Today’s Wednesday Waypoints features a moment from …

Welcome to Wednesday Waypoints, your midweek hygge inspiration. Each week, I’ll share a small collection of things to brighten your day. Whether books I’m loving, favorite blog posts, cozy shopping selections, or even a short excerpt to savor.

What is hygge (pronounced “hoo-gah”)? According to Visit Denmark, “In essence, hygge means creating a warm atmosphere and enjoying the good things in life with good people.”  So grab a cuppa, slow down, and enjoy.

From gemstones to bookshops, from family legacies to crowns, treasures can take many forms. In this Wednesday Waypoints, I’ve gathered four novels that remind us the greatest treasures aren’t always gold or jewels, but the love and hope that endure. Enjoy the excerpts for each!

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Susan L. Tuttle

As Everleigh left her second stop, her eyes snagged on a vehicle in her rearview that raised her suspicion. By the time she pulled away from her apartment, that suspicion was confirmed. Someone was following her. The same silver sedan had been on her tail since she’d pulled out of Kroger. If she had her guess, Palmer had sent someone to watch her. Might as well find out if she was right.

Spotting a strip mall ahead anchored by a coffee shop, Everleigh pulled into the lot. She joined the drive-through line and ordered a toffee nut latte—might as well enjoy the excuse for a midday pick-me- up. The sedan had parked at the far side of the lot, providing whoever sat behind the wheel with a perfect view of the exit. The way they’d parked, however, prevented them from seeing the end of the drive-through line.

Everleigh swung around and approached the sedan slowly. If she thought about it too long, common sense could nix her impulse. Instead, she gunned it, parking at an angle with her passenger door practically touching their front bumper. Taking off her sunglasses, she met the surprised gaze of the person who’d been following her. 

“You!”

Amanda Wen

Tucking the violin under one arm, Siobhan held the door for Matt, the bells jingling against the glass, and ducked into the little shop after he hobbled through. The small space was cluttered with instruments of every size, shape, and description, from basses and cellos standing at attention along a far wall to violins and violas hanging from hooks near and far. The comforting scents of wood and varnish enveloped her in a gentle hug.

Of all the jobs she’d pictured herself in, tucked away in a tiny shop learning how to rehair bows and repair stringed instruments hadn’t even made the list. 

But after her last job? Tucked away seemed ideal.

Grace Hitchcock

By the time her apple pie was ready to come out of the oven and her second batch of vanilla scones was ready to go in, she had a comforting sheen of sweat on her brow and her prayers had turned into singing—or rather bellowing—her favorite hymns. Wiping her hands on her apron, she worked out a recipe that she thought would be a match for the sponge she had tasted and promptly dropped during her calls this morning. She rose on her tiptoes to reach the tin marked Flour on the third shelf in the dry larder, which was acceptable if one was of an average height, but Muriel, being only an inch over five feet, could only scrape the bottom of the ten-pound tin with her fingertips. She snatched her wooden rolling pin from the table and used the tip to scoot the tin to the edge of the shelf, intending to catch it as it fell.

A man’s large, calloused hand shot above her head and seized the tin. “Allow me to assist you.”

Her song strangled itself in a gasp. Whirling, she rammed into his arm, causing the tin to slip from his grasp and the heavy pin from her hand. Both knocked him on the head, loosening the lid and showering them with flour as he fell to his knees with a grunt and then collapsed face flat onto the brick pavers.

“Lord, have mercy.” Muriel clutched her hand to her throat and sank to her knees beside the crumpled giant. Grabbing his muscular right shoulder with all her strength, she flipped the man onto his back and saw at once that his left arm was in a sling. His large, Grecian nose trickled blood from his fall to the bricks. Other than that and the lump already forming just below his thick chocolate hairline, he was in marvelous physical condition. With his impeccable jawline and the sun-kissed skin that she glimpsed beneath the flour, she knew he had enjoyed fine health before waltzing into her kitchen. She leapt to her feet and ran for the pitcher of water on the counter. Pitcher wrapped in her arm, she dipped her fingers inside and flicked water onto his flour-covered face as if he were a pie crust, continuing the practice until a fine paste had formed on his forehead and a moan escaped his full lips.

“Oh, thank God. I haven’t killed him,” she whispered, sinking onto her heels and wiping her forehead, feeling the grit of flour roll across her skin. She leaned over him, her dark hair spilling free from her coiffure over her shoulder, flowing down to his chest. “Sir? Are you hurt badly? Sir? Can you hear me?”

Mollie Rushmeyer

Only the sharp clang of a bell above the door and lopsided towers of books greeted Hope Sparrow as she entered Dusty Jackets bookshop.

She breathed in their ancient paper dust, their gentle decay. Between pages like these, she’d always found her refuge. 

Her Lucy Maud, Jane, the sisters Brontë, dear Louisa—all whispered the words she’d pored over in the dead of night and now fortified her strength for what she hoped was the last leg in a long journey. 

“Hello? Anyone here?” She strode to the empty wooden sales counter, blew out a slow, steadying breath and sat her tattered cloth suitcase containing all of her worldly possessions at her feet. The coach bus that had dropped her a block from the shop rumbled away in the distance. 

If this worked out the way she’d planned, she’d retrieve what she’d come for, find a place to stay for the night and catch the next bus back to Chicago. So close to fulfilling her dreams now.

In a rounded alcove, a silky black cat snoozed atop a precarious sun-drenched stack of tomes. Nothing stirred in the transformed Victorian home, where every available space held piles of books resembling mini-Leaning Towers of Pisa. Her nose wrinkled. This was no joyful celebration of literature. This was where books came to die. A book graveyard. 

“Austenite.” A voice creaked in the still air like a window groaning open after winter. 

She whirled around. How had she not noticed the small round room to her left, a long-ago sitting room, perhaps? A tuft of white hair bobbed between the book pillars. 

She moved closer. “Excuse me?” 

“I said, Austenite.” A small elderly man, all eyebrows and shining forehead with a lone patch of hair on top, popped out from behind a pile of now-obsolete—or so many assumed— encyclopedias. “I’d know one anywhere. It’s the buttoned-up self-satisfaction.” His wink rang more jovial than his words. 

She put a hand to the tidy bun at the nape of her neck, and her lips tugged at the corners. “Guilty. Though I prefer the melancholy beauty of Charlotte Brontë’s moors or Lucy Montgomery’s charming Prince Edward Island.” She clutched a hand over her heart. “But give me a book aged to perfection in one hand, a cup of hot oolong tea in the other, and I’ll be there till the sun turns cold. A bit like C. S. Lewis that way, I guess.” 

A tingle of heat swept across her cheeks. This is what she got for living and traveling alone for three years. Spouting weird things at strangers. She needed to quickly adopt people skills for her plan to work. Or at least learn how not to act awkward around them. The thought twisted her gut. How could she gain expertise in something never in her wheelhouse, even if the opportunity to hone her social etiquette hadn’t been stolen from her for ten years?

But the older man beamed and stuck out his hand. She shook it, trying to hide the anxiety human touch brought on. “I couldn’t agree more. I’m Ulysses Barrick. I co-own Dusty Jackets with my wife, Margaret. Welcome to Wanishin Falls. I hope Lake Superior and her steely gray wiles are treating you well. And, love, you are…?” 

She cringed at the word love, not only for the meaning—so foreign a concept—but for the memories threatening to bring her under their churning undertow. “I’m…”

Ulysses poked a finger into the air. “Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.” 

The words “thou art mine” clenched her stomach in a tight fist while the rest pulled at a little-used place in her chest. 

“That’s lovely. Paul Laurence Dunbar?” 

“Isaiah. Old Testament. Beauty and truth, I think.” He dipped his chin in a precise nod. 

She couldn’t help but smile at this eccentric, seemingly kindred spirit. 

“I’m Hope Sparrow. I’ve been trying to call, Mr. Barrick. I understand you’re—were—the brother of Agatha O’Brien. She was a good friend of mine, and I think she sent some very special books for you to hang on to until I was able to collect them.

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Until next time, may your reading bring both light and encouragement.

Happy reading!
~ Danielle.