East Hope by Katharine Davis Page A

in Washington for Rob when he returned from working at the camp.
    â€œNice view from the back porch.” Mr. Moody rose and gathered his folder of papers and handed them to her, along with a ring of keys. “There’s just one other thing.” He seemed to be searching for words, and she waited, hoping there was no other problem with the house. “I’ve kept the clock going. Grandfather clock in the front hall, belonged to Lila’s mother. If it’s not wound regularly it will stop. I left the directions on the hall table. Thought it would be nice to keep it ticking awhile longer.” Hollis seemed embarrassed by his obvious emotion.
    â€œI’d be happy to keep it wound,” Caroline said. “It will help me keep track of time. I’m not always good at that.”
    He looked relieved. “Call me, now, if there’s anything I can do.”
    Caroline felt the weight of the keys in her hand. Part of her wished she could linger and hear more about Lila, but she was already worried about what might lie ahead. “Thanks, Hollis,” she said. She turned to leave.
    â€œIt’s quite a place,” he said.
    Caroline stopped and looked back. “Sorry?”
    â€œThe house. I think you’re going to like living in Lila’s house.”

    Will stood for a moment taking in his new surroundings. He had just carried his own boxes of books from the car into the shop. He drew his hands to the small of his back and carefully made circles with his head, trying to loosen his neck muscles. Outside the front window the wooden sign was making a rhythmic squeak in the wind. He liked the name of the business, Taunton’s Used Books. It had a spare New England sound. It was serious, but not too literary or, God forbid, cute.
    Penny, Mr. Taunton’s daughter, had shown him around the day before, the second Sunday in June. She was a stocky woman, quite a bit older than he was, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.
    â€œSorry about the dust,” she had said. “I work in Belfast. Between that, looking after Dad, the house . . . Just don’t get over here much.” She spoke with the clipped vowels of a Maine native, the here sounding like “heeya.”
    â€œWhen did your dad become ill?” Will asked.
    â€œHad the stroke just before Christmas,” she said. “We had hoped he’d be doing better by now. He’s eighty-one. Wanted to have one more summer at the shop. He’s just crazy about these books.” She sighed deeply, as if weary from just thinking about her father’s health. “My husband and I can’t bear to sell this place as long as he’s alive. Knowing it’s here, that he might come back, gives Dad some kind of hope. Know what I mean?”
    â€œOf course.” Will glanced around him. “Don’t worry; I can get this place cleaned up in no time.”
    â€œDad didn’t open until the Fourth of July. Not many folks around till then.”
    â€œI’m sure I can have the store ready by the holiday, if not sooner.”
    â€œYou can open for business as soon as you like. Now, as for your pay.” She lifted her shoulders and released them. “Like I told you on the phone, you get the apartment upstairs for free and any profits from the books. Afraid that’s the best I can do.”
    â€œThat will be fine,” Will assured her. He had money in his savings account and knew he could make it on his own for a while. He was energized by the thought of reviving the bookstore. When Mary Beth came in late August he would have something to show for his efforts.
    Penny took him upstairs and pointed out the linens and pots and pans, along with the rickety pie safe in the kitchen that held the dishes. While the apartment was plain, and also in need of a good cleaning, it would be comfortable, certainly all that he would need. The old-fashioned spareness had a humble quality that he liked. He eyed a