December 17, Tuesday

COLEMAN COUNTED out my egg money with his usual care, but even his cheerful manner couldn't lift my spirits as I walked down Main Street toward Blakemore Books. The store windows, once filled with colorful displays, now showed mostly bare shelves and "EVERYTHING MUST GO" signs.

The bell chimed weakly as I entered. Dora looked up from a box she was packing, her eyes reddening as soon as she saw me.

"Oh, Josephine." She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Sorry, I'm being silly. It's just... it's almost empty."

I looked around at the gutted store. A few straggling books lay scattered on shelves like forgotten soldiers. The reading nook where Wayne had hosted children's story time was bare except for a lonely beanbag chair.

"It's not silly at all."

Dora's face crumpled. "I can't help thinking – if I hadn't told Tessa and Taylor about Uncle Wayne's manuscript, about how excited he was that you were going to help him get it published..." She drew a shaky breath. "Maybe they wouldn't have..."

"You aren't responsible for what your cousins did. You loved Wayne. You supported his dreams."

She wiped her eyes. "You'll still try to get it published, won't you?"

I hesitated, thinking of all the complications. The twins' upcoming trial. Irving's secrets. But looking at Dora's hopeful face, at the empty shelves, I couldn't say no. "I promised, didn't I?"

She hugged me fiercely. "Thank you. It would mean so much... to honor his memory this way."

I wandered the remaining shelves while Dora returned to her packing. Usually bookstores made me anxious, remembering all those years following my mother around as she rearranged her displays. But this felt different. Sadder. Like watching a light slowly go out.

A few cookbooks caught my eye – the kind Kelly would love, with complicated recipes and beautiful photographs. I gathered them up, along with a coffee table book about historic Southern architecture that seemed right up Sawyer's alley.

"Last Christmas inventory," Dora said as she rang up my purchases. "Uncle Wayne always went a little overboard on the holiday books."

I thought of him ordering these books months ago, planning for a future he'd never see. Planning readings and signings and all the things small-town bookstore owners did to keep their dreams alive.

"He loved this place so much," Dora said softly, carefully wrapping my books in tissue paper. "He used to say bookstores were magic – that they held all the stories people needed, just waiting to be discovered."

I clutched my wrapped packages, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of Wayne's dreams, of Irving's losses. "When does the store officially close?"

"After Christmas." She attempted a smile. "Uncle Wayne would've liked that, I think. One last bit of holiday magic."

Outside, winter sunshine gilded Main Street in false cheer. I could see my breath in the cold air as I walked back to my bike, my purchases tucked safely in the basket.

Wayne's manuscript sat in my desk drawer back at Whisper House, waiting. His story deserved to be told, even if I had to find a way to soften its sharper truths.

I owed him that much. We all did.

Some lights, I decided, shouldn't be allowed to go out.