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likely.” Sara inhaled sharply to shake off her grogginess and opened her eyes. Bonnie’s hard stare morphed into a pleasant smile. Or maybe Sara imagined it. Any similarity between them was certainly imaginary.
    They were practically opposites, light years apart. Sara was five-four in a plain brown wrapper. Bonnie was as tall as Bram, platinum blonde, a living, breathing air-brushed beauty. Sara rarely wore more than foundation and lipstick—a touch of blush on special days. Bonnie’s tailored suit was designer quality. Sara wore jeans and a cotton sweater whenever she could.
    Bonnie’s briefcase was exquisite soft burgundy leather with polished brass fixtures. Sara sighed, thinking of her cracked old brown thing with its loose clasp and broken handle, stuffed with student papers and energy bars. Even Bonnie’s accessories were a class above. For one thing, she wore jewelry—earrings, bracelets, rings, a string of pearls. Sara wore a wedding ring—and that a plain gold band. She twisted the ring on her finger.
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Bonnie said. “Most days I think my clients are in high school with all their demands and inability to face reality. Thanks, Peekie.” The red-haired woman brought over two steaming lattes. “Peekie owns The Book Beak. This is Sara. Sara Lyndon.”
    “Sara Lyndon. I know that name.” Peekie nodded with approval. “You’ve come to see Amelia then.” The slight Scottish accent mixed nicely with her kind tone.
    “I love your shop,” Sara said. “When I was in school, Aunt Amelia sent me books from here. Seeing the pelican on the wrapping paper always made me feel wonderful.”
    “Ms. Lyndon can stay,” Peekie said to Bonnie.
    “It’s Blakemore now,” Sara said. “I’m married. But please call me Sara.”
    “Sara it is. Amelia Lyndon is the Beak’s patron saint.” Peekie said. “She loaned me the start-up money when no bank would. I’m sorry to hear she’s not doing so well.”
    Sara wanted to ask about the odd name, but Peekie went to help someone at the register. From under the counter she whipped out precut pelican wrapping paper for the books the customer laid down. She smiled and chatted and wrapped and rang up the books, all coordinated like she was performing a piece of chamber music, playing all the instruments.
    Sara imagined Aunt Amelia and Peekie discussing which books to send her over the years and Peekie wrapping them up for the mail. Regret nudged at Sara’s heart. So many years were wasted, years she and Aunt Amelia could have known each other better.
    “My mother was Eleanor Norquist.” Bonnie broke into her thoughts. “Her aunt was Olivia Montague.”
    “I’m sorry,” Sara said. “I don’t know those names.”
    Bonnie seemed insulted. She raised an eyebrow. “You do know the name Joss Montague, surely. Olivia Montague’s husband? He left Turtledove Hill to Amelia.”
    J. Montague. The name on the steam trunk in Aunt Amelia’s barn where the bell had been stored. Sara had recorded it in her diary and romanticized it ever since.
    “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why not leave it to Olivia, to his wife?”
    “She died first,” Bonnie said. “Hit by a car on Bird Row, in front of The Oyster Shack—except then it wasn’t The Oyster Shack.”
    “That’s so sad,” Sara said. “I’m sorry.”
    “Tragic,” Bonnie said. “They had a boy, but he died not long after Olivia. A flu epidemic.”
    “That’s awful. Why did he leave Turtledove Hill to Aunt Amelia?”
    “Well, now,” Bonnie said. “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn’t it?”
    As if to suggest something fishy had gone on between Aunt Amelia and J. Montague. Sara started to resent the implication, but there was her visit to Turtledove Hill and the lover in the kitchen. The cause of Aunt Amelia’s rift with Dad.
    If she had a lover then, why not before? Why not J. Montague? Good lord. Was Aunt Amelia a…a loose woman? An opportunist? A