THE BOOKSHOP ON THE CORNER
by Jenny Colgan
William Morrow Paperbacks | 09.20.2016
ISBN: 9780062467256; $14.99 E-ISBN 9780062467263; $9.99
About
the Book:
Nina Redmond is a literary matchmaker. Pairing a reader
with that perfect book is her passion… and also her job. Or at least it was.
Until yesterday, she was a librarian in the hectic city. But now the job she
loved is no more.
Determined to make a new life for herself, Nina moves to a sleepy village many miles away. There she buys a van and transforms it into a bookmobile—a mobile bookshop that she drives from neighborhood to neighborhood, changing one life after another with the power of storytelling.
Determined to make a new life for herself, Nina moves to a sleepy village many miles away. There she buys a van and transforms it into a bookmobile—a mobile bookshop that she drives from neighborhood to neighborhood, changing one life after another with the power of storytelling.
From helping her grumpy landlord deliver a lamb, to sharing picnics with a
charming train conductor who serenades her with poetry, Nina discovers there’s
plenty of adventure, magic, and soul in a place that’s beginning to feel like
home… a place where she just might be able to write her own happy ending. Buy the book here.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Website
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Jenny Colgan is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous novels, including Little Beach Street Bakery, Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop, and Christmas at the Cupcake Café, all international bestsellers. Jenny is married with three children and lives in London and Scotland.
Jenny Colgan is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous novels, including Little Beach Street Bakery, Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop, and Christmas at the Cupcake Café, all international bestsellers. Jenny is married with three children and lives in London and Scotland.
Praise for Jenny Colgan and THE BOOKSHOP ON THE CORNER:
“Losing myself in Jenny Colgan’s
beautiful pages is the most delicious, comforting, satisfying treat I have had
in ages.”
— Jane Green, New York Times bestselling author of Summer Secrets
“With a keen eye for the
cinematic, Colgan (Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery, 2016, etc.) is a deft
mistress of romantic comedy; Nina's story is laced with clever dialogue and
scenes set like jewels, just begging to be filmed. A charming, bracingly fresh
happily-ever-after tale…”
— Kirkus
“This is a lovely novel with amazing
characters who are hooked on books… at least some of them. The plot is
believable and is a joy to read. The main female character, Nina, is the
librarian who always figures out the best choice for a patron without fail.
Jenny Colgan thinks outside the box and creates a memorable book.”
— RT Book Reviews
“This charming tale celebrates
the many ways books bring people together”
— Booklist
“This light, fresh romantic comedy
is the perfect escape for bibliophiles. Enjoy it with a cup of tea on a crisp
day.”
— Real Simple
“[A] love story about reading and
the joys books can bring to people’s lives.”
— All
About Romance
BOOK EXCERPT:
The problem
with good things that happen is that very often they disguise themselves as
awful things. It would be lovely, wouldn’t it, whenever you’re going through
something difficult, if someone could just tap you on the shoulder and say,
“Don’t worry, it’s completely worth it. It seems like absolutely horrible crap
now, but I promise it will all come good in the end,” and you could say, “Thank
you, Fairy Godmother.” You might also say, “Will I also lose that seven
pounds?” and they would say, “But of course, my child!”
That would be useful, but it isn’t
how it is, which is why we sometimes plow on too long with things that aren’t
making us happy, or give up too quickly on something that might yet work itself
out, and it is often difficult to tell precisely which is which.
A life lived forward can be a really
irritating thing. So Nina thought, at any rate. Nina Redmond, twenty-nine, was
telling herself not to cry in public. If you have ever tried giving yourself a
good talking-to, you’ll know it doesn’t work terribly well. She was at work,
for goodness’ sake. You weren’t meant to cry at work.
She wondered if anyone else ever
did. Then she wondered if maybe everyone did, even Cathy Neeson, with her stiff
too-blond hair, and her thin mouth and her spreadsheets, who was right at this
moment standing in a corner, watching the room with folded arms and a grim
expression, after delivering to the small team Nina was a member of a speech
filled with jargon about how there were cutbacks all over, and Birmingham couldn’t
afford to maintain all its libraries, and how austerity was something they just
had to get used to.
Nina reckoned probably not. Some
people just didn’t have a tear in them.
(What Nina didn’t know was that
Cathy Neeson cried on the way to work, on the way home from work—after eight
o’clock most nights—every time she laid someone off, every time she was asked
to shave another few percent off an already skeleton budget, every time she was
ordered to produce some new quality relevant paperwork, and every time her boss
dumped a load of administrative work on her at four o’clock on a Friday
afternoon on his way to a skiing vacation, of which he took many.
Eventually she ditched the entire
thing and went and worked in a National Trust gift shop for a fifth of the
salary and half the hours and none of the tears. But this story is not about
Cathy Neeson.)
It was just, Nina thought, trying to
squash down the lump in her throat . . . it was just that they had been such a
little library.
Children’s story time Tuesday and
Thursday mornings. Early closing Wednesday afternoon. A shabby old-fashioned
building with tatty linoleum floors. A little musty sometimes, it was true. The
big dripping radiators could take a while to get going of a morning and then
would become instantly too warm, with a bit of a fug, particularly off old Charlie
Evans, who came in to keep warm and read the Morning Star cover to cover, very
slowly. She wondered where the Charlie Evanses of the world would go now.
Cathy Neeson had explained that they
were going to compress the library services into the center of town, where they
would become a “hub,” with a “multimedia experience zone” and a coffee shop and
an “intersensory experience,” whatever that was, even though town was at least
two bus trips too far for most of their elderly or strollered-up clientele.
Their lovely, tatty, old
pitched-roof premises were being sold off to become executive apartments that
would be well beyond the reach of a librarian’s salary. And Nina Redmond,
twenty-nine, bookworm, with her long tangle of auburn hair, her pale skin with
freckles dotted here and there, and a shyness that made her blush—or want to
burst into tears—at the most inopportune moments, was, she got the feeling,
going to be thrown out into the cold winds of a world that was getting a lot of
unemployed librarians on the market at the same time.
“So,” Cathy Neeson had concluded,
“you can pretty much get started on packing up the ‘books’ right away.”
She said “books” like it was a word
she found distasteful in her shiny new vision of Mediatech Services. All those
grubby, awkward books.
—
Nina dragged
herself into the back room with a heavy heart and a slight redness around her
eyes. Fortunately, everyone else looked more or less the same way. Old Rita
O’Leary, who should probably have retired about a decade ago but was so kind to
their clientele that everyone overlooked the fact that she couldn’t see the
numbers on the Dewey Decimal System anymore and filed more or less at random,
had burst into floods, and Nina had been able to cover up her own sadness
comforting her.
“You know who else did this?” hissed
her colleague Griffin through his straggly beard as she made her way through.
Griffin was casting a wary look at Cathy Neeson, still out in the main area as
he spoke. “The Nazis. They packed up all the books and threw them onto
bonfires.”
“They’re not throwing them onto
bonfires!” said Nina. “They’re not actually Nazis.”
“That’s what everyone thinks. Then
before you know it, you’ve got Nazis.”
—
With
breathtaking speed, there’d been a sale, of sorts, with most of their clientele
leafing through old familiar favorites in the ten pence box and leaving the
shinier, newer stock behind.
Now, as the days went on, they were
meant to be packing up the rest of the books to ship them to the central
library, but Griffin’s normally sullen face was looking even darker than usual.
He had a long, unpleasantly scrawny beard, and a scornful attitude toward
people who didn’t read the books he liked. As the only books he liked were obscure
1950s out-of-print stories about frustrated young men who drank too much in
Fitzrovia, that gave him a lot of time to hone his attitude. He was still talking
about book burners.
“They won’t get burned! They’ll go
to the big place in town.”
Nina couldn’t bring herself to even
say Mediatech.
Griffin snorted. “Have you seen the
plans? Coffee, computers, DVDs, plants, admin offices, and people doing
cost–benefit analysis and harassing the unemployed—sorry, running ‘mindfulness workshops.’
There isn’t room for a book in the whole damn place.” He gestured at the dozens
of boxes. “This will be landfill. They’ll use it to make roads.”
“They won’t!”
“They will! That’s what they do with
dead books, didn’t you know? Turn them into underlay for roads. So great big
cars can roll over the top of centuries of thought and ideas and scholarship, metaphorically
stamping a love of learning into the dust with their stupid big tires and
blustering Top Gear idiots killing the planet.”
“You’re not in the best of moods
this morning, are you, Griffin?”
“Could you two hurry it along a bit
over there?” said Cathy Neeson, bustling in, sounding anxious. They only had
the budget for the collection trucks for one afternoon; if they didn’t manage to
load everything up in time, she’d be in serious trouble.
“Yes, Commandant Über-Führer,” said
Griffin under his breath as she bustled out again, her blond bob still rigid.
“God, that woman is so evil it’s unbelievable.”
But Nina wasn’t listening. She was
looking instead in despair at the thousands of volumes around her, so hopeful
with their beautiful covers and optimistic blurbs. To condemn any of them to
waste disposal seemed heartbreaking: these were books! To Nina it was like
closing down an animal shelter. And there was no way they were going to get it
all done today, no matter what Cathy Neeson thought.
Which was how, six hours later, when
Nina’s Mini Metro pulled up in front of the front door of her tiny shared
house, it was completely and utterly stuffed with volumes.
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