by Ellery Adams
“Please help yourself to Belgian chocolate,” she said. “And if you don’t care for the drink, I’d be glad to make you something else.”
Nora, who considered the thought of iced chai rather distasteful, changed her mind after one sip.
“It’s the fresh cinnamon and cardamom,” Griffin said, reading Nora’s expression of surprise. “We’ve turned Hells Angels bikers and French-press coffee snobs into fans of this tea. People have emailed Tamara in hopes of obtaining her recipe, but she never gives it to them. It’s a trade secret.”
Though Nora liked Griffin, and she didn’t want to ruin her chance of relocating Abilene, she couldn’t stop from asking the question that had been on her mind since she’d first heard of Virtual Genie. “Does your business follow financial fallouts? Like the dissolution of the Madison County Community Bank? Or the bankruptcy of The Meadows, the town’s biggest real estate development?”
Griffin’s reaction to such a blunt question was a slight tensing of his shoulders. That was all. “We did read about the unfortunate events in this community, and yes, those events influenced our decision to open in Miracle Springs over another town. But it wasn’t ambulance chasing alone that led us here. I visited a lifetime ago with my parents and had very fond memories of our trip. Even as a boy, I felt the town’s peaceful vibe. I hated to know that a scandal had disrupted that peace, so here we are. This is a business, and I want make a profit, but I also want to help restore balance to a place that gifted me with good memories.”
Nora was unaccustomed to such transparency. She decided it was only fair to repay Griffin’s honesty with honesty. “I stopped by because I was curious about Virtual Genie, but my main reason for being here is to inquire about the room for rent.”
Griffin looked aggrieved.
“It’s not an attractive space, I’m afraid. Not for a lady,” he added. “I assume we’ll rent it to a man who can easily ignore the peeling paint or rust stains. With the appraisal fair coming up, finding a tenant is low on my list.”
“There are women who can’t afford attractive spaces,” Nora said flatly. “And peeled paint can be fixed. Will you show me the apartment?”
Griffin set his cup of tea aside and laced his fingers.
As if she’d heard a silent call, Tamara emerged from the other room and smiled at Nora.
“I’ll show it to you,” she said. “Griffin has so much to do right now.”
Nora thanked Griffin for his hospitality and followed Tamara through the opening in the curtains.
The difference between Virtual Genie’s public and work areas was marked. While the main room was a show of exotic opulence, the back room was utterly spartan.
Nora saw folding tables and chairs, racks of steel shelving, and a photography nook. With the hard cement floors and unadorned walls, the workroom was a stark contrast to the vibrancy of the public space.
Tamara led Nora through a doorway and into a vestibule lined with cardboard boxes of various sizes and shapes. Ahead of them was the rear exit. On the opposite wall, there was a narrow, dimly lit staircase.
“I should tell you that I’m not looking at this for myself, but for a young woman in need,” Nora said as she and Tamara ascended the stairs. “Abilene works part-time at the Gingerbread House, our local bakery. I don’t know what you’re charging for rent, but my friend is on a very tight budget. She’s at the bakery right now, which is why I’m looking at the apartment for her.”
“The space is in rough shape, but I heard what you said to Griffin.” Tamara took out a key ring and unlocked the dead bolt. “And you’re right. Some people aren’t in a position to afford anything other than rough, regardless of their gender.”
Tamara opened the door and flicked on the lights, illuminating a dingy room with a galley kitchen, and a living/sleeping area with a futon. A moth-eaten curtain separated the main room from a bathroom. Nora peeked in at the sink and shower stall, both of which were stained with rust, mold, and lime deposits. The linoleum was cracked and curling and there were thick layers of dust coating the blinds. In the main room, the pine flooring was scarred with scratches and dents and the kitchen cabinets were just as rough. The two appliances, an oven and a refrigerator, were old enough to qualify as vintage.
“We just don’t have the time or the capital to make improvements,” Tamara said, a note of apology in her tone.
Nora considered how to use the apartment’s dilapidated state to Abilene’s advantage. “Would you let my friend make improvements if she became your tenant? Paint the walls and jettison the blinds and futon, for example?”
“Of course,” Tamara answered.
When Nora suggested they return to the main floor to discuss terms, Tamara was even more surprised. “Won’t your friend want to see the apartment first?”
“She’s entrusted this task to me,” Nora said. “If the rent is doable, I’ll take the paperwork back to her to fill out. If you want to meet Abilene in person, I should warn you that she’s extremely shy. She keeps to herself.”
“That’s probably a good thing. The studio isn’t a great space for entertaining. Also, your friend will have to access the apartment through the back door, which means coming and going using the alley access. I like the idea of a quiet, shy, baker living above our business. I’m sure Griffin will feel the same. We store the items we sell in the back room until they can be shipped, so a trustworthy tenant is a must.”
The two women returned to the ground floor and sat at Tamara’s desk. She gave Nora what she vowed was their rock-bottom rent rate and promised to email her a standard lease agreement.
Nora thanked Tamara for her time and left Virtual Genie. As she crossed the park toward Miracle Books, she thought about what Tamara had said about having a trustworthy tenant.
Damn it, she thought. They’re going to run a background check on Abilene. When they do, what will they learn?
* * *
She found Deputy Andrews waiting for her at the bookstore.
“Good morning, Deputy,” Nora said, noting the speckles of confectioners’ sugar on his uniform shirt. She guessed that the lawman had just come from the Gingerbread House, which meant he probably hadn’t dropped by the bookstore to pick up another Orson Scott Card novel.
Andrews returned Nora’s greeting before gesturing at the display window. “Hester told me that the woman who designed this just started working for her. I haven’t met her yet.”
“Her name’s Abilene. And you might not meet her for a while. She’s extremely shy.” Unlocking the front door, Nora waited for the clanging of the sleigh bells to subside before she asked the deputy if he’d stopped by to browse.
He cast a longing glance toward the Science Fiction section. “I wish I could, but duty calls. I’m here to ask you a question about Mrs. Frye’s books.”
After dumping her keys and handbag on the checkout counter, Nora gave the deputy her full attention. “The collection in her living room?”
“Yep. Do you have any idea how much they’re worth?” When Nora didn’t answer right away, Andrews added, “I know you weren’t in her house long, but you’re a bookseller, Ms. Pennington, so I’m sure you checked out her books. I just want to know if you looked at them long enough to be able to estimate their value.”
“I can’t give you a dollar amount,” Nora said. “Not without examining each book and searching online for its current market value.” When she saw the deputy’s face fall, she added, “However, Amanda’s collection is valuable. Why are you asking? Why are her books important?”
Andrews shot a glance at the surrounding shelves, his expression inscrutable. “The sheriff is just being thorough. Mrs. Frye left her books to a former neighbor. Someone from another state, and her son isn’t too happy about it.”
“I don’t blame him. From what I saw, those books were the only things of value in that house,” Nora said. “Then again, Amanda was pretty vocal about her relationship with her son. From what she said, it wasn’t a good
one.”
“Definitely not,” agreed Andrews.
The memory of Amanda’s body in the scum-covered pond arose in Nora’s mind and she was suddenly angry. She was angry that Amanda had died such a terrible death and she realized that she was looking for someone to blame. The son who’d abandoned her? The husband who’d left her without any money? Or the bibliotherapist who’d failed to establish a relationship with a customer so clearly in need of healing?
“I can’t believe her possessions have been divvied up already,” Nora said, unable to keep ire from creeping into her voice. “For Christ’s sake, doesn’t there have to be a minimal amount of investigating before the vultures swoop in? Or an official cause of death given?”
Andrews shifted his utility belt higher on his waist. “We’re not taking short cuts, Ms. Pennington. Mrs. Frye’s son found a copy of her will after he identified her body. The bank owns her house and her car and there’s no savings to speak of. In fact, there’s nothing for the vultures to swoop in and take.”
“I overheard an exchange between Frye and the owner of Virtual Genie. That new business?” Nora waited for Andrews to indicate that he’d heard about Virtual Genie before continuing. “I caught only the tail end of their conversation, but Amanda’s son made a pretty startling remark.”
She repeated the bearded giant’s line about his mother killing his father.
“Mr. Frye told us the same thing, but he didn’t mean it literally,” Andrews explained. “He blames his mama for driving his daddy to an early grave. He said that she never stopped nagging him and never stopped telling him how much she’d sacrificed for the men in her life. Mr. Frye told us that he and his daddy heard this every day of their lives. He went on and on about how his mama was a bitter, sullen woman who was never happy. Not for one day.”
Nora’s curiosity about the bearded man deepened. “I guess that’s why he cut her out of his life. Because he blamed his mother for the loss of his father.”
Andrews shrugged in a way that suggested he wasn’t going to share any more information.
“I wonder if Mr. Frye went to Virtual Genie because he suspects his mother’s book collection is worth something,” Nora mused aloud. “Virtual Genie is having an appraisal fair this week. If an embittered son learns that a former neighbor is getting the only thing of value his mother owned, he might contest the will.”
A cloud passed over Andrews’s face. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to mention the fair to the sheriff. Thanks.”
The sound of the sleigh bells made Nora glance at her watch in alarm. It was after ten and she’d yet to brew a pot of coffee. A pair of women in their midthirties who were so similar looking that they had to be related entered Miracle Books. Nora smiled at them in greeting.
Already turning toward the back of the store, she tossed out a final remark to Deputy Andrews. “If you need someone to take a closer look at Amanda’s books, you know where to find me.”
Andrews nodded, tipped his hat at the visitors, and left the bookshop.
Nora hustled to the ticket agent’s office and set a pot of regular coffee to brew. She also retrieved the bakery box of pastries Abilene had left for her by the back door and arranged them under the protective glass domes of a pair of vintage cake plates. As she was completing her other opening tasks, such as switching on reading lamps and fluffing pillows, she heard a woman crying.
This wasn’t an unusual sound in a town called Miracle Springs—a place people traveled to from all over the globe in search of healing. People suffered from many kinds of injuries, but Nora found that some pain was simply too deep for the minerals or the heat of the warm water to reach. This pain was deeper than bone. It lived in the depths of the soul. The pain was a dark seed that sprouted in the dead of night. It was fed by too many drinks. Or bumping into a former lover. Or losing a job. Or by being worn down by life’s hardships.
Nora listened as the woman cried, and felt compelled to respond. She didn’t always feel this way, but today, with Amanda haunting her thoughts, she did.
Carrying a tray with cups of hot tea and apple book pockets to where the sisters were sitting in a corner by the Illness and Grief section, Nora put down the tray. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I find a hot drink and a little sugar improves even the crappiest situation.”
Taking a beverage napkin from the tray, she offered it to the sister with the red-rimmed eyes and the tear tracks on her cheeks.
The woman accepted and managed a wobbly smile of gratitude.
“Has it helped at all?” Nora asked gently, keeping her gaze on the woman. “Being in Miracle Springs?”
The woman moved her shoulders in the ghost of a shrug that Nora took to mean that she hadn’t gotten all that she’d wanted from her visit.
Nora waved her hand at the books surrounding their chairs. Books on illness, addiction, grief, and divorce. “There’s rarely a direct path to healing,” she said. “It’s just as winding and confusing as the rest of life.”
This elicited a bigger smile from the woman. “I wish my therapist had told me that from the get-go. She made me believe that all I had to do was put forth the effort and I’d feel better. But I don’t feel better. I’m as miserable as I was yesterday. And the day before that.”
“Maybe I can help.” Nora explained how she used bibliotherapy with certain customers.
The woman, whose name was Irene, was clearly dubious. Despite her misgivings, she told Nora how she’d been dumped by her partner of eleven years.
“He didn’t leave me for another woman,” Irene said. “That would have hurt, but in a weird way, it would have made our breakup easier. How things ended is almost worse than another person coming between us. Max just fell out of love with me. That’s what he claims, at least. He woke up one morning, looked at me over the rim of his coffee cup, and decided that he couldn’t spend another day with someone he didn’t love. That was it. I was perfectly content, so this was a serious punch in the gut. I loved him. I still love him. I don’t know why things changed!”
Irene began to cry again. Her sister, who introduced herself as Iris, pressed the teacup into Irene’s hand and begged her to drink.
“Max has moved on,” Iris continued on her sister’s behalf. “He lives in a different area of the city and is dating again. I keep telling my sister that he’s not a bad guy. He didn’t mean for this to happen and had enough integrity to be honest with her. And for the record, I think he’s pretty unhappy. His smiling pics on Facebook mean nothing. He’s just as lost and lonely as my sister. He’s just lost in wine bars with a different woman every weekend.”
Irene seemed to shrink following this remark.
“You’re going to be okay,” Nora told Irene. “There’s something missing in Max, not you. He ended your relationship so he could go out and search for it. Unfortunately, he took part of you with him when he left. Don’t be ashamed of your pain. You feel it because you loved him. But you need to heal that hole in your heart enough to move forward with your own life. I think I can help you do that. Will you give my method a shot? You’ll have to read a handful of books.”
“Yes,” Irene whispered.
Leaving the sisters to their tea and pastries, Nora moved among the bookshelves, collecting titles. She made a stack of books at the checkout counter. When the sisters were ready, she totaled and bagged a graphic novel called Heart in a Box, Greg Behrendt’s It’s Called a Breakup Because It’s Broken, Bridget Jones’s Diary, Nora Ephron’s Heartburn, and Porn for Women by Cambridge Women’s Pornography Cooperative.
Irene raised her brows at this last title. Nora caught the look and grinned. “It’s not what you think. The images are PG-rated. There’s a photo of a hot guy vacuuming, for example. In fact, there are several photos of hot guys cleaning.”
Iris craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the cover. “Do you have another copy?”
While Nora fetched the last copy and made a note to order a replacement, Iris selected a shelf enhancer for her
sister as a gift. She had Nora ring up a vintage picture frame made of sterling silver and tortoiseshell. Immediately after paying for it, she presented the frame to Irene.
“I want you to keep this empty until you read all those books,” Iris said. “When you’re done, we’ll go out and celebrate. And take a picture to put in here.”
The sisters embraced, thanked Nora, and left.
Their visit had started Nora’s day on a positive note. Irene had allowed Nora to minister to her, which made Nora feel useful and fulfilled. And Nora believed that Irene would recover from her heartbreak. She was lucky to have a loving and supportive friend in her sister.
As Nora scanned the books on her shelves, she thought about the friends she’d known throughout her life. These people had come and gone. She couldn’t always count on them, but she could count on books. Books didn’t desert her, move away, or break her trust. They’d always been her lifeline. Whenever life threatened to drag her under, the sheer power of the written word could pull her out of the roughest seas. Was there ever such a worthy or reliable friend as a book?
The sleigh bells banged against the front door again. After calling out a greeting to her latest customer, Nora went into the ticket agent’s office to pour herself a cup of coffee.
And then, deciding that she’d earned a treat, Nora slid an apple book-pocket on a plate and sat down to savor every bite.
* * *
“I’ve never lived alone,” Abilene told Nora over supper that night.
“All women should learn to live independently,” Nora said matter-of-factly. “You can take care of yourself. You’re smart, creative, and a very accomplished cook. Are you scared of being on your own?”
Abilene poked at her fried catfish, but didn’t answer.
“If you don’t want to be found, then you don’t have to be,” Nora went on. “Completing a lease application won’t shine a spotlight on you. Your references will be strictly local. Hester, June, and me. You don’t need a phone and you can have your bills sent to a post office box.” She waited. When Abilene didn’t speak, Nora touched her hand. “Is something going to show up on a background check? You can tell me without going into detail. It’s okay if you’ve made a mistake. I made a terrible mistake, and I’ll regret it as long as I live.”
