“Sure, what’s up?”

“Your dad’s just getting worse. His stomach hurts and is a little swollen, and now he’s got a fever. It’s not too high—around a hundred—but I can’t get it to go down. Not with cold compresses or a cool bath or even my hyssop and licorice-root capsules.”

“Really?” Laurel asked. Her mom had an herb for everything, and they worked wonders. Her friends often called her up when they were at the end of their ropes and the over-the-counter medications just weren’t cutting it. “Did you try giving him some Echinacea tea?” she suggested, since that was what her mom always gave her.

“Made him a whole batch of it, iced. But he’s having trouble swallowing, too, so I don’t know that he’s getting enough to help.”

“I bet it was something he ate,” Laurel suggested.

“Maybe,” her mom said distractedly, but she didn’t sound convinced. “He really took a turn for the worse right after you left. Anyway,” she added, snapping her head back to her daughter, “I’m going to spend the evening with him, see if I can make him a bit more comfortable.”

“No problem. I’ve got canned pears and a bunch of homework.”

“Exciting night for both of us.”

“Yep,” Laurel said with a sigh, looking over at the stack of books waiting for her on the table.

Chapter 17

AFTER SCHOOL ON THURSDAY, LAUREL GRABBED HER blue apron and headed down the street toward Mark’s Bookshelf. Jen, Brent, and Maddie—her dad’s staff—had been putting in extra shifts, but if things continued the way they’d been, all three would top forty hours by Friday. Laurel wanted to at least give Brent and Jen the day off. She and Maddie could manage. Maddie was the only employee Laurel’s dad had inherited from the former bookstore owner.

Maddie had been working in that store for almost ten years now and, luckily, could about run the place herself.

But it wasn’t the bookstore Laurel worried about as she walked toward Main Street. She’d gone into her parents’ room to get some last-minute instructions from her dad and had been shocked by his appearance. Dad had always been on the thin side, but now his face was sunken and gray, with deep shadows under his eyes. His lips were pale and a thin sheen of sweat covered his brow.

Laurel’s mom had tried everything. Poultices of lavender and rosemary on his chest, fennel tea for his stomach, loads of vitamin C to strengthen his immune system. Nothing seemed to be working. She gave him brandy at night to help him sleep and dripped peppermint oil in the humidifier. Still no improvement.

Not letting pride stand in her way, she had even tried a handful of conventional medications—NyQuil and Extra Strength Tylenol—and still he didn’t feel any better. What everyone had hoped was a nasty flu had turned serious far more quickly than her mom could have anticipated.

When Laurel volunteered to go to the bookstore that afternoon so her mom could stay home with her dad, her mom had hugged Laurel tightly and whispered thanks into her ear. He didn’t look like himself at all—more like a sickly caricature of the man he’d been only a few days ago. He’d tried to smile and joke the way he always did—always had—but even that was too much for him.

A cheerful chime sounded as Laurel opened the front door of the store.

Maddie looked up and smiled. “Laurel? You get prettier every time I see you.”

She hugged her, and Laurel lingered in the embrace, feeling a little better.

Maddie always smelled like cookies and spices and something else Laurel could never put her finger on.

“How’s your dad?” Maddie asked with an arm still around Laurel’s shoulders.

Her answer to everyone else had been a simple, “He’s okay.” But when Maddie asked, Laurel couldn’t just brush it off. “He looks awful, Maddie. Like skin sitting loose on a skeleton. My mom can’t do anything to help. Nothing is working.”

“Even her hyssop and licorice root?”

Laurel smiled painfully. “That’s what I asked.”

“Well, it’s a miracle cure, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Not for Dad. Not this time, anyway.”

“I light a candle for him every night.” What licorice root and hyssop were to Laurel’s mom, candles were to Maddie. She was a devout Catholic who had a rack of candles in her front window and lit one for everything from a fellow parishioner dying of cancer to a neighborhood cat gone missing. Still, Laurel was grateful.

“Dad sent in a schedule for the rest of the week.”

Maddie laughed. “Sick in bed and still drawing up schedules—he must not be too close to death’s door.” She held out her hand. “Here, let’s have it.” Maddie studied the handwritten schedule. “He’s got us cutting business hours, I see.”

Laurel nodded. “There just aren’t enough employees to maintain regular hours.”

“That’s fine. I’ve been telling him for months it was silly to open at eight. Who wants to buy a book at eight o’clock in the morning?” She leaned forward as if sharing a secret. “Truth be told, I don’t even like to be out of bed at eight o’clock in the morning.”

They worked the next few hours together cheerfully enough, both avoiding the subject of Laurel’s father. But he was never far from Laurel’s mind. She left Maddie finishing up the end-of-day paperwork and taped a sign to the door apologizing for the unscheduled closing of the store that weekend.