A Beginner's Guide to Starting Over, page 1
Advance praise for
A Beginner’s Guide to Starting Over
“Gabi Coatsworth’s debut novel, A Beginner’s Guide to Starting Over, tenderly explores grief, self-discovery, and reinvention in middle life. Readers will cheer for Molly as she learns that standing on one’s own often requires getting comfortable with leaning on others. The heartwarming, hopeful tale is also a gentle reminder that it’s possible to fall in love more than once in a lifetime.”
— Jamie Beck, Wall Street Journal bestselling author
“To start over, Molly Stevenson, a widow, mother, and owner of a bookstore, must let go. Not an easy task for a 50-year-old woman whose dead husband Simon is speaking to her from the grave—providing business advice and telling her who to date. Anyone who has had to begin again, to strike out on her own, make a new life and new friends, will relate to this debut novel... Gabi has been there and has an inspiring story with a happy ending to tell.”
— Marilyn Simon Rothstein, author of Crazy to Leave You
“A warm, engaging novel about love, friendship, and starting over, with a protagonist you will root for from the very first page! Molly is resilient, honest, and complex—in short, everything you could ask for in a protagonist. This is a book about second-chance love and so much more, written by an author who knows how to tell a story. Lovely!”
— Barbara Josselsohn, author of The Lilac House and The Cranberry Inn
“Unforgettable and nuanced, Gabi Coatsworth delivers a heartwarming novel about the risks we must take to have a second chance. This is a book begging to be read cozied up in a chair, a fireplace blazing, and a cuppa tea in your hand. Prepare to sit a spell—Molly’s stumbling journey to embrace the future will keep you soaring through the pages and by the end, Molly will feel like a much-loved old friend.”
— Carla Damron, author of The Orchid Tattoo and The Stone Necklace
“A Beginner’s Guide to Starting Over follows the delightful journey of Molly Stevenson and her loyalty to a former love, while confronting the challenge of striking out on her own, and opening her heart to a new relationship. You will fall in love with the characters. A heartfelt read.”
— Lita Harris, author of Christmas in Brookside Falls
“Gabi Coatsworth absolutely nails the emotional journey of a middle-aged woman faced with losing a love and starting over. Her humorous and uplifting style makes this a delightful read.”
— Marie W. Watts, author of Only a Pawn
“…Readers will eagerly root for the highly relatable Molly Stevenson as she navigates unchartered waters later in life and allows herself to be open to love again…”
— BookLife
A Beginner's Guide
to Starting Over
a novel
Gabi Coatsworth
atmosphere press
© 2023 Gabi Coatsworth
Published by Atmosphere Press
ISBN 978-1-63988-754-5
Cover design by Felipe Betim
No part of this book may be reproduced without permission from the author except in brief quotations and in reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of copyrighted work is illegal and punishable by law. For permission requests, please contact Atmosphere Press at 7107 Foxtree Cove, Austin, TX 78750.
All company or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners. Names and identifying characteristics of certain individuals have been changed to protect their privacy.
Atmospherepress.com
For Madelyn and Charlotte, who started bragging that
I was a writer while they were in elementary school
CHAPTER ONE
Molly Stevenson looked around the Book Boutique at the end of another long day before switching off the lights and locking the front door. She loved this place, with its smell of paper, its loyal customers, and its solid presence on Brentford’s Main Street. Simon’s support for her taking it on had been the deciding factor, and the shop had turned out to be a welcome respite from the grief she felt.
But it was still losing money. She hadn’t managed to pay herself for the last two months and was living off her savings. The upcoming Christmas season needed to produce its annual increase in sales, or the business would go under, leaving her in debt she had no way of repaying.
And the town would lose its only bookstore, which would be a crime. She wouldn’t think about that. She stuffed the day’s mail and the letter she still hadn’t opened into her messenger bag, and started for home.
Darkness had fallen sometime before she reached her front door. She took out the key and turned it in the lock. Returning to the unlit, empty Victorian often seemed like the most daunting part of losing Simon. It made Molly feel like an actual widow—something she managed to avoid thinking about as she kept busy at the bookshop during the day.
That evening, as if summoned by the rasp of the latchkey, an orange missile came hurtling up the porch steps, and Hemingway stood there, demanding to be let in.
“Hello, you,” she murmured. A loud rumble came from somewhere near her feet. As she swung the door open, the cat swaggered into the house ahead of her and made for the kitchen.
She followed him, shrugged off her coat, and threw it onto one of the barstools, where it promptly slid off. She should hang it up in the closet when she came in.
“Come on, Molly—you can do better than this,” she said aloud. Was that really her voice? Now and then, she reminded herself of her mother with her relentless—though well-meant—advice.
Mummy would have told her to deal with that bloody letter from her landlord immediately.
Opening the refrigerator door instead, she groaned at the sight of the tired onion, a slightly wrinkled zucchini, and a large eggplant staring back at her from the middle shelf. The idea was that they’d be in her line of vision, so she’d remember to use them, but the plan had failed. She could make ratatouille. She checked the few tomatoes lounging on the island. One of them had a problematic black spot near the stalk, but the other two might be salvageable. Besides, cooking would be soothing.
At least she’d remembered to buy food for the cat, who was now sitting, tail wrapped around his feet, expectant eyes fixed on her. Grateful for his presence, she prepared a dish of Frisky Feast and set it down in the usual place. Hemingway sniffed at it like a Borgia at a banquet with his relatives, and then, apparently deciding it wasn’t poisoned, crouched down and started to eat. She wondered how he managed to chew and purr at the same time.
Molly had been making dinner a couple of years before when Hemingway showed up during a late spring thunderstorm, sodden and suspicious. She’d embraced the challenge involved in gaining his confidence, now that, with Simon gone and her daughters away at school, there was no one else around on whom to lavish her affection.
It occurred to her she’d become a cliché—a widow with a cat. Perfect.
Tonight, he’d evidently been waiting for her to return from the Book Boutique.
She would not think about the shop—but she couldn’t avoid it either. Despite her efforts, sales were only improving at a glacial pace. Her latest bank statement had only confirmed that she would run out of money within months. If something didn’t change, and soon, she’d be broke by her next big birthday—a failed businesswoman at fifty. And a lonely widow, too.
The thought of that banished her hunger. Abandoning the idea of cooking for herself, she made a toasted cheese sandwich with the sliced loaf that was beginning to dry out. Having eaten it, she began to write a list of things she needed to do at work. Tidy gift table. Chase incoming orders. Buy British tea bags for the shop.
She knew she was skirting the real issue.
She re-checked the bank statement. Some miracle in the last two hours might show she was inexplicably making a profit. Nope. Nothing had changed.
Now for the letter from Pilgrim Properties. She’d been ignoring it since that morning when the mailman delivered it. Envelopes from landlords only signaled trouble. But she mustn’t shirk the task any longer.
She pulled it out of her bag and, picking up the nearest knife, slit it open. A chill ran down her back.
Not even Dear So-and-So. Just: To Whom it may Concern. How obnoxious. The message only added to her indignation. Due to circumstances beyond our control, it has become necessary to levy an increase on your rent when the lease is up for renewal, beginning January 1.
There followed a sum so substantial that they must know she would never be able to pay it.
It has become necessary? Who talked like that? Someone who didn’t want to take the blame for putting a lovely bookshop out of business, that’s who. Naturally, no one had signed their name to it. Sincerely, Pilgrim Properties. Ha.
Buying the bookstore where she’d been an employee had proved a satisfying project to begin with. Just enough of a challenge to occupy her time after Simon died. It was that, for sure. She loved the shop, but its problems haunted her dreams, making her wonder whether she’d got her priorities right. Did she want all the stress of running a business? It would be more fun to get out and see her friends, or travel, maybe.
She couldn’t quit. She had to prove to herself that she could succeed as an independent businesswoman. That would bring her the
This was all Simon’s fault. If he hadn’t died, she’d have been content with her part-time job at the Book Boutique, without the responsibility and the headaches of ownership. If only she hadn’t allowed herself to be persuaded to take on the store, if she hadn’t…if, if, if.
To be fair, Simon hadn’t exactly made her buy it. Because she’d only owned the shop for ten months. And the love of her life had been dead for thirty-seven months, five weeks, and four days.
“Cheer up.” She could hear his reassuring voice in her head. ”This will all be okay in the end, you’ll see.”
She didn’t see. Not at all. But these internal conversations with him often helped her work things out.
“I can’t imagine how. I should just cut my losses and quit,” she said aloud, sounding whiny, she could tell. “Except there’s no one who’d want the Book Boutique now. I was the only dimwit who was remotely interested in the business.”
She stood and began pacing the kitchen floor. Hemingway gave a quick shudder in his sleep, stretched, and dozed off again. He must be exhausted. She knew how he felt.
“Molly, honey, I wish you’d let me help you.” Simon again.
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough already?”
A note of hurt entered his voice. “It wasn’t my fault I had a heart defect, you know.”
He’d been found unconscious on the sidewalk halfway through his morning run. There’d been no time to say goodbye. So, she never had.
“You could have had regular checkups.” She’d never mentioned this to him before and knew she was being unjust, since no one in his family had suffered from the same health issue. But his death wasn’t fair to her, either.
“Anyway,” she rallied, “buying the bookstore was your idea, and now I seem to have made a mess of it. If the shop goes under, I’ll have to go out and get a proper paying job—selling kitchen stuff in a hardware store. Or sell the house. Move to an apartment with wonky heating and mice.”
She was getting into it now. Almost enjoying the worst-case scenario. Molly adjusted her imaginary mob cap and pulled a fictitious tattered shawl around her against the chill winds of imminent bankruptcy.
Simon’s voice brought her back down to earth.
“You’re not living in some Dickensian novel, you know. You’re a twenty-first-century woman and you have choices.”
“Choices? I only have enough money to keep the store going for a few more months, and now there’s this rent demand—”
Simon interrupted her. “You know what? You’re more inclined to go down with the ship than to ask for a life preserver.”
Molly racked her brain for an answer to this and came up with nothing. No life preserver would save her.
“You’ve always taken care of others, yet you won’t allow anyone to be there for you in return. People would love to pitch in, sweetheart, because you’re a wonderful person and they want you to succeed. But you have to let them know you need help. And you can start with me.”
“Start with you? You’re not even here.”
“That’s kinda harsh, don’t you think?”
The kitchen fell silent. Only a tiny snuffle emanating from Hemingway’s bed broke the stillness.
“Oh, Simon. I didn’t mean…”
“I know, honey. It’s the stress talking. So, item one. You need more information.”
“Like what?”
“Like the name of a live person at Pilgrim Properties. Someone you can talk to about this. Maybe you can negotiate a smaller increase with a living human instead of a faceless office.”
He always came up with something.
“Good idea. What’s item two?”
“There is no item two.”
Okay then.
CHAPTER TWO
Though only early November, most of the leaves, so brilliant a few days before, lay sodden on the sidewalk as Molly headed to work the next morning. The walking formed part of a new regimen that had almost perished at its inception, due to rain and wind, but she persevered. Expecting wet weather, she dug out Simon’s old yellow slicker, the only truly waterproof coat she had, and grabbed an umbrella.
At the last minute, she remembered to pack a pair of dry shoes in her bag, in case hers became soggy. But all she encountered was a damp mist, which put her in a more cheerful frame of mind as she unlocked the front door of the store, stepped inside, and inhaled the smell of books. There was nothing else like it.
She’d always found herself drawn to books and couldn’t pass a bookshop without going in to browse. To see how the competition arranged its displays. To chat with the owners about successful new releases and disappointing reads. Admire the brightly colored covers. Now she owned this beautiful old-fashioned place.
She switched on the lights and booted up the computer. Checked the cash in the register. She headed into the back to divest herself of the slicker and give herself a last-minute once-over in the mirror. For heaven’s sake. Were those gray hairs among the dark blond ones? Too much stress, that was the problem. It didn’t help that the cut was growing out unevenly. She swiped her pink lipstick across her mouth before eyeing the boxes of new titles.
She usually enjoyed Tuesdays, when she got to unbox all the latest releases. She’d ordered some of the new Lucinda Parks, of course, and intended to read one herself. She wanted to bring the author to the store one day for a signing—just as soon as she was able to guarantee the sizable audience publishers generally required.
No sign of Luke yet, which wasn’t unusual. He wasn’t renowned for his timekeeping. As the former owner of the Book Boutique, he’d become accustomed to keeping his own hours—which was why he’d originally hired Molly part-time.
She reached absentmindedly for a mini Snickers bar from the bowl of leftover Halloween treats.
Never mind. She’d have time to call her best friend Amanda to get the name of someone at Pilgrim Properties. Amanda Shaughnessy was a Realtor, with her finger on the pulse of anything to do with the buying, leasing, and renting of property in Brentford and beyond, so if anyone could get the information, she could.
“Hi, sweetie. How are you doing? Any eligible men on the horizon yet?”
Amanda meant well, but Molly sometimes wished she would give it a rest. She’d been commenting on Molly’s love life since they were college roommates, and nothing had changed. There was a testy note to her voice when she answered.
“Actually, it’s a businessman I have a problem with today.”
Amanda’s voice lost its teasing tone. “Something I can help with?”
“I hope so.” Molly explained about the rent increase. “Do you know anyone at Pilgrim Properties? I can’t get hold of a real person when I call their number.”
“I don’t believe I’ve had any dealings with them myself. I know they own some of the commercial real estate in town, but they tend to handle their own rentals. Let me ask around.”
“Thanks. They’re trying to raise my rent, and I need to negotiate some sort of reprieve or I’m in serious trouble here.”
“Oh, wow. Look, don’t worry. I’ll let you know as soon as I can. And if worse comes to worst, maybe I can find you somewhere less expensive.”
But I don’t want a new place, Molly thought, as she hung up.
The old-fashioned bell above the door rang—it bounced on a spring whenever anyone walked in, and she found the sound reassuring. With any luck, it would be a customer.
A familiar figure blew in like a galleon in full sail and moored in front of the bestseller table. On this chilly day, the woman wore a navy-blue serge overcoat buttoned high under her chin. Molly recognized it as her late-autumn coat. Never a down jacket or a parka for Mrs. Todd.
She nodded at Molly and glanced around, no doubt hoping Luke would appear.
Mrs. Todd formed part of Luke’s particular clientele—a group of wealthy older women who actually bought books after they finished browsing. Molly suspected that they cherished romantic notions about Luke. Pointless, naturally, since he never made a secret of the fact that he was gay. Still, they batted their eyelashes at him and placed a hand on his arm as if to anchor him to their side while they discussed what to buy next.
