Chapter Text
Prologue
Welcome to Rose Creek. The sign flashes past as the road snakes gradually up through the trees, a dark forest of pines pressing close around, the tall trunks marching away into the dim interior. From time to time it opens suddenly to give a glimpse of a clearing sunny with ferns and saplings, or a foaming creek bounding among the rocks. They pass the remains of an old mill, its brick buildings and wooden sheds long abandoned, then, just when Billy is beginning to think that the sign was a fake, they round a corner and all at once are driving through a well-kept town.
It’s pretty, the wide treelined streets contrasting with the mountain that rises up behind; most of the buildings are traditional in style, though they pass a modern-looking firehouse and a sleek new health centre.
‘More attractive than Langston, I’ll give it that,’ approves Goody, and it is a stark contrast to the ugly straggle of diners and auto repair shops that had greeted them in the last town.
Next to a white-painted church a sign directs them to the town square; they cross a broad stone bridge over what must be Rose Creek and Goodnight pulls them to a halt beside a broad expanse of green lined with historic houses, opposite an imposing courthouse.
Billy makes a face. ‘All dull little museums and heritage trails like the last place.’
‘Nil desperandum, cher. Can’t expect to strike gold without some digging.’
Goody doesn’t even sound reproachful, just eager, and Billy’s slightly ashamed in the face of his unflagging enthusiasm. ‘Guess we should give it a try,’ he says, trying not to sound grudging.
It’s not that it’s not an attractive idea in itself: a move upcountry where their money will go further, swapping the apartment for a house with a yard and slowing to a more contemplative pace of life in the middle of nature. They’ve watched their friends do it one by one and they’ve heard the converts’ rapturous descriptions of organic lifestyles and close-knit communities, clean air and winter sports. Yet until now the two of them have resisted, firmly rooted in the city where they met and where they’d carved out their careers, happy in their fashionable neighbourhood with nightlife and galleries, bars and restaurants close to hand. Now, though …
Billy’s an urban creature through and through. He didn’t need to run away to the city as a teenager: he grew up there, used to the hum of traffic to lull him to sleep at night, a street of little shops as his playground and the clattering subway to take him to school. In English class he read about other American childhoods, but for him the endless flow of headlights at night made his river, the surrounding neighbourhoods his woods to explore, an abandoned warehouse his smuggler’s cave and the city museum his enchanted castle. As an adult he’s remained true to the beating heart of commerce and culture, despite its stresses and dirt: the city’s been his muse all these years and she’s been generous to him.
It’s Goody that needs this. If he wanted it, if their two desires were opposite and it could come down to an argument, it would be a cleaner thing; but Goody has his own reservations, Billy knows. He did escape to the city as soon as he was able, grabbing for it like a lifeline and putting his Southern past behind him for good; and part of him, a big part, wants to stay escaped, resents the surrender that a move to a smaller place must be. But if the city’s kind to Billy, she’s come to be hard on Goody, pressing on his weak points, racking up his tension, too loud, too active, too bright. His tours in the Army before Billy ever met him had gifted him broken nights and unpredictable flashbacks, but the wear of years, rather than smoothing the sharp edges, seems perversely to have ground them into new dissonant forms, his jitters and panics slowly becoming more acute.
Recovery’s not linear, they’ve told each other over and over, but the third time Billy had been called to the library in the middle of the day, Goody apologising even through the shakes, he saw it was for him to say it because Goody never would. ‘We’ll go,’ he’d announced, and though Goody protested, underneath Billy recognised the unwilling relief. ‘It’s time,’ he’d urged, ‘a change for both of us, not like you don’t have a plan.’
‘But you, cher,’ Goody had fretted, and Billy had smiled with a confidence he hoped seemed convincing.
‘Give me a new perspective: can’t keep working over the same ground forever.’ And so here they are, on a road trip in the early Maine summer through a succession of dull little towns, each unsuitable in its own different way – too run-down, too historically-preserved, too small for what they’re after – trying to pull the trigger on the decision that has to be made.
Sure enough, beside the courthouse with the plaque proclaiming that it houses the Rose Creek Chamber of Commerce and Mayor’s Office is a town museum complete with obligatory antique farm machinery outside, next-door to an expensive-looking bed and breakfast. Billy eyes the milk churns planted up with pansies at its gate with distaste, and Goody laughs. ‘You did say you’d give it a fair chance.’ He leads the way back towards the more workaday street of stores behind the square. ‘Though we don’t have to do it on an empty stomach. Let’s find somewhere to eat first.’
Away from the historic centre there are more signs of commercial activity: the cafes, clothes stores and banks you find in every town, beside a farm shop with baskets of early potatoes and peas stacked outside and a pet and garden suppliers. Billy lets Goody lead the way, gauging the reactions of the passers-by as unobtrusively as he can. They inevitably stand out, too soberly-dressed to be vacationers yet slightly too sharp for somewhere as rural as this, but they don’t seem to attract any openly suspicious stares.
‘Here?’ Goody’s stopped outside a bar with the distinctly unregional name of La Huerta; at Billy’s nod he pushes open the door. The interior proves to be sunny and inviting, light falling from the wide windows through a tangle of greenery onto polished floorboards: Billy orders them two beers from the friendly woman at the bar and they settle at a table to consider the chalkboard menu.
A scattering of other customers makes the place lively: two women are sharing confidences over a bottle of wine, a serious-looking young man with cropped dark hair is in earnest conversation with an Amazonian young woman in muddied boots, standing with a pile of empty crates on her hip, and at the bar a tall dark man is contemplating his glass alone. He’s worth looking at, Billy has to admit; his gaze slides appreciatively from an unruly mop of hair and a scruff of beard down a lean muscular body in jeans and t-shirt, to linger on a grade-A ass.
Billy darts a sideways glance at Goody and meets blue eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘Thought you were tired of sightseeing,’ he mutters.
‘Just acquainting myself with the attractions Rose Creek has to offer,’ deadpans Billy, and the two of them collapse in stifled laughter. The man turns to look at them curiously: Goody must wink at him, because his mouth twitches and he turns back to the bar with a teasing hitch of his hips.
‘We’re here for business,’ reproves Billy, but he’s always loved that wicked sparkle in Goody’s eye.
A cheerful server approaches their table, order pad at the ready. ‘Seen something you like?’ she asks pleasantly, and that sets them both off again. By the time they’ve recovered their composure sufficiently to decide on seared scallops and a caldo de mariscos the handsome guy has gone, and Goody returns to the topic at hand.
‘We should probably think seriously about Langston – with Sam and Ellie there we wouldn’t be complete outsiders. There were one or two sites had potential.’
‘Bit run-down, though, didn’t you think?’ Billy takes a gulp of his beer. ‘Not much extra cash sloshing about there.’
‘I know,’ admits Goody.
‘There was, what was it, Huntsford?’ Billy might not recall the name, but the memory of the town is all too clear: high-end restaurants and shops full of expensive hiking gear, catering for achingly tasteful bed-and-breakfast establishments. Too chi-chi for him, but...
‘Too chi-chi,’ dismisses Goody, and Billy can’t help but smile. ‘And there’s no high school there.’
‘Maybe Dresden would be best,’ proposes Billy. ‘Should get there tomorrow and it looks big enough.’
‘Probably too big,’ sighs Goody. ‘Any place large enough to have out-of-town stores is no use. We really should take a look round here first.’
‘Sure.’ Billy tries to summon up enthusiasm at the prospect of another hour discovering the limitations of a boring little town.
They’re interrupted by the server returning with their food, the aromas sharp and enticingly flavoursome. ‘Scallops?’ she asks, hovering the plate between them.
Goody raises an eyebrow at Billy. ‘Or we could do it the easy way.’ He smiles up at the young woman, reading her name badge. ‘Tell me, Consuela, where would I go to buy a book around here?’
‘Amazon.’ The answer’s dry and immediate.
‘Really? Not a Stephen King or a John Grisham to be had?’ Goody’s turning on the charm and it seems to work: the server considers.
‘If that’s what you want you could try the 7-Eleven – they have some paperbacks. Museum’s good for books about the town.’
‘Anywhere else?’ prompts Goody.
She shrugs. ‘Psyche’s Garden has some books about tarot cards. Nearest real bookstore’s in Auburn.’
Goody’s grin has been widening as he listens and his cheerful, ‘Thanks,’ sends the young woman away shrugging in confusion.
Billy’s distracted by his lunch, perfectly-cooked fat scallops on a bed of rice flecked with peppers, with salsa verde on the side, the kind of bright fusion cooking he’d expect to find in a big city rather than a simple bar like this. He waves a scallop at Goody on the end of his fork. ‘These are really good.’
‘So Rose Creek has at least two things to recommend it?’ teases Goody, starting on his soup.
‘I’m not that superficial,’ huffs Billy with his mouth full, but he has to admit it’s more promising than he thought.
Dessert – lemongrass and ginger cheesecake and a cardamom crème brulee – proves to be as impressive as the main course, and when they resume their exploration after coffee Billy’s in a more expansive frame of mind. Rose Creek’s hardly large: with the exception of the main street over the bridge the few streets of stores fanning out from the main square soon turn into treelined residential zones.
They easily encompass what’s there: the 7-Eleven and a branded grocery store are unexciting, but otherwise most businesses seem to be independent: there’s a games store, an antiques place, plenty of cafes, and they look in at Psyche’s Garden, a spellcraft store with crystals in the window and notices advertising tarot readings and chakra realignment.
‘Thriving little place,’ comments Goody. ‘Though that’s not necessarily to our advantage,’ and it’s true, Billy realises, they haven’t seen a vacant storefront yet.
‘We could head back, find the realtor’s,’ he suggests, ‘see what they say.’ Goody’s clearly taken with the place, and it’s hard not to be: it’s more liveable than Harperville and more lively than Langston, and the population more mixed than he hoped: statistics had painted a picture of largely monochrome communities, but the townsfolk of Rose Creek, certainly in appearance, are as cosmopolitan as they’re used to.
As they cross the road back to the square Goody comes to a sudden stop. ‘Look!’ There on the corner opposite is an empty store; a sign on its white-painted façade proclaims J.P. Clay: Gentlemen’s Outfitters, but the dusty windows are empty and a grille fastened across the entrance. ‘Couldn’t ask for a better location.’ Goody starts across the road without waiting for Billy’s reply.
When he joins him on the other side Goody’s already squinting through the glass: the interior is dim, but beyond the wide sills it’s possible to make out a floor of wooden boards and an old-style desk at one side complete with an old-style cash register.
Goody gives him a look and Billy’s stomach lurches: it’s exactly what they’ve been looking for, but Rose Creek as their new home? ‘Sam did say it was a bit of a backwater, off the tourist route,’ he warns, feeling obscurely that he ought to play devil’s advocate here.
‘Sam’s a police officer, not a bookseller,’ says Goody, walking round to the other side to squint through the dust. ‘There might be a back room, it’s hard to see. And,’ – he cranes upwards – ‘there’s a little gallery around the top.’ He flashes Billy one of those crooked smiles. ‘We could put your pictures up there.’
Billy feels his resolve weakening. ‘Not as many people as Dresden.’
Goody straightens up. ‘No, but see.’ He gestures to left and right along the street. ‘Craft stores, independent cafes, a farm shop – people are spending money here.’ He turns back to the storefront, peering inside again. ‘We could paint it blue, get some matching cushions for the window seats. It would just invite you to come in and—‘ He takes a step backward, momentarily oblivious to the passer-by behind him.
‘Whoa there, stranger,’ cries the little man, skipping neatly out of the way.
‘Sorry,’ apologises Goody at once.
‘No harm done,’ replies the man cheerfully. He looks the pair of them over with frank curiosity, and Billy returns his inspection: he’s short and balding with a neat goatee, nattily dressed in an antiquated way, in a three-piece suit and heavy boots, tiepin sparkling bright in the sun.
‘Just trying to see inside,’ explains Goody. ‘We’re touring the area, looking to rent a store site—‘
‘Interested in the premises?’ The man’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Place has been empty since Clay retired – be good to see it in business again. Gavin David over in the square is the man to speak to if you’d like to take a look inside.’
Billy and Goody exchange glances. ‘Why not, cher? It’s the best location we’ve seen.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ twinkles the man. ‘Tell you what, if you wait here I can nip over to Gavin’s and fetch the keys.’
‘Oh, we couldn’t ask– ’ begins Goody, but the man waves him to silence.
‘Won’t take me two ticks – you just take the air there.’ And away he trots, leaving them standing on the corner.
Goody turns to Billy with a wry grin. ‘Guess that’s what you call welcoming in a town.’
Within five minutes the little man is back, a folder under one arm and a bunch of keys in his hand. ‘Never introduced myself,’ he says, offering a hand courteously. ‘Bartholomew Bogue.’
‘Goodnight Robicheaux and Billy Rocks,’ says Goody, taking his hand; they’d agreed to take the temperature of the community before throwing the word ‘husband’ around. ‘It’s good of you to take the trouble, Mr Bogue.’
‘No trouble,’ declares Bogue affably, unlocking the grille and throwing open the door. ‘And just Bogue will do, that’s what everyone here calls me.’ He ushers them inside. ‘Was a men’s outfitters, as you see, but a store’s a store.’
The air inside is chill but not musty, motes of dust floating in the sunbeams. ‘Been empty long?’ asks Billy.
‘Couple of months. Old Jack Clay, store had been in his family for three generations and he kept it going as long as he could; think he was hoping one of his nieces would take it on, but in the end he had to retire.’ Bogue opens the folder and offers them a sheet with details of services and ground layout. ‘And what kind of business do you have in prospect, Mr Robicheaux?’ he asks curiously.
‘A bookstore,’ declares Goody. ‘Worked in libraries most of my career, and I’ve enjoyed it, but I always had the idea one day I’d run a store of my own …’
Bogue beams. ‘We’re in sore need of just such a thing. Mr Cullen, at the school, he’s mentioned it more than once.’
He stands back to let them wander and take the measure of the place, into the little back room and up the stairs to the gallery that runs around three walls, the layer of dust on the banister deep enough to come off on Billy’s hands.
As Goody comes back down the stairs Bogue rocks on his toes encouragingly. ‘Would think you’d find no shortage of custom.’
Goody goes to join him by the desk, trying out the view from behind the cash register. ‘Seems like there’s enough money in the town, not to put too fine a point on it.’
‘We’ve been lucky.’ Bogue unfolds a handkerchief and flicks a corner of the wood clean so he can lean an elbow on it. ‘Shame when you see how some of the communities round these parts have suffered. Factories and mills closing, jobs draining away, and then it all starts, the drugs and the trouble and the decline. Whole towns just giving up, and you can’t blame the young folks for wanting to get away.’ He brightens. ‘But not here – Rose Creek’s a good place to live, always has been.’ He straightens, suddenly self-conscious. ‘I shouldn’t run on. Tell you what, I’ll give you some peace to think about it – just drop the keys back to Gavin when you’re done.’
When he’s seen himself out Billy waits until Goody joins him up on the gallery. ‘What do you think?’
Goody leans his elbows on the balustrade. ‘We shouldn’t move too fast, I know. It’s a big commitment. Not just the business, we’d be buying a place to live too…’
Billy pushes his shoulder. ‘Tell me what you really think.’
He can already see the answer, Goody’s eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘It’s perfect. We’d have to invest in shelves, but that back room could do for a children’s section, and art up here… it’s just right for what we need.’
And looking round the empty room Billy sees it as Goody does: new dark shelving, popular titles laid out invitingly on tables, cushions on the sills to encourage browsing readers, and presiding over it, a handsome laid-back owner, always ready to talk about the latest New York Review of Books and point out his husband’s photographs on the walls …
‘It’s a risk,’ warns Goody, pulling back to see his expression.
‘So what’s new?’ teases Billy, winding an arm around his waist. ‘We’ve been throwing ourselves off bridges together for the last ten years: why stop now?’
‘That was one time,’ protests Goody, but his eyes are dancing with some of the fire that called to Billy the night they met.
To see that lit again, the years of wear and strain lifted ... an easy decision after all, thinks Billy. It’s an attractive town, pretty and prosperous, its streets and houses spacious and peaceful. He smiles into his husband’s eyes. ‘Let’s go see what the realtor has to say.’
When David, a squat and rather pug-faced man, ushers them into his office they find Bogue already there, finishing a cup of coffee. ‘Seem like a suitable proposition?’ he greets them.
‘I think so.’ Goody can’t keep the smile from his face and the little man bounces to his feet.
‘Capital. A bookstore is just what the town could use. And what is your occupation, Mr Rocks?’
‘I’m a photographer,’ says Billy, a little unnerved at such a display of enthusiasm.
Bogue puts his head on one side. ‘Books and art. Just the thing – can’t have Rose Creek becoming a cultural backwater. Always a place for the nine Muses. Gavin here will sort you out with a lease in no time.’
‘We’ll need to think about rates and terms,’ begins Goody cautiously, but Bogue slaps David on the back. ‘I’m sure we can fix up something to suit all parties.’
He fishes a half-hunter watch from his vest and his eyebrows shoot up in exaggerated alarm. ‘Can’t be sitting here idle – said I’d catch Hank for a word about the zoning bill.’ He offers his hand again with a ‘Pleasure to have made your acquaintance,’ then hustles out.
‘Enthusiastic type,’ fishes Goody as they draw up chairs.
‘Bogue?’ David’s face creases into a grin. ‘He’s a character sure enough. Family’s been in the town forever, and he’s a real live wire, makes Rose Creek the place it is.’ He turns to open a file cabinet. ‘Now then, let me get the details of the rental contract for you.’
Billy squeezes Goody’s hand surreptitiously. ‘And-‘ he takes a deep breath - ‘we’ll need to look at houses as well.’