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The Bookshop at Water's End
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PRAISE FOR
the bookshop at water’s end
“Patti Callahan Henry has written the best novel of her career with The Bookshop at Water’s End. I absolutely adored it and predict it will be one of the most-loved books of the year. In fact, it’s so good I wish I’d written it myself!”
—Dorothea Benton Frank, New York Times bestselling author of Same Beach, Next Year
“The Bookshop at Water’s End carries us along the graceful curves and outwardly serene story line of two childhood friends returning to their summer riverside home. But like the river she writes about, Patti’s plot roils with strong undercurrents of murky secrets, tragedy and the pulsing tides of self-discovery. No one writes about the power of family and friends like Patti Callahan Henry. The Bookshop at Water’s End is a must-read for your summer!”
—Mary Alice Monroe, New York Times bestselling author of Beach House for Rent
“From the very first page, Patti Callahan Henry draws you in like the tide, revealing long-simmering secrets that will test family and friendships, and explores the question: do we tell our stories or do our stories tell us? In lush, lyrical prose, Henry explores the power of forgiveness, especially in ourselves. Every page was a treat.”
—Laura Lane McNeal, bestselling author of Dollbaby
“Patti Callahan Henry’s stories are always woven with magic and mystery, and The Bookshop at Water’s End knots these elements into a deeply satisfying and heartfelt tale of loss and betrayal, friendship and forgiveness. The sun is shining, the tide is turning, summer and Patti Henry’s latest masterpiece beckon. Resistance is futile!”
—Mary Kay Andrews, New York Times bestselling author of The Weekenders
“I adore Patti Callahan Henry’s new novel. The Bookshop at Water’s End is a juicy summer read about family secrets, forgotten friendships and the power of books to change our lives.”
—Jane Green, New York Times bestselling author of The Sunshine Sisters
PRAISE FOR PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY AND HER NOVELS
“Patti Callahan Henry asks the big, equivocal questions about what it means to be a mother, a child, a family, and the answers she finds in And Then I Found You will surprise you, provoke you and rearrange your heart.”
—Jacquelyn Mitchard, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Two If by Sea
“This is everything you expect from Patti Callahan Henry—lyrical writing, characters worth rooting for, a sure-footed belief in the power of goodness—plus a twisty plot that will keep the pages turning long into the night.”
—Joshilyn Jackson, New York Times bestselling author of The Opposite of Everyone
“A Southern woman’s journey into truth. An emotionally intense, beautiful and unforgettable novel. I loved it.”
—Robyn Carr, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Any Day Now
“Patti Callahan Henry understands the delicate balance of power inside a marriage.”
—Sara Gruen, New York Times bestselling author of At the Water’s Edge
“This tale of a Lowcountry woman’s reblossoming will touch your heart and make you wonder about long-forgotten possibilities waiting to be rediscovered in your own family and soul.”
—The Charleston Post and Courier (SC)
“Patti Callahan Henry joins the ranks of Anne Rivers Siddons and Pat Conroy.”
—Deborah Smith, New York Times bestselling author of The Beloved Woman
“Patti Callahan Henry seamlessly combines mystery, family love and personal journey all in one engrossing tale.”
—Diane Chamberlain, New York Times bestselling author of Pretending to Dance
ALSO BY PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY
Losing the Moon
Where the River Runs
When Light Breaks
Between the Tides
The Art of Keeping Secrets
Driftwood Summer
The Perfect Love Song
Coming Up for Air
And Then I Found You
Friend Request
The Stories We Tell
The Idea of Love
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Patti Callahan Henry
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Henry, Patti Callahan, author.
Title: The bookshop at water’s end / Patti Callahan Henry.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Berkley, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017009985 (print) | LCCN 2017013330 (ebook) | ISBN 9780399583124 (ebook) | ISBN 9780399583117 (paperback)
Subjects: LCSH: Family life—Fiction. | Domestic fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Family Life. | FICTION / Contemporary Women.
Classification: LCC PS3608.E578 (ebook) | LCC PS3608.E578 B66 2017 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017009985
First Edition: July 2017
Cover photo by Trevillion Images
Cover design by Rita Frangie
Title page art © Rodina Olena / Shutterstock
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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contents
Praise for Patti Callahan Henry
Also by Patti Callahan Henry
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraphs
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Bonny Moreland’s River Wish
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Lainey McKay’s River Wish
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
About the Author
In honor of Pat Conroy
October 26, 1945–March 4, 2016
Your life and work taught me both the power of story and of truth, and your death the same.
You are and will be achingly missed for all time.
I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
THE GREAT GATSBY, F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
I’ve been biding all my time for you . . .
“WHAT I’D GIVE,” ALISSA MORENO AND J. P. JONES
prologue
MIMI THE BOOKSELLER
We are defined by the moods and whims of a wild tidal river surrounding our small town, cradling us in its curved basin. We don’t shape it; it shapes us. The gray-blue water brings us what it will and only when it desires. One sweltering, languid afternoon as I shelved dusty paperbacks, I looked up to see a ghost. The girl was the spitting image of a woman I knew years ago—too many summers ago to count. It could have been another whim of the river.
Just when it seemed things were settled and placid in Watersend, South Carolina, in breezed the daughter of a Summer Sister. I should have been expecting her because of course I’d heard that Bonny Blankenship had returned to the old Moreland family house. It’s that kind of town; I hear everything. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a bit of a shock seeing her walk through my door.
A young girl, I guessed on the brink of her twenties, stood in my bookshop, a daughter of the past who walked in all wide-eyed and exhaling like she’d finally found what she was looking for. It was a look I knew well. So glad to be in a cozy bookshop, in air-conditioned comfort, surrounded by stories, and to find that in the chaos of the world there was still a place like this. A place where books were piled to the ceiling and tables were crowded with the paraphernalia of reading: bookmarks, reading lights, stationery, pens and framed quotes to inspire. I’m no dummy. I keep the air conditioner set to frigid. I know I’m luring customers and some might call it bribery, but whatever works, works. I lost my store once, and now that I have it again, I’ll do pretty much anything to keep it alive.
Her blond ponytail pulled at the skin around her heart-shaped face, moist at the hairline and cheeks flushed pink. Her round eyes, almost disproportionate to her other tiny features, were wide open to wonder as she looked around the store. She possessed an ephemeral quality one can’t buy with plastic surgery or proper training. Her mother had been the same, almost floating through childhood with her best friend, Lainey. They came in here for the same reasons—cold air and escape. Two little girls who were so close it seemed that they’d been sewn together by the seams of their flowered sundresses. History, they say, repeats itself. I surely hoped not.
Was she like her mother, Bonny, all fire and no ice? Older than her years and too young to know better is how I once described her to a customer. The years blended together, but those three summers in the late 1970s stood out like a beacon in the fog of my memory.
I welcomed this ghost into the store but then walked away, and allowed her to roam at her leisure. Thirty minutes later, she chose a poetry book and set it on the counter. I approached her with a smile. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
She held a cell phone in her hand, and it appeared permanently attached, just as it did to all the young ones who came in here. Cells are an appendage now, I’d told my book club.
“I did find exactly what I was looking for. This is a great bookshop.” The girl sounded like her mother, too. A certain lilt to her voice like she was about to break into song and then changed her mind. How do I remember all these small details from so long ago when I can’t remember where I put my car keys or glasses? I know why, of course—for reasons I’ve never told a soul.
“Thank you. I’m Mimi. The owner of this messy store. Welcome. Are you visiting Watersend?” I kept my voice light, but I wasn’t much good at pretending.
“Yes,” the girl said. “I’m here on vacation.” She caught my gaze. It took my breath away; so familiar and yet completely foreign. “My name’s Piper,” she said and brushed at a wayward hair falling into her eyes.
“Well, Piper. I’m glad to meet you. I hope you’ll come back while you’re in town.”
“Oh, I will,” she said. “I’m glad I found this on my first day.”
“Me, too. And if you’re here for the summer, there are plenty of summer book clubs that you can join.” I handed her a sheet of paper that listed the clubs and dates and times. “There’s even a poetry one.”
“Thanks,” Piper said. “I might stop by. But I’m going to be . . . busy.”
“Well, busy is something for sure,” I said.
Piper laughed, but it sounded rusty with disuse. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean, busy is something to be but maybe not the best thing to be?” I took off my glasses and they dangled from the purple string that held them there so I wouldn’t lose them. I smiled to let her know that my advice was harmless, just an old woman rambling along. I didn’t want to scare her off. I rang up the book and placed it in a brown paper bag with our book logo stamped onto it with my favorite quote, “Books may well be the only true magic. Alice Hoffman.” And then handed it to Piper.
She smiled in a sad way. I wanted to tell her how much she looked like her mother, but she didn’t seem to be the kind of young woman who would want to hear such a thing. There she was trying to carve out her own place in the world with her little nose stud, like a sparkling freckle, and black eyeliner smudged around her blue eyes like dark curtains.
“Well. Anyhow, Watersend is a great place to be for the summer. I think you’ll like it. What brings you?” I already knew the answer: the river. But she would believe it was her mother, or the house.
Piper exhaled and rolled her eyes in that perfect way all teenagers do. “I’m here to help my mom and babysit her best friend’s kids. They used to spend their summers here and my mom fixed the old house and . . .” She trailed off like she’d forgotten why she’d arrived at all.
“That sounds like a better job than most get in the summer,” I said, straightening some papers on the counter that didn’t need straightening.
“You’re probably right,” Piper said, “but I just didn’t imagine spending my first college summer with my mom and her friend and little kids.”
“You say they’ve been here before. Do I know them?” I looked away with my false questions, feeling slightly ashamed for prodding into what I already knew.
“I don’t know. Maybe. My mom is Bonny. Her maiden name was Moreland. Her friend is Lainey.”
“The Summer Sisters.” I smiled. “For gravy’s sake, who could forget them?”
“You know them?” Piper leaned forward conspiratorially. “And isn’t that the stupidest name? Summer Sisters.”
“Not such a bad name if you knew them then.”
“It sounds ridiculous to me.”
“Ah. I’m sure it does.”
She nodded, this young girl, and she looked at me the way the young can and do when the aged baffle them, when they don’t believe that they will ever be the older ones.
“Well, least tell your mother I said hello.”
“I will.” Piper held up her book, now wrapped in a paper bag. “And thanks for this.”
“You’re welcome. Come anytime and make your escape.”
I sidled out from around the counter and walked Piper to the front of the store, struggling for something to say, anything. But nothing seemed right. She hesitated at the entrance and then asked, “Did they have other friends or was it just the two of them?”
“I forget, dear. It was so, so long ago.”
Piper pushed open the door and let herself out without another word.
Now, everyone knows I believe in stories being told. Why else would I own a bookshop? I also know that some
stories should stay crouched in the dusty corners of the past. It had been a record-breaking hot summer the last time those Summer Sisters were here with their boozy, somnolent parents who paid the children no mind, almost forty years ago now. The town had loved those girls: silly and full of sass, buzzing around town pretending to be Nancy Drew, solving mysteries that should have never been solved.
That night, at our monthly poker game over bourbon and pound cake with Loretta and Ella and my beau, Harrington, I would say, “You will not believe who walked into the store today.” And they would guess until they couldn’t anymore and I would say, “A Summer Sister’s daughter.”
I walked outside and watched Piper as she headed toward the market, her poetry book in a paper bag and dragging one of those wagons that announces, “I’m a vacationer”: rolling carts that people tug around full of towels and toys, groceries and kids.
Heat wavered off the brick sidewalk like Watersend was one large coffee mug. Posters hung in store windows to announce the summer concert series on the square, and the new market awning was bright yellow and garish against a sky where gray clouds gathered into thunderheads. But instead of a young girl with a cell phone and a nose stud, I saw her mother, Bonny, a wildflower of a child, walking along the same street sure as punch that nothing could ever go wrong.
Overhead, clouds gathered into an afternoon congregation—a reminder that once the past begins to nudge itself into the present, the future changes. Soon the thunder would begin and yes, indeed, a summer storm was coming.
chapter 1
BONNY BLANKENSHIP
It wouldn’t be a secret much longer.
Behind the locked exam room door I held the phone to my ear with the particular thrill and sense of finishing a job well done. All the planning, all the night shifts and research papers and grueling interviews had finally led to this job offer as the new emergency room director at Emory Hospital in Atlanta. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my job as an ER doc in Charleston; I actually did. It was that I needed to leave Charleston. If I was going to leave my husband, then I needed to leave the city where his family was as entrenched as Fort Sumter.