Hope Between the Pages by Pepper Basham (ebook reader for surface pro .txt) 📕

Yes, she’d lost her father. Her chest ached with constant reminders, but Sadie had lost her son, her sister, her reputation.

“I know the way.”

But her heart pulsed. What would that way look like?

The door burst open and in stumbled Robbie, his face almost as red as his hair. “Are you okay?”

She groaned and ran a hand over her eyes. “I don’t know.”

He closed the door behind him and rounded the desk. “Faith told me about Dad stopping by, and being the stellar employee she is, she eavesdropped on the conversation, but only enough to give me the gist.”

“Great.” Clara squinted up at her cousin. “Now it’ll be all over town.”

“No.” Robbie patted her shoulder. “You underestimate Faith’s maturity.” He winked. “And my blackmailing skills.” His expression sobered and he scanned the messy desk as he moved to the chair his father had vacated. “What happened?”

She relayed the details of the visit, keeping her tears in check.

“I’m sorry, Clara.” He shook his head and pushed a hand through his thick hair. “I know Dad’s gotten himself into some financial messes lately, but—” Robbie growled and stood. “How could he do this?”

“He must be desperate.”

“You mean selfish.” He paced the room, his breaths pumping his chest in increased rhythm. “He’s not only betrayed you and your mom, but me too. And why should I be surprised? The only person he’s ever put first in his life is himself.”

Pain creased his face and he held her gaze, almost as if he wanted her to confirm his loyalty.

“I know he’s wrong about Granny Sadie. We can’t let him take the bookshop.”

“Of course we can’t.” His words ground out, low and tense.

Clara set her jaw, refusing to give in to the impossibility of the task. “Then we must keep looking. Everywhere. Take any lead. Even the crazy ones.” She looked back at the scripted verses. “And pray for a miracle, Robbie, regardless of how the miracle shows up. We need one, and we only have two weeks to find it.”

The old grandfather clock struck in the front of the bookshop, customers’ murmurs filtering down the little hallway to the office.

Three o’clock.

Clara stretched from her hunched position over the desk, her workspace much the worse for wear after almost four hours of careful investigation. One box left after this one and then… ? Where would she look next? The attic had been turned inside out. Mom had scoured through all of Dad’s things, and though Mrs. Carter had found another entry of Sadie’s time at Biltmore, nothing shed light on the lost deed.

A worn ledger near the bottom of the box revealed purchases from the oldest dates Clara had been able to find so far, 1917, one year after Granny Sadie opened Blackwell’s. One note from a local family praised Granny for her shop, thanking her for bringing such a delightful building to their town. Just as Clara placed the book aside, she noticed a piece of paper stuck to the back of the ledger as if stamped there by time’s hand. As she carefully peeled it from its home, the letterhead snagged her attention first. Biltmore.

Clara nearly gasped when she noted the signature: Edith Vanderbilt.

November 17, 1916

Sadie,

What a delightful shop you’ve added to our village! I write “our village” even though it borders the outskirts of Biltmore, because you are a part of Biltmore and thus your shop belongs to our village, as I know you meant it to. I am so pleased to see how you’ve taken such a painful experience and turned it into something that will bring joy to not only others but yourself as well.

Those of us who live with grief must still live. One breath at a time.

With your love for books, stories, and people, I am certain the future of Blackwell’s will prove much brighter than its beginnings, especially with someone as capable as you at the helm. Thank you for serving so many in both outward and secret ways. God knows your heart.

I look forward to visiting Blackwell’s again and bringing Cornelia with me.

Sincerely,

Edith Vanderbilt

Clara sat back in her chair, studying the letter. So Blackwell’s opened some time before November 1916, which means any documentation of a deed should reveal a purchase before that time. At least that narrowed the timeline. And what sort of secret service was Sadie doing?

Clara rubbed at her aching forehead and flipped through each page of the ledger, looking for anything else. In the middle, a piece of paper protruded.

Clara carefully pulled the yellowed page free from its confines. A well-worn crease created a definitive line down the middle, as if someone had opened and closed the page many times. Pushing back some of the clutter from the desk, she placed the paper on the flat wood and peeled it open.

A typed letter. Dated August 10, 1916.

Mr. Ezra P. Long

109 Main Street

Asheville, NC

Dear Mr. Oliver Camden,

I am writing to confirm that I received your payment for 9 Elm Street in Asheville, NC, locally referred to as Brick House. Enclosed you will find the key as insurance until I can have the deed mailed to you. As requested, I have added Miss Blackwell’s name to the deed as co-owner. The legalities involved in transferring the deed with such particulars may take a few weeks, but my lawyer has assured me you should have it in hand by the end of September at the latest. Thank you for offering such a fair price and I hope you and Miss Blackwell will enjoy the old place.

Sincerely,

Ezra P. Long, Esquire

Clara closed in to reread the note, her shallow breath spurting.

A deed?

There’s a deed.

She reread the letter.

Yes. Somewhere. Money was paid for this building. And Sadie’s name had been on the deed with Oliver Camden. The same Oliver from Biltmore…and England!

Clara’s laugh echoed in the room. This was proof Sadie had owned Blackwell’s.

But how did a man who was only mentioned in a letter by his father come to have such a close