The Library of Lost Things Read online

  She’ll read a thousand happy endings before she finds her own.

  From the moment she first learned to read, literary genius Darcy Wells has spent most of her time living in the worlds of her books. There, she can avoid the crushing reality of her mother’s hoarding and pretend her life is simply ordinary. But when a new property manager becomes more active in the upkeep of their apartment complex, the only home Darcy has ever known outside of her books suddenly hangs in the balance.

  While Darcy is struggling to survive beneath the weight of her mother’s compulsive shopping, Asher Fleet, a former teen pilot with an unexpectedly shattered future, walks into the bookstore where she works...and straight into her heart. For the first time in her life, Darcy can’t seem to find the right words. Fairy tales are one thing, but real love makes her want to hide inside her carefully constructed ink-and-paper bomb shelter.

  Still, after spending her whole life keeping people out, something about Asher makes Darcy want to open up. But securing her own happily-ever-after will mean she’ll need to stop hiding and start living her own truth—even if it’s messy.

  Praise for The Library of Lost Things

  “Watch out or you’ll lose your heart in this library! Laugh and cry and look up words of the day with your new favorite heroine, Darcy, as she finds first love. This story will give you ‘all the feels!’”

  —Kelly deVos, author of Fat Girl on a Plane

  “A poignant tale about a young woman with a book-shaped heart who finds the courage to write her own story.”

  —Nancy Richardson Fischer, author of The Speed of Falling Objects

  THE LIBRARY OF LOST THINGS

  Laura Taylor Namey

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  LAURA TAYLOR NAMEY is a Cuban-American Californian who can usually be found haunting her favorite coffee shops, drooling over leather jackets and wishing she was in London or Paris. She lives in San Diego with her husband, two superstar children and her beloved miniature schnauzer/muse. The Library of Lost Things is her first novel.

  www.LauraTaylorNamey.com

  Not just for Edward. But for that first, perfect look on his face when I said, “I’ve decided to write a book.”

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Darcy’s Reading List

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Unwelcome Mat

  “‘...let her cover the mark as she will, the pang of it will be always in her heart.’”

  —Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

  I’d read enough stories to know how they worked. You had your faraway settings and swoonworthy characters—extra points for tossing in a manic-pixie dream girl or stubbly faced bad boy. Great books give us spine-tingling plots or twists that reach right into your lungs and snatch your next breath. I knew about those; I knew about stories. Enough to realize I was sitting in the middle of one and already hated the ending.

  “Why does San Diego insist on forgetting September’s supposed to be chilly?” my best friend, Marisol, asked. “Fall means boots and scarves and sweaters, not tank tops. Ugh. Fix it.”

  “Just when I’m all out of weather wands and genie lamps.” There was no weight in my words. I watched the painters taping and spraying my apartment building with new storm-gray paint.

  “Darcy?”

  I blinked myself back to her, smiling, turning worries into daydreams. And my friend was right—we were wilting with the sweltering afternoon. “Our” shaded courtyard table belonged to all of the tenants at 316 Hoover Avenue, but Marisol and I spent more time here than anyone else. Three benches curved like melon slices around a pedestal base. We hogged them all, scattering our lives across the chipped mosaic tile top. We rarely hung out inside my apartment, whether my mother was home, or not.

  I grabbed another handful of popcorn just as Mrs. Newsome appeared in the doorway to unit 15B with her white poodle, Peaches. “Four o’clock,” I told Marisol, and tipped my chin.

  “On the dot and caftan-ready.”

  The entire complex could set their clocks by my neighbor and her floral print housedresses. As she locked the door, a bird swooped low across the landing. My eyes snapped to Peaches jerking away from her owner, dragging her leash toward the staircase.

  “I’ll get her, Mrs. Newsome!” I yelled, leaping up from the bench. I managed to swoop up Peaches from the bottom step.

  “Thank you, Darcy!” my neighbor called. “I’ll be right down!”

  Dreamy-eyed, Marisol reached out and plunked the panting dog onto her lap.

  Even a runaway pup didn’t stop Mrs. Newsome from doing what she always did. Her feet crossed the landing and just as she reached my apartment, her steps slowed. She’d never want to be accused of snooping, but she still raised the brim of her straw hat to peer into my unit’s front window. Maybe today the curtains wouldn’t be so tightly drawn. Maybe this morning my mom had left a crack in the blinds.

  Not today. Not ever.

  I reached over and scratched Peaches behind one ear, knowing full well it wasn’t just her owner who wondered about my apartment. About why we never propped open our door in the summer like the other tenants. Did they also wonder why our doorway looked different? Missing potted plants and a pretty welcome mat—but rarely brown shipping boxes?

  Marisol sighed, flicking one fingernail under the poodle’s white chin and snuggling her close. “I need another dog. One like this little boo.”

  “Right,” I said on a short laugh, picturing her four siblings and two German shepherds. “Your house is just begging for one more thing with a heartbeat.”

  “Afternoon, girls.” Mrs. Newsome flopped down next to us, helping herself to popcorn. I slid the bag closer. Have at it, lady.

  “Oh, isn’t it wonderful?” Mrs. Newsome gestured across the U-shaped courtyard to the units already covered with fresh, new gray. She grabbed Peaches from Marisol and set her on the ground. “You stay now.” And to us, “Twenty-four years I’ve lived with that putrid green. Who knows how many more if it wasn’t for Mr. Hodge finally selling the building. Only one month and new paint already. Have you and your mama met Thomas?”

  “Not yet.” I fanned myself with my English notebook.

  “Well, he’s awful nice. A go-getter, too. Not like that good-for-nothing nephew Mr. Hodge had managing for him. Barely showed his face around here.” She munched on popcorn. “I’m sure Thomas will get around to your door soon. That’s just the kind of man he is. Personable.” She looked left, then right, leaning in like her next words were top secret. “He clued me in on some of the interior upgrades coming up. Besides the new railing after the paint, you know.”

  My face must’ve signaled I didn
’t know because Mrs. Newsome quirked a brow. “Didn’t you read the flyer? Why, Thomas had them in the mailboxes early this morning. Like I said, a go-getter.”

  She waved goodbye, walking away with Peaches trotting after her, trapping me in a room where the air was slowly leaking out. Only I was outside, a planet’s worth of oxygen around me.

  I dabbed sweaty fingers on my black tee and nudged Marisol’s binder. “Didn’t you hear her?”

  “What, that chatterbox? I usually tune her out.” Marisol tossed popcorn between her fuchsia-colored lips and returned to her math homework. “I dunno. Blah, blah Thomas. Whatever, whatever railing.”

  During times like these, the differences between Marisol’s life and mine showed the strongest. While my half-Cuban, half-Mexican friend spent time pondering treadmill versus spin bike, or what shade of denim best matched her coral top, I had to worry about the fact that now we had an on-site apartment manager who was actually doing his job. Maybe too well for my mother and me and our upstairs unit with no welcome mat.

  Fingers tapped my shoulder. Marisol scooted all the way over to my bench. “Okay, spill. You went all white. And you’re holding books again.”

  I glanced down, realizing my hands had crept into my black bag and reached for books. David Copperfield in my left, half resting on the tile. The Scarlet Letter in the curled fingers of my right hand.

  I dropped the Dickens classic but kept The Scarlet Letter close. “The paint is only the start. They’re going to find out. Then where will we go?” Mom and I. Her and me. Us.

  “The paint? What do you mean?”

  But I, Darcy Jane Wells, could only watch as two workers appeared, draping drop cloths over bushes. All eyes pinned on to us from across the courtyard—we’d have to pack up soon. But not now. Not just yet. Besides, what did a few paint splatters matter to this table? Already timeworn and chipped, we’d also contributed to its demise with root beer stains and “oopsie” red nail polish blobs. A teeny black heart Marisol Sharpied years ago christened the edge. Next to it, you could still make out the five-pointed star I’d penned.

  “Darcy. What is it?”

  I scored my thumbnail over the brittle tile grout. “Only my real-life bedtime story.”

  “More like one of those sick and twisted fairy tales, by the looks of you,” Marisol said.

  “Yeah. It’s the one where 316 Hoover gets a new owner and a new manager who now lives on-site,” I said, then told her all the rest—how if the new manager could see everything, he’d want to know everything, too. After all the outdoor work was done, he’d want to make changes to the insides of the apartments. Thomas would have to inspect each unit. And workers would come.

  “They’ll have to go inside,” Marisol whispered.

  “Twelve years we’ve lived here. And Mr. Hodge always renewed our leases without doing anything. No inspections. Not even a phone call.” I took a long sip from my water bottle, swept the cold plastic across my forehead. “Besides Mom and me, the only two people who have set foot inside that apartment in four years are you...and Marco.”

  Marisol braced my shoulders. “Don’t start this again, okay? Marco’s glad to help.”

  “He shouldn’t have to help.” My voice thickened but stayed low. “He shouldn’t have to come all the way over here at night because my dishwasher’s leaking.”

  “What, it’s maybe twenty minutes from his dorm to your door.”

  “It’s not about the drive.” Other tenants called maintenance when their fixtures broke. We bought parts we couldn’t afford and Marisol’s engineering whiz/UCSD academic star brother did the work without anyone knowing. Sometimes, even without my mother knowing. “Even without the interior upgrades, our lease is still up in six months. And when this new Thomas guy comes to inspect our unit, or someone like Mrs. Newsome finally gets wind of what’s behind our front door and blabs, there’s no way they’ll rent to us again. We won’t get a decent reference to go somewhere else. And we can’t go back to my grandmother’s. Not ever.”

  “You’ll find a way.”

  “Because you say so?” My life wasn’t fabric my seamstress best friend could drape around my frame. Stitch into a perfect dress.

  “Yes, because I say so,” she said, like that was Bible enough.

  The Scarlet Letter in my hand had a black cover with a red scripted A in the center. My mother wore an imaginary letter, too. One she’d branded herself with. “She has to want to find a way,” I told Marisol.

  My friend nodded. “She’s gotten better, right? Even a little bit after you guys—”

  “A little better is what you see now, behind that door. That’s not enough to get our lease renewed. What am I missing with her? Like there’s a huge piece, right in front of me, but I can’t see it.”

  “Yeah, I know, D. I know.” Marisol reached around me for her turquoise leather tote. She pulled out packs of gum, flinging them across the table. Two kinds of mint, cinnamon, strawberry, orange, classic bubble gum.

  If there was anything Marisol loved more than fashion, it was gum. Maybe she thought her silly obsession would distract me. If so, it would be just like her—trying to cover my sticky pieces with bright wrapping and silver foil.

  She jiggled the cinnamon pack and arched her brows, but I waved it away. “I’m good. Were you planning on serving gum to my whole building?”

  “No-wuh,” she mumbled. Chomped. Worked two sticks of the mint flavor around her mouth until they softened. “Just presenting options. Besides, it’s a proven fact that chewing gum helps you think better.” Her eyes flickered. “Speaking of thinking, Word of the Day. Go.”

  “Now? But—”

  “Don’t know why you’re even protesting. You can’t resist and probably already have one picked out.”

  “Fine.” We’d played this game for years. It was my job to provide the words, the more obscure the better. The fact that Marisol never came up with the correct definitions never stopped her from asking. And asking. “Word of the Day is muckspout.”

  “Monkspout?” she questioned, snapping the gum with her tongue.

  “No, muckspout.”

  Marisol put on her best scholar face and twirled her finger around her ear, like she was making parts move inside.

  Yes, this was my life.

  She straightened her posture. “Muckspout. Definition—someone who routinely drops small articles in the space between your driver’s seat and the center console. Such as combs, water bottle caps, or hair ties.”

  “You’re the poster child for that condition, but it’s called ‘doing too many things while driving.’”

  She wrinkled her nose. “All right, what does it mean?”

  I fanned myself with one of my books. “Someone who uses too much obscene language.”

  “No. Way.”

  “Truth.”

  “This one, I’ll actually remember.” Marisol tried out her best muckspout display, curse after glorious curse flowing out over cracked blue and green tiles.

  I gave her a round of applause.

  She bowed gracefully. “Well, that was fun. Now we need to see the flyer your popcorn-mooch neighbor was yammering about. Wherezit? You get the mail yet?”

  I shook my head. Another thing my mother should have done.

  “I’ll go.” She plunged one hand inside my bag. “I swear, if there’s another book in here...” She missed my pointed glare as she fished out my keys. And when Marisol Robles and her designer denim cutoffs left for the mailboxes, she turned the courtyard into a fashion show, strutting like the models she dreamed of dressing one day. Walnut-brown hair, raked with sunny highlights, tumbled over her shoulders. Music played in all her movements, a samba in her steps.

  Watching her, I couldn’t help seeing my own body in the mirror of my oldest friend. Her curved, petite form made all five foot nine inches of my legs and torso seem even longer. Height did have its advantages—peering over crowds, reaching items on shelves, buying jeans off the rack with no hemming—bu
t sometimes I had to work at arranging my limbs inside this world. While Marisol was shaped like a flame, I was built like a fire pole.

  Mail in tow, Marisol returned to the bench, drawing bare knees up to her chin. I separated the bills I’d worry about later and read the new manager’s orange flyer. Just like Mrs. Newsome said, upgrades to the exterior and common areas would start first. Tenants were told to mind children and pets while workers installed a shiny new railing next week.

  “You don’t think they’ll get rid of this table, do you? Our table?” Marisol asked.

  I traced her little black heart and my tiny star on the edge in front of us. They’d faded over time, but we always knew where to find them. “Would majorly suck if they did.”

  She swept her gaze around, then removed the minty gum wad from her mouth and pressed it underneath the concrete top. “Something to remember me by.”

  Marisol giggled. I smiled. And then we laughed and laughed, so deeply it burned a tunnel down my throat and beat against my ribs.

  We were swiping at tears when the jolting crash sounded. Our heads snapped upward, toward the only possible source. It could’ve been anything—glass, furniture, pottery—or even all three. But it hadn’t come from just anywhere. We both knew it came from my apartment.

  I frowned at Marisol, the small moment of laughter already a fading memory. I grabbed my keys. “Wait here,” I said, swinging my legs over the bench.

  She stood, too. “I’m coming.”

  “No.”

  “It doesn’t bother me, Darcy. Just let me help.”

  “I need to go alone. Please?”

  She exhaled a long sigh, her shoulders slumping. “Okay.”

  I shot up the stairs, without the use of the rickety railing. My key turned a lock, opening a door into a life only a handful of people could ever know about. A life with no welcome mat.

  Two

  Book-Shaped Heart

  “‘Well, I don’t want to be anyone but myself, even if I go uncomforted by diamonds all my life,’ declared Anne.”