“Well, then,” he told her, his hand sliding up beneath the hem of her dress until his fingers brushed against her lacy underwear, “I’d strongly suggest you order extra courses at Perbacco. Because I will definitely want second helpings of this.”

Chapter Fourteen

Late April – Boston

“You’re positive that this is the place? And that they definitely have a copy of the fourth book they can sell us?”

Ian grinned, tapping her on the nose with his index finger. “To answer your questions for the third time in the past half hour - yes. I verified the address when I called to confirm our appointment this morning. Let’s head inside, shall we?”

Tessa nodded enthusiastically, taking him by the hand, and opened the door to the shop that specialized in antique, collectible, and hard to find books. Another bookseller that Ian had used to find Gillian Pedersen’s first three books had finally been able to track down the fourth and final novel she had written. And, as timing would have it, Ian and Tessa had been scheduled to visit several hotels on the East Coast this week, mere days after he’d received the phone call. They had already visited Washington D.C., Baltimore, and Philadelphia, and would be flying home from Boston tomorrow evening.

It had been an especially busy spring for both of them thus far, between work, school, business trips, and the wedding plans that were quickly beginning to escalate, given that the big day was less than two months away. Julia and Sasha had thrown her a bridal shower a couple of weeks ago, the second one she’d been given since Victoria and Joanna had also hosted one during her visit to London in February. Tessa had fortunately been able to throw herself into the planning full force, no longer troubled by waiting around for test results or doctor’s appointments. All three of the genetic tests that Doctor Gatlin had recommended she take had come back negative, further reinforcing the psychiatrist’s diagnosis that Tessa was very unlikely to ever develop bipolar disorder.

And Tessa had had, with Ian’s prodding, three separate sessions with Doctor Gatlin already, discussing her past in great detail. The sessions had, as the doctor had suggested, helped her to find closure with events of the past, in particular the guilt she still carried about Gillian’s death. She planned to meet with the psychiatrist two or three more times before the wedding, but had insisted to Ian that it most likely wouldn’t be necessary after that.

The unexpected call last week about the discovery of her mother’s fourth book had thrilled her, but had also made her more than a little uneasy. Now that she knew for a certainty that the books were semi-autobiographical in nature, Tessa wasn’t certain she wanted to know what happened next - or at least her mother’s version of events. The first book had been about Gillian’s childhood; the second about her teenage years and ending with her running away from home at the age of seventeen; the third book had chronicled Gillian’s struggles to cope with the onset of bipolar disorder, how she’d drifted from place to place, the various men she’d met along the way. In a way, that third volume had been even more difficult to read about than the earlier ones, both of which had included numerous and detailed scenes about the abuse she’d suffered from her mother. In the third book, Tessa had felt the despair and loneliness Gillian had known, the fears and uncertainties about being on her own, and trying to understand what was happening to her. At least book three had ended on a happier note, for it chronicled the time in Gillian’s life when she’d written her first book, and had just learned a publisher was interested in it.

A bell tinkled over the shop’s door as they entered, and Tessa was immediately assailed by the smell of old books and leather. The interior of the shop wasn’t very large, with books large and small crammed into every conceivable space. There were shelves built against the walls, tables and bins filled to overflowing with other volumes, and still others stacked on the floor. It was a cozy sort of chaos, she thought, totally unlike Ian’s - correction, their - library back in San Francisco, where every book was precisely shelved and arranged according to subject matter.

Ian, however, didn’t seem to mind the slight disarray, and automatically began to scan the titles on the shelf closest to him. The shop was deserted, it seemed, with no other patrons inside at this hour of the day. It was nearly closing time, Tessa noted from the sign in the window, and she hoped they weren’t imposing on the owner by arriving so late.

Moments later a man of about seventy appeared from the back room, an apologetic smile on his face.

“Sorry about that,” he greeted. “I was finishing up a phone call, and didn’t mean to make you wait this – oh, my God. Gillian? It can’t really be you. But, no. You must be -”

“I’m Tessa,” she corrected gently, recognizing the shock on the man’s face. “Gillian’s daughter. And my fiancé is the one who spoke to you about the book. Did you know my mother then?”

The man nodded as he slowly walked closer. “I did, yes. And the person your fiancé spoke with was actually my wife. It was quite a surprise when she mentioned that someone wanted to buy one of Gillian’s books. There isn’t exactly a market for them nowadays. But I would never in a million years have guessed that the person interested in acquiring it was her daughter. Good Lord, you look exactly like your mother, young lady. It’s like looking at a photograph. Or, I suppose, a ghost.”

Ian extended his hand to the shell-shocked bookseller. “Ian Gregson. I’m Tessa’s fiancé, and the person who spoke to your wife about the book last week.”

The older man shook Ian’s hand. “Glen Rockwell. My wife and I bought this place from the former owners about six years ago, after we both retired. She was a professor of English Literature at Boston College, while I - well, I worked in publishing. And that’s how I knew Gillian. I was her editor for all four of the books.”

Tessa couldn’t help the little thrill that shimmered up her spine to actually meet someone who’d known her mother as an adult, someone who’d likely known her quite well. “Is that why you happened to have her books available here?” she asked. “Because they were part of your own collection?”

Glen turned to her, a warm smile lighting up his wrinkled face and rather weary looking eyes. “You’re very astute, young lady. Just as I predicted you’d be the first time I met you. You were a very inquisitive child, and you loved books. As I recall, your favorite was this beautifully illustrated version of Cinderella that I gave you for your third birthday. You couldn’t read yet, of course, but you loved to look at all the pictures. And you begged your mother to read it aloud multiple times each day.”