Mason said, “You can always count on me.”
We said goodbye and I put the phone down. At the register, Jess was ringing up a young woman with a stack of used paperbacks, short stories, Ann Beattie, Amy Hempel, Dawn Powell. “English major?” I asked her. She smiled and nodded. A threatened species. It was good to know they were still out there.
Jess raised an eyebrow my way. “Going into the admissions business?”
“I think I found us an intern.”
“Thank God. He can start in the mailroom. Speaking of which.” She handed me an envelope with my name on the front. “Someone slid this under the door. It was here when I arrived this morning.”
The white envelope bore an elegant red wax seal. No stamp. No return address. Inside was a postcard. A watercolor picture of a Parisian café, glamorous and chic, champagne in an ice bucket stand, fashionably dressed patrons milling in the background. A scene painted to make you wonder if you were in the right place if you were anywhere but there. Elegant, bold cursive filled the inside of the card.
To a Kindred Spirit:
I fear the Old World won’t be the same without you. If you ever find yourself needing a break from takeout and TCM, come find me—once again. Regardless, I have a feeling we’ll run into each other, sooner or later, and I’ve learned to always trust a hunch.
In the meantime, I remain,
Faithfully yours,
GTC
I looked from the postcard back to the bookstore, seeing Ethan, sitting comfortably on a beanbag, paperback in one hand, Bartleby the cat purring on his lap.
I read the card once more. Looked back and forth again.
I walked over to my boyfriend.
“Hey, there. What are you reading?”
He flipped the cover up to show me the title. The Sorrows of Young Werther.
“Goethe? God. You’re such a romantic.”
“You knew that already.” He was smiling as he stood to kiss me. The gray cat scrambled off his lap, paused to consider the next move, and then took over the beanbag with a drowsy finality that stated he didn’t intend to move again anytime soon.
“What’s that?” Ethan asked.
I looked down and realized I was still holding the postcard.
“Oh, just something from an old friend.”
“Looks fancy! You’re not about to break my heart and run off to Paris with some dashing, mysterious gentleman, are you?” Ethan teased, seeing the café scene as I turned the writing inward.
“I don’t think so.” I smiled as I slid the postcard into my pocket. “I guess one got away.”
Ethan returned my smile. “Lucky for me.” He checked his watch, a basic Seiko on a battered leather strap. “We have a couple of hours before the movie. How’s Chinese food sound?”
“For The Maltese Falcon? I feel like we should be doing chops and potatoes.”
“Yeah, well, try finding a good chophouse in Berkeley, at least until your brother takes my advice and opens one. Maybe we can get our hands on a bottle of scotch and a soda syphon, at least. I’ve always wanted to sneak hard liquor into a movie theater.” He winked at me with a sincere attempt at roguishness. “Not sure if you’re aware, but you are dating a true outlaw. I’ll stop at nothing.”
I smiled. “Scotch, sure. Just no ice picks, please.”
Ethan gave me a knowing look. “That kind of week?”
I didn’t share much about my work. But we’d been together almost a year. I had grown comfortable talking. A little. He had grown comfortable hearing a little, too. So far, it was working.
I nodded. “That kind of week. Yeah.”
“Very well,” he agreed. “An ice pick–free evening it shall be.”
I looked at him standing there, blue eyes, tobacco-wheat beard coming in across his jaw, jeans skinny enough that I knew I’d make fun of them at some point that evening, wearing his favorite corduroy jacket that he’d found in some Marin thrift shop, rumpled paperback held like it was an extension of his hand.
I spoke without having planned to speak. “Okay, fine. Let’s.”
“Chinese food? When have I ever said no?”
“That’s not what I mean. We can try it. Moving in. If you still want.”
He was surprised. “I was letting it rest. I hadn’t been asking. Seriously.”
“I know. But we can see how it goes.”
“You want to? Like actually want to?”
I nodded. “I do. But I need my space. I’m telling you that up front.”
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, too,” he said.
“Oh, yeah?”
He took a breath as though preparing for confession. “I’m a bit of a hoarder. I’ve got every copy of the Farmer’s Almanac going back to 1818. And you should see my rock garden.”
“Come on, seriously.”
“Also, have you considered pet ferrets? I think we should try them. They eat socks and pee everywhere, sure, but they’re very cuddly.”
“Jesus. I’m serious, Ethan! And in the morning, I get to shower first. Nonnegotiable.”
“The shower,” he said. “Glad you brought that up. That’s where my model NASCAR collection can go. We’ll have to sponge each other with buckets and loofahs over the kitchen sink once a week instead.”
“I’m going to change my mind. And my closet—”
“—would be perfect for my old soccer trophies. There’re a lot of them. I was really good in sixth grade, you know. Midfield. You’ll have to be careful where you step. Some of them are really pointy—”
I had thought I was done punching people for a while, but it turned out I had one left in me. I popped a nice left straight into his chin. Pulling back my hand at the last second, knuckles brushing the stubbly softness of his beard.
“Careful,” I warned. “You’re dating a very dangerous woman, you know.”
“Especially when she’s hungry.” He kissed me. “Come on. Let’s get dinner, you dangerous woman, you.”
We walked along Telegraph Avenue into the soft dusk of evening. A few brittle leaves danced along in the breeze of a passing bus, spinning up above the street before settling into stillness once again. I heard the cling-cling of a bicyclist’s bell, the reflector catching streetlight luminescence and sparking the radiance back in ruby fragments.
I turned my head for a last look at the bookstore. Seen from outside, it was a tempting destination, cozy, warmly lit, the stacks of books beckoning. Recently, we had found a painter who had etched a black magpie onto the glass storefront, and the name, BRIMSTONE MAGPIE, in ornate Victorian lettering above the bird. The kind of place that urged a passerby to pause, maybe step inside to see what they might find. A place where someone could leave behind the noise and splinters of the day and step anywhere at all. Infinite worlds, familiar and foreign, rows and rows of possibility and promise. Ethan followed my glance back to the store and his hand tightened in mine. Hand in hand, we walked down the street.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When Victoria Skurnick first agreed to represent me, I knew at once that I had found an incredible agent—but I soon realized that I had also made a great new friend. I cannot thank her enough for all she has done and continues to do on my behalf. Many thanks also to Jim Levine and everyone at LGR Literary Agency for their wide-ranging support, and to Alice Lawson at The Gersh Agency for her deftness in navigating the film/television world.
This book wouldn’t exist without the belief, enthusiasm, and editorial wizardry of my brilliant editors, Amy Einhorn and Christine Kopprasch. I’m very grateful for their willingness to read and reread to get this book to where it is, and having the chance to work with them once again has been a pleasure.
So many people at Flatiron Books have put their energy and expertise into this series. I want to especially thank Marlena Bittner, Nancy Trypuc, Katherine Turro, Chris Smith, Conor Mintzer, Sam Zukergood, Keith Hayes, and Kelly Gatesman. Thanks also to the amazing marketing, sales, and foreign rights te
ams at Flatiron as well as Matie Argiropoulos and everyone at Macmillan Audio. I am grateful to the editors around the world who have supported the series, especially the incredible group at Simon & Schuster U.K. Special thanks also to January LaVoy for (literally) giving a voice to my writing, and to Crystal Patriarche and everyone at BookSparks.
Catherine Plato cheerfully tolerated all the wild vacillations in mood that inevitably accompany writing and revision—as did my cat, with perhaps even greater equanimity. I am indebted as always to my parents, Alan and Barbara, and my brother, Daniel, for their unquantifiable support throughout both my life and the writing of this book. Tim Colla allowed me to shamelessly test the limits of friendship with his willingness to read and discuss this book from its nascency, and whenever I found myself stuck or uncertain our conversations proved invaluable. These acknowledgments would also be incomplete if I did not mention the Albatross Pub in Berkeley, a de facto office where so many of these pages were written over a pint and bowl of dollar popcorn.
They say one can’t be a writer without being a reader, and I want to note two libraries that have been formative in my life: the British Council Library in Jerusalem (sadly since closed) and the Canaan Town Library in New Hampshire (thankfully going strong). Finally, many thanks to the bookstores, libraries, bloggers, reviewers, authors, and most of all readers who took the time to read and support this book.
More from the Author
Save Me from Dangerous Men
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
S. A. Lelchuk holds a master’s degree from Dartmouth College and lives in Berkeley, California. Lelchuk’s first novel, Save Me from Dangerous Men, was a Kirkus Reviews Best Mysteries and Thrillers of the Year, a Booklist Year’s Best Debut Crime Novels, and one of USA Today’s Best Books of the Year.
www.SimonandSchuster.co.uk/Authors/S-A-Lelchuk
Also by S. A. Lelchuk
Save Me from Dangerous Men
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First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2021
Copyright © S.A. Lelchuk, 2021
The right of S.A. Lelchuk to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-8318-8
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-8319-5
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-8320-1
Audio ISBN: 978-1-3985-0052-5
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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