Bliss and the Art of Forever (A Hope Springs Novel) by Alison Kent

told me, she and his father had pretty much cut themselves off from both of their families before he was born. There was some spousal abuse. Artie did what he could to help his mother, and stay out of his father’s way, but he was young. He couldn’t do much. He only knew about the family he had in Italy because of the letters his grandfather wrote.” She paused, then waved off the rest of what she’d been going to say. “I can’t imagine you want to hear all this.”
    The juxtaposition of his cushy upbringing with that of her husband . . . “Sounds like a rough way to grow up.”
    “He turned out okay, though he had moments he wasn’t proud of, stealing food so he and his mom could eat, stealing money so she could pay bills.” She swallowed, tucked back her hair. “I mean, his reasons were good, but still . . .”
    Yeah. He was putting food on the table. Not stealing to get high. “He did what he had to do. Some of us can’t even manage to do what we should.”
    “You would’ve been at the school for Addy’s parties if you’d known,” she said, tossing the disposable dust cloth into the trash can on the far side of the shelving unit. “I’m quite sure about that.”
    “I would’ve been. But that doesn’t excuse me not being more on the ball. I’ve kinda relied on my parents to the point of letting them take care of things that aren’t their responsibility. Trust me that it’s not going to happen again.” He rolled the mop and bucket back to the hallway door and left it there. “As tied up as I am with the shop, Addy comes first.”
    Frowning, she dropped her gaze to the floor. “If you’re too busy to do the demonstration . . .”
    Because of Bliss? “No. It’s okay. It’ll be fun.”
    “My idea of fun, anyway,” she said, waving an arm toward the front door and heading that way. “And I can help you with whatever prep you need to do so it won’t be so overwhelming.”
    “Do you make that offer to all the places who host your field trips?” he asked as he squatted to unlock the door.
    “Nope,” she said, tugging it open and letting in a blast of cold air. “Only the ones whose owners feed me chocolate. And have tattoos.”
    “You like the ink?”
    “I’m curious about the sayings,” she said, pointing to his neck, letting the door close, and remaining inside.
    “I’ve got Nietzsche, Tolkien, and if you’re more into science fiction than fantasy, I’ve got Frank Herbert. Then there’s Lewis Carroll. Even Harper Lee.”
    She cocked her head, her expression broadcasting her curiosity when she said, “Really?”
    He nodded, wondering if that look meant she was trying to guess what he’d chosen. Dune ’s mind-killer passage about dealing with fear was obvious, but only if she knew the book and more about him. And the banter between Alice and the Cheshire Cat about mad people had seemed to fit his life at the time, though she wouldn’t know that.
    The Harper Lee might be harder, but Atticus talking to Jem about courage had stuck with him. He’d chosen the first two lines of Tolkien’s “The Riddle of Strider” for the same reason, finding the sentiment about wandering but not being lost apropos when he’d gotten the ink.
    But none of those tattoos were easily accessible. “How ’bout Tennyson?”
    He pulled up his sleeve to show her the words. They were buried in a design that began just above his inner wrist and circled his forearm, before disappearing beneath his coat.
    She took hold of his hand and read the quote for herself. “ ‘To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.’ ” Then she ran her finger along the words, and onto the visuals around which they’d been wound. “Do these have anything to do with the motorcycle club?”
    “The words or the pictures?” he asked, surprised at how steady his voice sounded, when her touch had him wound up inside.
    “Both. Either.”
    “They did. Some I never had altered. Others were too gruesome, and I