The Bluestockings: Chapter Three
"What most people failed to understand, unless they had experienced a grievous loss themselves, was that pain was not a weakness. It wasn’t a failure to be fixed. It simply...was."
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Eleanor
Eleanor walked with her dad to Bluestocking Books the next morning, the sky a steel gray blanket above their heads. Eleanor longed for snow, but a wish like that was a fish in the air. It had only snowed once in Hawthorn in all of Eleanor’s twelve years, and even then, it hadn’t stuck. Every flake had melted as soon as it hit the too-warm ground. Eleanor could still remember the delightful sting of the flurries as they landed on her cheeks and outstretched tongue. They had tasted like the sea, like salt and brine and happy afternoons spent finding shells on the beach. For an hour, Eleanor had galloped with excitement around the backyard, the sadness of her mother’s absence from yet another holiday forgotten for a moment. Poppy and Grandpa had joined her since they were old enough to know how to act like kids again and took great pleasure in doing so at every opportunity. James, however, had stood on the patio watching with a sad smile fixed on his care-worn face until Eleanor had tugged on his sleeve and demanded that he catch some snowflakes, too.
That’s how it had been for as long as Eleanor could remember. She had so many memories of her mother, even though she’d disappeared when Eleanor was six, but for some reason, Eleanor couldn’t remember a thing about her dad from back then. It was as if he’d come to life fully formed the moment Vera left, ready to take over as a full-time parent and fill in the gaping hole left behind by his wife. He was a good father but a sad one.
With a wave goodbye, Eleanor trotted over to Agatha’s bakery and threw open the door, ready for her first day as a delivery girl. Inside, the aroma of roasted coffee beans and melted sugar filled the space. Eleanor inhaled, tasting the sweetness of Agatha’s peppermint cremes and chocolate croissants. One customer sat at a table by the window, head down as he typed away on his laptop, and another sat sipping an iced coffee while she played on her phone. Agatha flagged Eleanor down from the kitchen doorway, a flour-dusted apron on top of her ugly Christmas sweater.
“Morning!” she called out. “Already got two orders for you, soon as you’re ready.”
Eleanor beamed. She’d dressed for the occasion in a bright green crew neck sweatshirt, red plaid scarf, and red Converse sneakers. Her long, curly hair was pulled back in a claw clip she’d painted with Christmas ornaments, and she wore earrings in the shape of tree lights. Her dad’s old messenger bag was slung across her shoulders. In- side was Eleanor’s favorite notebook, two spare pens, and some highlighters for crossing off orders as she delivered them.
“Gracious, child,” Agatha said with a hearty chuckle as Eleanor approached and followed her into the kitchen. “It looks like a Christmas tree threw up all over you.”
Eleanor clenched her teeth together. Did the woman own a mirror? “I like to be festive,” she said, hurt straining her voice.
Agatha tutted and took Eleanor by the arm. “We’re just two peas in a pod then, honey,” she said and handed Eleanor two receipts, a to-go bag, and two to-go coffees in a tray. Eleanor struggled to keep the cups upright as she fumbled with the receipts. “The bag goes over to Mrs. McIntosh over at the antique store, and the coffees go to the front counter at Harriet’s Hair. Don’t forget to give them their receipts.”
“Have you ever considered online ordering?” Eleanor asked, straightening her shoulders, eager to pass on her knowledge. “It’s much more efficient and it’s better for the environment.”
Agatha shook her head and shooed Eleanor out of the kitchen. “Efficient isn’t always better, my dear. As for the environment, you tell me how many trees those books of yours have killed, and then we’ll talk.”
“But, I...they’re—“ Eleanor sputtered, momentarily speechless. Blasphemy, she thought, calling to mind a word she’d read once in The Witch of Blackbird Pond. Eleanor liked the way the letters hissed and rolled like an angry squall out over the ocean.
“Hurry back now,” Agatha continued, unbothered by Eleanor’s protests. “We get real busy about ten o’clock, so I’ll need you to make it quick.” With an unceremonious shove, she waved Eleanor off into the frigid morning. An icy breeze had picked up, and a tornado of dried leaves swirled around her feet. Eleanor kicked them away in frustration.
With a deep breath to steady herself, she eyed the town square. Harriet’s Hair was closest, just across the street from where Eleanor stood on the corner, and the antique store, Lost & Found, was clear on the opposite side of the square. Eleanor couldn’t help but smile. Hawthorn residents pulled out all the stops at the holidays, with jaunty wreaths on every shop door, red and white ribbon curled around the lamp posts like peppermint candy, and menorahs peeking out from a window or two. Strings of bells danced in the breeze, and the trees blinked at her, golden sparkles of light twinkling like fairies as she passed. It was difficult to stay in a grumpy mood when Eleanor was surrounded by so much holiday spirit.
She made her deliveries without incident, except for when she slipped and almost fell on the linoleum floor at Harriet’s. She would’ve dropped both coffees if it hadn’t been for the young stylist waiting by the door for her latte. Eleanor’s face had flushed crimson as she saw her principal, Mrs. Wilson, turn around in her chair to gape at Eleanor’s clumsiness. Then again, Mrs. Wilson had been wearing aluminum foil all over her head, so Eleanor recovered quickly.
Just as she returned to the bakery, Eleanor spied a curvy, middle-aged woman at the counter engaged in spirited conversation with Agatha, a young girl about Eleanor’s age standing next to her. She was a bit taller than Eleanor, with a messy blond pixie cut, and she was wearing a pair of baggy, wide-leg jeans that Eleanor had seen online and begged her dad to buy. James had quipped that he had an old pair in his closet she could have for free.
Agatha’s voice filled the bakery as she chatted with the woman. The girl looked bored as she peered around the store. Her blue eyes landed on Eleanor, who offered her a grin. The girl smiled back, silver braces shiny beneath the overhead lights.
Lucky! Eleanor thought. She’d always wanted braces but never needed them.
“Oh, good! You’re back,” Agatha hollered. Eleanor approached, eager to pick up more orders. “This is Eleanor Black. Today’s her first day as my delivery girl. Her dad, James, owns Bluestocking Books next door.”
“Oh, you’re the girl with the bookstore?” said Braces as she scanned Eleanor’s holiday attire, her eyes alight. “Marianne told me about you yesterday.”
“I like your jeans,” Eleanor replied by way of introduction. “My dad wouldn’t buy me a pair even though I begged him to, but I probably shouldn’t have asked anyway since—“ Eleanor stopped short. She’d almost blurted out her secret to God and everybody. No one could know that Bluestocking Books was in trouble.
The three of them eyed Eleanor expectantly, waiting for her to continue.
“Uh, since it’s so close to Christmas, you know?” she finished quickly. “Who’s Marianne?”
“That’s me,” said the woman next to Braces. “And this is Maggie.” Marianne had an interesting face, the kind that would tell a lovely story. Her hair was long and full, light brown shot through with silver, and her eyes crinkled into deep lines as she smiled at Eleanor. “I’ve been into your family’s store a few times over the years. Such a captivating place.”
“Marianne works for my great-aunt Ruby,” Maggie said. “She’s been her housekeeper for, like, a million years.”
Marianne clicked her tongue. “Not quite that long, but Hawthorn is certainly home at this point.”
“It’s so nice to have you here, too, Maggie,” Agatha said in a voice of pure molasses. Eleanor could already see the woman’s wheels turning. No one loved to tell tales like Agatha did, and Ruby Hurst’s great-niece coming to town was a story worth telling.
Ruby was the great-granddaughter of Hawthorn founder George Hurst and the daughter of publisher William Hurst and his fiancee, Alice. Everyone knew the tragic history of Ruby’s mom. She’d been a recent widow who’d gotten engaged to William in the mid-1940s, and she’d died when Ruby was just a young child. As the story went, Alice had taken Ruby to Tybee Island one afternoon for a picnic at the beach and, within an hour of their arrival, had drowned. Little Ruby had been discovered by a couple walking on the beach. The search for Alice’s body went on for weeks until it was finally discovered miles away in the marshes of Cockspur Island near Fort Pulaski. William later married and had more children, but Ruby always stood out, a traumatized beauty whose mother’s death was the subject of many rumors, rumors that often included Ruby herself. She never married or had children, and after William died in the nineties, Ruby became a near-total recluse, hiding out in her grand Victorian mansion outside of town. Most people assumed she was off her rocker. The worst rumors, believed by few but dark enough to cling to collective memory, claimed Ruby was once possessed and had lured Alice to her death. The whole story was fascinating, but Eleanor had been preoccupied by her own tragedy for too long to give Ruby Hurst much thought.
“I’m sure Eleanor would just love to show you around town,” Agatha continued. “Maybe get to know your aunt a little.” She wiggled her eyebrows at Eleanor, who bit her tongue and looked back to Maggie. “Maybe you can come with Eleanor on her deliveries. I could always use another pair of hands.” With those words, Agatha’s husband, Richard, appeared from the kitchen, a tray of fresh-baked cinnamon scones in hand.
“You’ve got two hands right here,” he said in a jovial tone as he placed the scones in the glass display case. “That not enough?”
Agatha swatted him with a tea towel. “You get back into the kitchen where you belong,” she teased, which he did with a little bow. Eleanor and Maggie giggled.
“I was hoping to drop Maggie off at the bookstore for a bit while I ran my errands,” Marianne continued as Agatha steamed milk behind the counter, her cast foot stuck out to the side.
“Oh my gosh, you’ll love it,” Eleanor gushed to Maggie. “You have to see the book tree I made for the front window. It took me hours and hours. And you’ll love our couch. It’s the coziest thing your butt will ever touch, I swear.”
“Eleanor, honestly!” Agatha scolded. Marianne covered her smile with a gloved hand.
“Wanna go?” Eleanor asked, reaching for Maggie’s arm. Agatha cut her off.
“Not yet,” she said, hobbling back to the counter, face stern. “You’ve still got deliveries.”
“Oh, right,” Eleanor replied, crestfallen. She’d forgotten about work already with the promise of a new friend. “Can I just walk Maggie over? I’ll come right back, I swear.”
Agatha, sensing her source of intel on the infamous Ruby Hurst was about to escape, waffled for a moment. Eleanor pushed out her bottom lip and eyed Agatha with her hands clasped together, pleading. “Alright, fine,” Agatha agreed with a long-suffering sigh. “Five minutes.”
Eleanor squealed with delight and looped her arm through Maggie’s, steering her towards the door.
“Keep your phone on you, Maggie!” Marianne called out, “And stay in the bookstore. Your aunt will have my hide if you go wandering off.”
“I will!” Maggie said over her shoulder as the door closed behind the two girls.
“You have a phone?” Eleanor asked, her eyes fixed on Maggie in disbelief. “My dad would sooner become President of the United States before he let me have one. He says they’re rotting our brains.”
“My parents are getting divorced,” Maggie said with a shrug. “Mom feels guilty about it, so she buys me stuff all the time. I didn’t even ask for a phone. I think she only got it because I’m here with Aunt Ruby for the next month, and she wants to check up on me every day.”
Eleanor’s heart sank as she thought about her mother, wherever she was. Her eyes stung as she imagined hearing her voice again, even if just on the other end of a phone call. “That must be nice,” Eleanor said softly.
Maggie grimaced. “It’s annoying, honestly,” she replied as they stopped by the front window of Bluestocking Books. Maggie gasped at the sight of Eleanor’s book tree stacked high above their heads, glittery presents nestled around the bottom in a bed of cotton snow. “Whoa,” she said, awe written on her pointed features. “This is so cool.”
“Thanks,” Eleanor replied, the warmth of Maggie’s reply a cozy fire in her chest. “It took me all day to get it right. I kept knocking over books, and then I couldn’t decide between multicolored lights or white ones, so my dad made me pick with my eyes closed because he was tired of hearing me waffle.”
“It’s nice that your parents let you help,” Maggie said.
“It’s just me and my dad,” Eleanor replied. Better to rip the band-aid off now. “My mom’s been gone for a while.”
“Oh,” Maggie said with a frown as they entered the soft warmth of the bookstore. “I’m sorry.”
Eleanor was saved from a reply by Maggie’s theatrical swoon. “Okay, I love,” she sang as she turned in a circle, looking at the shop with wonder. “It’s giving You’ve Got Mail.”
“Never seen it,” Eleanor replied. Maggie gasped in mock horror.
“It’s iconic,” she said. “It has the cutest bookstore ever. My mom and I watch it together every October and dream about moving to New York City.”
“I watch Anne of Green Gables every October,” Eleanor said simply. Maggie gave an appreciative nod. “Also iconic.”
“Do you want to see the rest?” Eleanor asked.
“Um, yes,” Maggie answered.
Eleanor took Maggie on a quick tour and introduced her to James, who was on the phone but offered a wave and a smile. “Make yourself at home,” he whispered with a hand over the receiver. Once Eleanor had Maggie settled with a collection of books on the couch, which she agreed was “definitely the coziest thing my butt has ever touched,” Eleanor made a mad dash back to the bakery to continue her deliveries.
For the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon, Eleanor went back and forth across the square, delivering an assortment of drinks and pastries. Every half hour or so, she’d sneak over to the bookstore to chat with Maggie, who had stretched out on the couch watching a movie on her phone. They talked about their favorite books and where they went to school, and Eleanor learned that Maggie didn’t know much about her great-aunt Ruby other than what everyone else did. She found it funny that people in Hawthorn were so fascinated with her past since Maggie considered the whole story ancient history and Ruby little more than “a rich old grump.”
Eleanor herself had never bought into the rumor that Ruby was nuts just because she hid away on the massive estate she’d inherited. It sounded more like Ruby had been the victim of terrible circumstances and, perhaps, had never recovered. Eleanor knew what that felt like and how difficult it was to explain to other people. Or, more often, to have no interest in explanations at all.
What most people failed to understand, unless they had experienced a grievous loss themselves, was that pain was not a weakness. It wasn’t a failure to be fixed. It simply...was. Six years of pain as her constant companion had taught Eleanor that. As inconvenient as she might find it, she could not be made well with good intentions or comfort food. Neither, it seemed, had Ruby ever been lured back into the community with the desire to clear up ridiculous gossip.
After the last bag of lunch bagels had been delivered and it was time to return to the bookshop, Eleanor hurried back to the bakery to collect her paycheck.
“You did good today,” Agatha said as she counted through a stack of bills. Eleanor’s cheeks warmed at the praise, and she held out a hand, eager to claim her reward for a job well done. When Agatha pressed a ten-dollar bill into her palm, Eleanor’s face fell.
“Ten dollars?” she asked, incredulous. “That’s all?”
Agatha scoffed. “That’s all? Ten dollars is a lot of money for a twelve-year-old.”
Eleanor crossed her arms and raised her chin. “Not when the minimum wage is seven dollars and twenty-five cents an hour.”
Agatha howled and fanned herself with the bills. “Minimum wage! Oh, you’re a hoot, Eleanor.”
“I’m serious,” Eleanor replied. Agatha stopped laughing and fixed her with a firm glare.
“Young lady, you get what you get,” she replied. “What were you expecting? A full-time salary?”
Eleanor stood firm. “I expect to be paid for the five hours I just spent traipsing all over town delivering orders that you can’t because you were dumb enough to fall off a step stool!” As soon as the words left her mouth, Eleanor wanted to grab them all out of the air and swallow them back again. But it was too late. Her words had tumbled out before she could even think to stop them. Customers twisted in their seats to stare.
Agatha’s broad face turned as red as Eleanor’s sweater as she gaped at her, a fish out of water. “Eleanor!” she exclaimed and pointed towards the entrance. “Let’s go find your dad and see what he has to say about this.”
Agatha’s hobbled effort to lead Eleanor out of the bakery like a hardened criminal was diminished somewhat by her injury, but Eleanor hung her head just the same. How could she have been so stupid? Now, she’d never get the money they needed. With Eleanor’s out- burst, Bluestocking’s fate had been sealed.
James was rearranging the local authors' shelf when they arrived. His smile fell into a frown as he took in Agatha’s hardened expression and Eleanor’s defeated shuffle.
“What’s going on?” he asked, concern etched into his tired features. Agatha relayed the whole story, careful to add that they had never agreed upon a fixed amount when Eleanor agreed to work for her.
Maggie had crept up to a bookshelf on Eleanor’s left as Agatha half-shouted at James to get a handle on his daughter’s sass mouth. Hidden from the adults’ view, Maggie stifled her giggles behind a copy of The Secret Keeper by Kate Morton. Then she gave Eleanor a thumbs up.
“Nice job,” she whispered with a cheeky grin.
Eleanor bit her lip to keep from laughing and turned back to face her dad. He looked down at her with a stern expression, but she could see the humor in his eyes.
“Well, Agatha,” he said in a serious tone, “I’m sorry about Eleanor’s rudeness. She knows better than to talk to people like that.”
“As well she should,” Agatha added with a harrumph.
“But as far as payment goes, I tend to agree with her,” James finished.
Agatha clenched her jaw. “She’s twelve, Jimmy. This is ridiculous. She works with you all the time, and Eleanor said herself that you don’t pay her either!”
“True,” James replied, unruffled, “but I’m her dad. I feed, clothe, and care for her in about a million other ways, so I don’t think it’s too much to ask for her help stacking books now and then. Besides, all of this is going to be Eleanor’s one day. She needs to learn how to run it.”
Eleanor’s heart filled with pride as she pictured herself at the helm of Bluestocking Books. Then she remembered that they were about to lose it, and her heart deflated.
“I’m really sorry, Agatha,” Eleanor said, and she meant it. She needed to keep working, but she also needed Agatha to pay more than ten dollars a day if she had any hope of saving her family’s bookstore. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. It was mean and disrespectful, and even though I should have earned at least minimum wage for the deliveries, especially since it’s so cold outside, I swear on my life it won’t ever happen again.” Agatha opened her mouth to protest, but Eleanor beat her to the punch. “Do you think we could compromise?”
“That sounds like a good idea,” said James. “How about...five dollars an hour?”
Agatha sucked her teeth, considering. After a moment, she patted Eleanor’s arm. “Oh, it’s alright, sweetheart. I suppose I can give you five dollars an hour, but you’ll have to wait until Fridays to get your money just like everybody else.”
“‘Everybody’ meaning you and Richard,” James joked.
Agatha sent him a piercing stare. “Exactly,” she said.
“That’s great,” Eleanor agreed and extended a hand. “Thank you so much. Really.”
Agatha cast a suspicious glare at Eleanor’s hand but then laughed and shook it. “You’re welcome. Now, I need to get back to the bakery before Richard sets the place on fire.” She eyed Eleanor. “I’ll see you again tomorrow morning, okay? Make sure you leave the attitude at home, please.”
Eleanor gave a salute, and James hurried to open the shop door for her. As she limped away, Maggie emerged from her hiding place and collapsed into a fit of laughter.
“That was amazing,” she said, wiping tears from her face. “I thought that woman was going to have a stroke. Did you really say all that stuff?”
“Yeah,” Eleanor replied with a sheepish glance at her dad. He put his hand on Eleanor’s shoulder.
“I told you Agatha was a handful, Eleanor,” he said. “I need you to keep that smart mouth in check, okay? Not least of all because Agatha is our neighbor, and we have to see her every single day. I don’t want to hear any more comments like that again, understood?”
Eleanor nodded, properly ashamed. “Yes, sir.”
She and Maggie scurried back to the young adult section and flopped down on the couch. Eleanor was happy to have a friend to laugh with, even a new one. She’d never been skilled at making friends—books were her preferred companions—and she found most kids at her school were all too happy to ignore her. After Eleanor’s mother disappeared, it was as if her classmates thought missing mothers were contagious, though these days most people had come to the conclusion that Vera was the victim of a grisly murder who’d eventually become the subject of a true crime podcast.
“Seriously, though,” Maggie said, as though she’d never been interrupted. “That was hilarious.”
“I bet you didn’t think spending the holidays with your grumpy old aunt would be this fun,” Eleanor replied with a shake of her head.
“I still can’t believe she was only going to pay you ten dollars for the whole day,” Maggie said. “This isn’t the eighties.”
“I’m just glad she didn’t fire me,” Eleanor said, relieved. “We need the money.”
Maggie furrowed her brows. “You do?”
Eleanor cast a sideways glance at Maggie. “Promise not to tell?”
Maggie stuck out her little finger. “Pinky promise.”
Eleanor twisted her pinky around Maggie’s and took a deep breath. “My dad is behind on the store’s monthly payments. We’re going to lose it if we don’t come up with the money soon. He doesn’t know I know, though. I found the papers in his desk.”
Concern filled Maggie’s eyes. “How much money?”
Eleanor sighed and fell back against the couch cushions. “A lot. More than I can earn with Agatha, that’s for sure. I know that now, but I still want to help.”
“We’ll think of something,” Maggie said. “Do you think your dad would let you spend the night with me tomorrow? We can brainstorm ideas.”
Eleanor brightened at the thought of a sleepover and seeing inside Ruby Hurst’s grand old mansion. “That will be fun!” she exclaimed. “Let’s ask Marianne to talk to him when she picks you up.”
The plan was a success. After Marianne was done talking to James, Maggie shouted a hearty goodbye, and they headed out into the icy afternoon. “See you tomorrow!” she called.
Eleanor waved them off. Then she turned to her dad and hugged him. Tucked close against his chest like that, she could smell his Old Spice cologne and thought of her mother. Vera had loved that smell. Sometimes, she even stole James’ deodorant when she ran out of her own. Suddenly, a flood of memories came rushing back to Eleanor, and she thought back to all the stories her mother had shared with her, stories of girls with big dreams and big courage. Even in elementary school, Eleanor had known that her mom was fueled by the need to instill hope in her daughter, hope Vera herself seemed to lack in moments when she thought no one was looking. Eleanor could see her mother’s focus start to turn inward to a place that wasn’t kind. She grew overly sensitive and anxious, afraid of something Eleanor didn’t understand. But even then, Vera was always gentle with Eleanor, perhaps because she hadn’t known how to be gentle to herself.
The bookstore was their whole family’s happy place. Vera and James had opened Bluestocking Books back when neither of them could even imagine their daughter. Back when they had given up on parenthood after many failed attempts to get pregnant and resigned themselves to a quiet life, just the two of them. The shop had been a way to grieve the story they weren’t living and a grand attempt to try and celebrate the story they were.
And then Eleanor had surprised them. Vera always said she was the best story of their lives.
Eleanor’s first memory swirled around those precious words, a memory she had recalled countless times in her mother’s absence. She had been lying in bed, no more than four years old, pressed close against her mother’s side as they looked through a book together. The frustration that coursed through Eleanor’s tiny body as her mother closed the book was potent. Eleanor couldn’t remember the entire story now, but she remembered how it had ended: with the two friends separated forever, their lives destined to move in different directions.
“Why did they have to say goodbye?” Eleanor had asked in a quiet voice as her mother tucked in the blanket around her.
“Well, honey,” Vera had said with a kiss to Eleanor’s forehead, “there are times when people who love each other have to go different ways. It’s not always a bad thing.”
At those words, Eleanor had clutched her mother’s hand as though holding tight to her soft, warm fingers would prevent Vera from floating away forever. It hadn’t.
Eleanor’s heart sank into her stomach as it had done a thousand times before, and the questions that had long plagued her days and nights dominated her thoughts once more.
What kind of mother leaves her only daughter behind without a word? What makes a woman turn away from the family she loves?
Eleanor had her suspicions, but she was no longer sure she wanted to know the answer.
Catch Up On Previous Chapters:
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two
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