round clasp on the handle.

“Um, what’s this?”

“A bonus gift.”

“Bonus gift?”

“Yes, something fun, to go with the books.”

I stare at the frying pan…er, bonus gift. It is sort of cute.

Ms. Komachi opens the Honeydome box and takes out her needle and ball again. “Have you ever tried felt­ing?”

“No. I’ve seen it on Twitter and stuff, though.”

She holds up her needle for me to see. The top is bent at a right angle for holding it, while the tip at the end has several tiny hooks sticking out.

“Felting is mysterious,” she says. “All you do is keep poking the needle at a ball of wool and it turns into a three-dimensional shape. You might think that you are simply poking randomly, and the strands are all tangled together, but there is a shape within that the needle will reveal.” She jabs roughly at the ball again.

There has to be a ton of felted things inside that drawer. Are they all bonus gifts to give away? But her attention is now completely focused on her hands, as if to say My job here as librarian is done.

When I return to the shelf of computer books, I find the recommended titles and choose two that seem easy enough to understand. But what about Guri and Gura? Maybe I should get that too. I read it many times when I was in kindergarten. I think I remember my mother reading it to me too. Why would Ms. Komachi recom­mend this book? Did she make a mistake?

The children’s picture books are in a space next to the window sectioned off by low bookshelves. It’s a shoes-off area covered with interlocking rubber floor mat tiles. When I enter and find myself surrounded by lots of cute picture books, I feel peaceful all of a sudden. Calmer, and more relaxed. There are three copies of Guri and Gura. I guess the library keeps multiple copies because it’s such a classic. Maybe I will borrow it… I mean, it’s free, isn’t it?

So I take my two computer books and Guri and Gura over to Nozomi at the checkout counter, show my health-insurance card as ID to apply for a borrower’s card, and check out the books.



Excerpted from What You Are Looking For Is in the Library by Michiko Aoyama. Copyright © 2023 by Michiko Aoyama. Translation from the Japanese copyright © Alison Watts 2022 Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

About the Author

Born in 1970 in Aichi prefecture, and currently living in Yokohama, Michiko Aoyama worked for two years as a reporter for a Japanese newspaper in Sydney after graduating from university. After her return to Tokyo, she started to work as a magazine editor at a publishing house before turning to full time writing. Her work has won the 1st Miyazakimoto Prize, the 13th Tenryu Literary Prize, and has been a runner up of the 2021 Japan Booksellers Awards. This is her English-language debut.

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HTP Romance Reads Promo Post: Talulah's Back in Town by Brenda Novak

Talulah Barclay returns to Coyote fourteen years after leaving her fiance at the altar. She’s back to sell her deceased aunt’s home and head back to Seattle as quickly as possible since the memories in a small town are long and no one has forgiven her for running off. And when she finds herself falling for the best friend of her jilted ex she knows life is going to get more difficult. And when she’s injured by shattered glass after someone throws a rock through her window she knows she is not welcome in town. But she still has close friends there and they rally around her and she finds herself willing to open her heart to the town and to the man she truly loves.

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Excerpt - Tahlulah’s Back in Town by Brenda Novak

One

“Well, if it isn’t the runaway bride.”

Talulah Barclay glanced up to find the reason a shadow had just fallen across her plate. She’d been hoping to ease back into the small community of Coyote Canyon, Montana, without drawing any attention. But Brant Elway, of all people, had happened to come into the café where she was having breakfast and stopped at her booth.

“Of course you’d be the first to bring up my past sins,” she grumbled. They hadn’t seen each other for nearly fourteen years, and he’d certainly changed—filled out what had once been a spare frame, grown a couple of inches, even though he’d been tall to begin with, and taken on a rugged, slightly weathered look from spending so much time outdoors. But she would’ve recognized him anywhere.

The crooked smile that curved his lips suggested he was hardly repentant. “I’m not likely to forget that day. I was the best man, remember?”

She wasn’t likely to forget that day, either. Only bumping into her ex, Charlie Gerhart, would be more cringeworthy.

She felt terrible about what she’d done to Charlie. She also felt terrible that she’d repeated the same mistake with two other men since. Admittedly, jilting her fiancés at the altar hadn’t been among her finest moments, but she’d had every intention of following through—until the panic grew so powerful it simply took over and there was no other way to cope.

It said something that, while she regretted the pain she’d caused others, especially her prospective grooms, she didn’t regret walking out on those weddings. That clearly indicated she’d made the right choice—a little late, perhaps, but better not to make such a huge mistake than try to unravel it later.

She doubted Brant would ever view the situation from that perspective, however. He’d naturally feel defensive of Charlie. He and Charlie had been friends for as long as she could remember. She’d hung out with Charlie’s younger sister, Averil, since kindergarten and could remember seeing Brant over at the Gerhart house way back when she and Averil were in fifth grade, and he and Charlie were in seventh.

Dressed in a soft cotton Elway Ranch T-shirt that stretched slightly at the sleeves to accommodate his biceps, a pair of faded Wranglers and boots that were worn and dirty enough to prove they weren’t just for show, he rested his hands on his narrow hips as he studied her with the cornflower-blue eyes that’d been the subject of so much slumber-party talk when she was growing up. Those eyes were even more startling now that his face was so tanned. Had he lived in Seattle, like her, she’d assume he spent time cultivating that golden glow. But she knew he hadn’t put any effort into his appearance. According to Jane Tanner, another friend who’d hung out with her and Averil—the three of them had been inseparable—Brant’s parents had retired, and he and his three younger brothers had taken over the running of their two-thousand-acre cattle ranch.

“What brings you back to town?” he asked. “You’ve laid low for so long, I thought we’d seen the last of you.”

Pretending that running into him was no more remarkable to her than running into anyone else, she lifted her orange juice to take a sip before returning the glass to the heavily varnished table. “My aunt Phoebe died.”

“That’s the old lady who lived in the farmhouse on Mill Creek Road, right? The one with the blue hair?”

Her great-aunt had been a diminutive woman, only five feet tall and less than a hundred pounds. But she’d had her hair done once a week like clockwork—still used the blue rinse she’d grown fond of in her early twenties when platinum blond had been all the rage—and dressed in her Sunday best, including nylons, whenever she came to town. So she’d stood out. “That’s her.”

“What happened?”

Talulah got the impression he was assessing the changes in her, just as she was assessing the changes in him, and wished she’d put more effort into her appearance today. She didn’t want to come off the worse for wear after what she’d done. But when she’d rolled out of bed, pulled on her yoga pants and a sleeveless knit top and piled her long blond hair on top of her head before coming to the diner for breakfast, she’d assumed she’d be early enough to miss the younger crowd, which included the people she’d rather avoid.

That had proven mostly to be true; except for Brant, almost everyone else in the diner was over sixty. But he worked on a ranch, so he was probably up even before the birds that’d been chirping loudly outside her window, making it impossible for her to sleep another second. “She died of old age. Aunt Phoebe was almost a hundred.”

“I’m sorry to hear you lost her.” He sounded sincere, at least. “Were you close?”

“No, actually, we weren’t,” Talulah admitted. “She never liked me.” Phoebe hadn’t liked children in general—they were too loud, too unruly and too messy. And once Talulah had become a teenager, and her mother had allowed her to quit taking piano lessons from her great-aunt, they’d never really connected, other than seeing each other at various family functions during which Talulah and her sister, Debbie, had gone out of their way to avoid their mother’s crotchety aunt.

His teeth flashed in a wider smile. “Maybe she was a friend of the Gerharts.”

Talulah gave him a dirty look. “So were you. But unfortunately, you’re standing here talking to me.”

He chuckled instead of being offended, which soothed some of her ire. He was willing to take what he was dishing out; she had to respect that.

“I’m more generous than most,” he teased, pressing a hand to his muscular chest. “But if it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one who struggled to get along with your aunt.”

“You knew her personally?” she asked in surprise.

“Not well, but I’ll never forget the day someone had the audacity to honk at her because she was driving at the speed of a horse and buggy down the middle of the highway, holding up traffic for miles.”

“What happened?”

“Once I got around her, I found she was capable of driving a lot faster. She tailgated me to the bank, where she climbed out and swung her purse at me while giving me a piece of her mind for scaring her while she was behind the wheel.”

Talulah had to laugh at the mental picture that created. “You’re the one who honked at her?”

“The bank was about to close.” He gave a low whistle as he rubbed the beard growth on his squarish chin. “But after that, I decided if I was ever in the same situation again, I’d skip the bank.”

Most people in Coyote Canyon probably had a similar story about Aunt Phoebe, maybe more than one. She might’ve been small, but she was mighty and wouldn’t “take any guff,” as she put it, from anyone. “Yeah, well, imagine being a little girl on the receiving end of that sharp tongue. I’d dread my weekly piano lesson and cry whenever my mother left me with her.”

“I’ll have to let Ellen know that,” he said.

Talulah didn’t remember anyone by that name in Coyote Canyon. “Who’s Ellen?”

“I assume you’re staying at your aunt’s place?”

She nodded. “My folks moved to Reno a couple of years after I embarrassed them at the wedding,” she said glumly.

He laughed at her response. “Ellen lives on the property next to you. She and I used to go out now and then, when she first moved to town, and she told me the old lady would knock on her door to complain about everything—the weeds near the fence, trees that were dropping leaves on her side of the property line, the barking of the dogs.”

“But they both live on several acres. How could those small things bother Aunt Phoebe?”

“Exactly Ellen’s point. Heaven forbid she ever decided to have a dinner party and someone parked too close to your aunt’s driveway.”

Talulah found herself more distracted by the mention of his relationship with this Ellen woman than she should’ve been, given that it wasn’t the point of the anecdote. Brant had always been so hard to attract. Most girls she knew had tried to gain his interest, including her own sister, and failed. So she couldn’t help being curious about how he’d come to date her new neighbor—and why and how their relationship had ended. “Sounds like Phoebe.”

A waitress called out to tell Brant hello, and he waved at her before returning his attention to Talulah. “How long will you be in town?”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Are you running recognizance for my enemies?”

“Just curious.” He winked. “Word will spread fast enough without me.”

“You can assure everyone who cares that it’ll only be for a month or so,” she said. “Until I can clean out my great aunt’s house and put it on the market.”

“If you weren’t close to her, how come you were unlucky enough to get that job?” he asked.

“My parents are in Africa on a mission.”

“For the Church of the Good Shepherd?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t realize they sent people out on organized missions.”

“Sometimes they do, but this one is self-funded, something my dad has wanted to do ever since hearing a particularly rousing sermon.” Talulah wasn’t religious at all—much to the chagrin of her parents. But a good portion of the town belonged to her folks’ evangelical church or one of the other churches in the area.

“What about your sister?” Brant asked. “She can’t help?”

“Debbie’s married and living in Billings. She’s about to have her fourth child any day now.”

He feigned shock. “Married? Fear of commitment doesn’t run in the family, I guess.”

She scowled. “It’s a good thing I didn’t go through with it, Brant. I was only eighteen—way too young.”

“I never said I thought it was a good idea,” he responded.

“If you’ll remember, I made the same argument way back when.”

“How could I ever forget?” They’d always been adversaries. He’d hated the amount of time his best friend had devoted to her, and she’d resented that he was often trying to talk Charlie into playing pool or going hunting or something with him instead. “But let’s be fair. I doubt I’m the only one with commitment issues.” She glanced at his hand. “I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

“I’ve never left anyone standing at the altar.”

She could tell he was joking, but he’d hit a nerve. “Because you bail out before it even gets that far.”

He seemed to enjoy provoking her. “That’s what you’re supposed to do. I can teach you how, if you want me to.”

“Oh, leave me alone,” she muttered with a shooing motion.

He chuckled but didn’t go. “How much are you hoping to get for your aunt’s house?”

“I have no idea what it’s worth,” she replied. “I live in Washington these days, where prices are a lot different, and haven’t met with a real estate agent yet.”

“You know Charlie’s an agent, right?”

Slumping back against the booth, she sighed. “Here we go again…”

He widened those gorgeous blue eyes of his. “That wasn’t a jab! I just thought you should be aware of it.”

“I’m aware of it, okay? Jane Tanner told me.”

“You still in touch with Jane?”

“We’ve been friends since kindergarten,” she said as if he should’ve taken that for granted. But she’d been equally close to Charlie’s sister, and they hadn’t spoken since Talulah had tried to apologize for what she’d done at the wedding and Averil had told her she never wanted to see her again.

“Maybe it’d help patch things up if you listed your aunt’s house with him,” Brant suggested.

“You’re kidding. I can’t imagine he’d want to see me—not even to make a buck.”

His eyes flicked to the compass tattoo she’d gotten on the inside of her forearm shortly after she’d left Coyote Canyon. “Does he know you’re in town?”

She shrugged. “Jane might’ve told him I was coming. Why?”

He studied her for a long moment. “I have a feeling things are about to get interesting around here. Thanks for breaking the monotony,” he said, and that maddening grin reappeared as he nodded in parting and walked over to the bar, where he took a stool and ordered his breakfast.

Disgruntled, Talulah eyed his back. He’d removed his baseball cap—that was a bit old-fashioned, perhaps, but her parents would certainly approve of his manners—so his hair was matted in places, but he didn’t seem to care. He came off more comfortable in his own skin than any man she’d ever known, which sort of bugged her. She couldn’t say why. He’d always seemed to avoid the foibles that everyone else got caught up in. For a change, she wanted to see him unable to stop himself from falling in love, do something stupid because he couldn’t help it or make a mistake he later regretted.

“Would you like a refill?”

The waitress had approached with a pot of coffee.

Talulah shoved her cup away. “No, thanks. I’m finished.”

“Okay, hon. Let me put this down, and I’ll be right back with your check.”

Leaving twenty-five bucks on the table, more than enough to cover the bill, Talulah got up and walked out.

The last thing she wanted was to run into someone else she knew.

Most of the town had been at that wedding.

Aunt Phoebe’s house was going to take some work. Two stories tall, it was a Victorian farmhouse with a wide front porch, a drawing room/living room off the entry, a music room tucked to the left, a formal dining area in the middle and a tiny kitchen—tiny by today’s standards—at the back, with a mudroom where the “menfolk” could clean up before coming in from the fields at dinner. Probably 2,400 square feet in total, it was divided into thirteen small rooms that were packed with furniture, rugs, decorations, books, lamps and magazines. The attic held objects that’d been handed down for generations, as well as steamer trunks of old clothes, quilts and needlepoint—even a dressmaker’s dummy that’d given Talulah a fright when she first went up to take a look because she’d thought someone was in the attic with her.

The basement held shelf upon shelf of canned goods, a deep freezer full of meat that’d most likely been butchered at a local ranch, which meant there would be certain cuts—like tongue and liver—Talulah would have no idea what to do with, and stacks of old newspapers and various other flotsam Phoebe had collected throughout her long life.

Even if she started right away, it’d take a week or more to sort through everything, and the house wasn’t the most comfortable place to work. The windows, while beautiful with their old-fashioned casings and heavy panes, weren’t energy-efficient. There was hardly any insulation in the attic and no air-conditioning to combat the heat. Typically, summers in Coyote Canyon were quite mild, with temperatures ranging between fifty and ninety degrees, but they were in a heat wave. It was mid-August, the hottest part of the year to begin with, and they were setting records.

A bead of sweat rolled between Talulah’s breasts as she surveyed the basement. Even the coolest part of the house felt stifling. And it was only noon. She couldn’t imagine how Aunt Phoebe had managed in this heat. But her aunt could handle just about anything. She’d had a will of iron and more grit than anyone Talulah had ever met.

“How am I going to get through all this junk—and what am I going to do with it?” Talulah muttered, disheartened by the sheer volume of things her great-aunt had collected over the years.

Her phone vibrated in the pocket of her yoga pants. Pulling it out, she saw that her sister was calling. “Hey,” she answered.

“How’s Coyote Canyon?” Debbie asked.

“I just got in last night, but from what I’ve seen so far, it hasn’t changed much.” The town’s population had stayed at about three thousand since the end of the nineteenth century, when the railroad came to town and Coyote Canyon had its big boom.

She chuckled. “It never does. Bozeman is growing like crazy, though. I read somewhere that it’s the fastest growing town in America. You should see how much it’s changed.”

“No kidding? Who’s moving there?”

“Mostly families, I guess, but enough millennials and nature-lovers to change the whole vibe from Western to trendy.”

Only forty minutes away, Bozeman had been where their parents would take them to buy school clothes and other supplies. But she’d had no reason to go there since she’d left Coyote Canyon. Thanks to the stigma caused by the wedding, she’d tried to forget the whole area. “Did you guys come for Rodeo Days this year?” The week before the Fourth of July, Coyote Canyon held seven days of celebration that included rodeos, a 10K/5K run, a Mountain Man Rendezvous, parades, tractor pulls and bake-offs. Everything culminated in the fireworks of Independence Day.

“No. I wanted to,” Debbie said, “but Scott was under too much pressure at work to take the time, and I didn’t want to try to manage the kids on my own.”

“I’m sorry that Paul and I couldn’t make it.”

“Has something changed I’m not aware of? Are you two together now?”

He’d been trying to get with her since she met him, especially after they started the diner. But it was only recently that she’d gone on the pill and slept with him for the first time. “Not really. We’ve started dating. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” her sister echoed.

“You know how hard it is for me to know when I really like a guy. Anyway, how’ve you been feeling? Any news on the baby?” She asked because she was interested, but she was also eager to change the subject.

“I’m fine,” Debbie said. “Just tired.”

“It shouldn’t be much longer, right?”

“I’m due in a week, and the doctor won’t let me go more than a few days over.”

“Call me as soon as labor starts. I’ll come for the birth.” Billings was only a hundred miles to the east. Part of the reason Talulah had agreed to handle her aunt’s funeral and belongings was because it put her in closer proximity to Debbie. She wanted to be there for the arrival of the new addition, especially since their parents couldn’t be.

“I will. I can’t wait until this pregnancy is over.” She groaned. “I’m getting so uncomfortable.”

“You’ve done this three times before. I’m sure the birth will be routine.”

Maybe not strictly routine. Debbie had developed gestational diabetes, so there was a good chance this child would have to be delivered by Caesarean section. But they were pretending there’d be no complications. Neither of them cared to consider all the things that could go wrong.

“I feel bad that you’re having to take so much time away from the dessert diner,” she said. “Maybe I should drive over for the funeral, at least, and help while I can.”

“Don’t you dare!” Talulah said. “I don’t want you going into labor while you’re here. Your husband, your doctor, everyone and everything you need are there.”

“But I’m just sitting around with my swollen ankles while you deal with everything in that musty house.”

Musty, sweltering house. But Talulah didn’t want to make Debbie feel any guiltier. Besides, her sister wasn’t just sitting around. She was watching her other kids. Talulah could hear them, and the TV, in the background and knew that Debbie would have to bring her young nieces and nephew if she came here. Having them underfoot would only make it harder to get anything done. “The church is stepping in to organize the funeral. You set that up yourself. So you have been involved. Besides, much to our parents’ dismay, you’re the only one giving them grandkids. This is the least I can do for Mom and Dad.”

Debbie laughed. “Have you heard from them?”

“They called last night to make sure I got in okay.”

“How long did the drive take you?”

“Ten hours.”

“Ugh!”

“It wasn’t a big deal. I couldn’t fly—I knew I’d need a car while I was here.” She’d made the trip to Reno several times since her family moved from Coyote Canyon, so she was used to driving even farther. They’d only visited Seattle once, but Talulah had been so busy with college, then culinary school, then working in various restaurants before launching Talulah’s Dessert Diner with Paul, whom she’d met along the way, that she didn’t mind.

“I’m surprised they aren’t coming home for the funeral,” Debbie mused.

Not to mention the birth of their latest grandchild. Talulah thought she could hear the disappointment in her sister’s voice, but Debbie would never complain, especially to a defector like Talulah. Debbie remained as committed to their parents’ faith as they did. “I’m not surprised,” Talulah said. “Africa is so far away, and they’d only have to turn around and go right back. They want to remain focused on their mission, at least until they’re officially released.”

“Aunt Phoebe was so prickly, she and Mom were never very close, anyway,” Debbie added.

That wasn’t strictly true. Phoebe used to have them over for dinner every Sunday, and Carolyn brought Talulah and Debbie over for piano lessons. It was only later that they had a bit of a falling-out and quit talking. Despite that, Talulah guessed their mother felt conflicted about missing her aunt’s funeral. She also understood that Carolyn wasn’t going to change her mind. Choosing her mission over her family was almost a matter of pride; it showcased the level of her belief. “When we visited Aunt Phoebe, and we weren’t there for piano lessons, we had to sit on chairs in the cramped dining room or living room, and she’d snap at us to quit wiggling, remember?”

“That was if she’d let us in the house at all,” Debbie said drily. “She used to tell us to go out front and play.”

“With no toys.”

“She was the sternest person I’ve ever met.”

“She also never threw anything away.”

“She was a hoarder?”

“Kind of. She somehow managed to be fastidious and clean at the same time, so it’s not the type of hoarding you imagine when you hear the word, but it’s so cluttered in here I can barely move from room to room.”

“If it’s that bad, I should come over, after all.”

Talulah blew a wisp of hair that’d fallen from the clip on top of her head away from her mouth. “No, I’ve got it. Really.” There was no way Debbie would survive the heat, not in her condition.

“But you must be feeling some pressure to get back to Seattle,” Debbie said. “You told me you have a line of people every night trying to get into the diner.”

“We do, but Paul’s there.” She couldn’t have taken off for a whole month in any prior year. In the beginning, their business had required too much time, energy and focus—from both of them. She’d come up with the concept and had the name, the website, the logo, the location and the recipes figured out when Paul decided to come on board to help with the capital, credit and muscle required to get the rest of the way. It’d been touch and go for a while, but the place was running smoothly now, following a familiar routine. They had employees they could trust, and with her partner managing the day-to-day details, she wasn’t too worried.

“He doesn’t resent you being gone so long?” Debbie asked.

“He has a family reunion in Iowa at the end of September. Then he’ll be hiking in Europe for three weeks with a couple of friends. So I’ll be returning the favor soon enough.”

“He gets to go to Europe while you have to spend your vacation in Coyote Canyon, attending a funeral and cleaning out a house that was built in the 1800s?”

Talulah didn’t mind the work. It was facing the past and all the people she hadn’t seen or heard from in years that would be difficult. “It’s not a big deal,” she insisted.

“Okay.” There was a slight pause. Then her sister said, “I hate to bring up a sensitive subject, but…what are you going to do when you see Charlie?”

“I don’t know.” She certainly wasn’t looking forward to it.

“It’d be a lot easier if he was married.”

Talulah agreed. If he had a wife, he’d be able to believe she’d saved him for the woman he was really supposed to marry. His family and friends would then be more likely to forgive her, too. But according to Jane, he wasn’t even seeing anyone, so she had no idea how he’d feel toward her. “I ran into Brant,” she volunteered, simply because she knew her sister would be interested.

“How’d he look?”

Too good for the emotional well-being of the women around him. But such an admission would never pass Talulah’s lips. She preferred not to acknowledge his incredible good looks. “Haven’t you seen him fairly recently?” She knew her sister came back to Coyote Canyon occasionally.

“Four or five years ago.”

“He probably hasn’t changed much since then.”

“He married?”

“No.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. I doubt he’ll ever settle down. What’d he say when he saw you?”

“Just gave me a hard time about Charlie.”

“When I was in high school, I was so disappointed I couldn’t get his attention. Now I’m glad he had no interest in me. He would only have broken my heart.”

“Probably,” Talulah agreed. But, truth be told, she felt sort of bad talking about Brant that way. It was a case of “the pot calling the kettle black,” as her aunt would’ve said. She’d broken her share of hearts, too, and possibly in worse ways, as he’d intimated. But she couldn’t seem to settle down. No matter how hard she tried to force the issue and be more like her sister—to do what her parents expected of her—she wound up having such terrible anxiety attacks she literally had to flee. Maybe Brant had the same problem when it came to making a lifelong commitment. Maybe he was just better at accepting his limitations.

The doorbell rang as her sister finished telling her about little Casey, her three-year-old niece, who’d gotten hold of a pair of scissors and cut her bangs off at the scalp. “That’s probably the woman from the church now,” Talulah said. “I need to go over the funeral with her. I’ll call you later, okay?”

Her sister said goodbye, and Talulah disconnected as she hurried up the narrow, creaking stairs. There was a woman standing on the stoop, all right. But before she pushed open the screen door—the regular door was already standing open because she’d been trying to catch even the slightest breeze—Talulah could see enough to know it wasn’t anyone from the church.

This woman had a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.



Excerpted from Talulah’s Back in Town by Brenda Novak. Copyright © 2023 by Brenda Novak, Inc. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

About the Author

Photo Credit: Rudy Meyers Photography

New York Times bestselling author Brenda Novak has written over 60 novels. An eight-time Rita nominee, she's won The National Reader's Choice, The Bookseller's Best and other awards. She runs Brenda Novak for the Cure, a charity that has raised more than $2.5 million for diabetes research (her youngest son has this disease). She considers herself lucky to be a mother of five and married to the love of her life. Visit Brenda at www.brendanovak.com.

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