My hand hovers over the shop’s light switch. You can’t flip it too quickly or you blow a fuse. I opt not to flip it at all. At night the Printed Letter feels like a fishbowl. Dark outside. Light inside. Everyone can see you through the large bay windows, and you can see no one. It’s advantageous during an author event or an evening party; all the lights, books, food, wine, and chatter draw people in. Tonight I want to slip between the cracks in the floorboards and vanish.
It’s a Thursday, however, and that means people are out and about. A couple years ago, the local business association voted to keep stores open late on Thursdays to encourage people to stroll around town after work or dinner and shop. In the summer, there’s music in the square. In winter, there are carolers, Santa, and lights twinkling on every tree lining Main Street. It all makes this little, almost-forgotten town feel like home.
A group of shoppers walk by and glance in. I’m tempted to flip on the lights and unlock the door. Apparently we could use a sale or two. It wouldn’t help. Maddie’s brother will sell the shop without a second thought, as anyone would a bad investment. A bookshop. It’s not glamorous, not original, and apparently it’s no longer profitable. And I thought we were partaking in the Indie Renaissance—shows what I know.
The shop will sell, and Claire and I will have the privilege of unloading stock and shutting it down. We will lose one more link to Maddie and the life I’ve come to accept, if not enjoy. And along with everything else that has slipped away, there is no turning back to grasp it again, nor any chance to make it better. The past holds no hope.
A copy of The Girl on the Train sits nearby—out of place. I hurl it across the store. Everyone loved that book except me. That girl spent most of the story ruining her life—drinking, lashing out, lying, spinning out of control . . . How is she a heroine? What does that term mean anymore? Just because one is a main character, does that make her a heroine? Not her. Never her. She was weak, reactive, pathetic, lost—
The paperback thwacks the front bay window.
Two women walking by yelp, and I drop to the floor, my heart in my throat. One, two, three . . . I peer above the Holiday New Releases table. The women have pressed their hands to the glass, straining to see inside. I sink lower. What if they see me? Worse, what if I shattered the window?
I count to ten this time and inch up to look across the store again. The women have moved on. I slump with relief. In the glow of the streetlights, I note gum pressed underneath the display table. And not only one disgusting person has done that, but three. A blob of bright pink—a kid with bubblegum? A nondescript beige—most likely mint, maybe Trident? And a red one—cinnamon . . .
Oops. That one is mine. I pick at the gum with my finger until it pops off and falls to the floor. I stuck it there as Seth walked in one day almost two years ago. It was the last time he came to the shop, formerly a favorite stop for him.
The ink wasn’t dry on our divorce papers yet, and I thought maybe . . . So I spit out my gum so as not to chew like a cow, fluffed my hair, and smiled sweetly. But I was wrong. That ship had sailed—or rather, I had set it ablaze like a Viking funeral pyre. Seth simply handed me his house key and said he had gone back to remove the last of his belongings. Anything more I found, I was to discard. He didn’t want it.
I lean back against the table leg and feel the pain of that afternoon stab me anew. I had raced home wondering what he had left. I felt certain that I would know his heart, and our chances for reconciliation, by what he had taken. There had to be some things, some memories, he would still cherish. Would he have wanted that small painting we bought for our seventh anniversary? The one we deemed too expensive and then, after sharing a bottle of wine over lunch, purchased because it really was priced right? He would have taken that—and then I would know.
I feel now as I did then, unlocking our front door, heart in throat. But that time the sensation was riddled with hope, not fear and shame.
I’d stood in the front hall, able to survey the living room, the dining room, and the short passageway into the kitchen, and I felt myself fall . . . He had left behind every picture, note, knickknack, and memento of our lives together. His sketch of Wrigley Field drawn in commemoration of the 2016 Cubs win still hung above his desk. I could glimpse it through his study’s glass door past the living room. Every single item remained. After all, I was part of all of it.
I push myself to standing. There’s a bottle of wine in the office refrigerator left over from our last Conversation with an Author. What was her name? That perky twentysomething who wrote the memoir about finding love in San Francisco over a cat, a dog, and a rainy afternoon? Considering how much said twentysomething drank, wine should have been featured in her story as well. All through her talk, I suspected there was more fiction than fact to her story, and wine was her primary source of inspiration. But who am I to judge?
“Happy Birthday to me.”
I grab the bottle and the opener, skip the clear plastic cup, and return to my spot on the floor. Somehow it feels appropriate. If no one can see me, if I’m not where a proper human ought to be, then none of this counts. I’m not drinking alone and I’m not living this pathetic life. I’m outside it all, toasting my birthday and Maddie’s life from afar.
The cloud cover shifts and moonlight floods the store. I watch as the moon provides the yellow high note to the glittery white drops dappling the books. I glance outside. The trees are lit with thousands of tiny lights . . . Winter . . . It’s almost Christmas! I had forgotten how close we were, only weeks away.
The cynic in me whispers, Time to shop. The romantic in me gasps. Sure, I make the displays for the store and set up the Holiday New Releases table, but that’s my job. I compartmentalize with the best of them. But the trees are now lit. Seth and I used to walk into town, hand in hand, to see them lit for the first time on the night after Thanksgiving each year. Last year I walked into town alone. This year I forgot.
The tears surprise me. They shouldn’t. It’s more surprising that, after the past two years, there are any left.
I raise the bottle of an indifferent Sauvignon Blanc and toast the trees. “Here’s to you, Maddie, and to me. I wish you were here.”
And I drink.
Chapter 4
Claire
Claire pushed open the shop’s alley door with another mental note—Oil door hinges—and examined the alarm. It was off—it was never off. She was always, or at least every morning for the past six months, the first to arrive. And she wasn’t late this morning. In fact, probably early . . .
Brittany had left in a blaze of teenage indignation, bullying Matt out the door fifteen minutes early. She could still feel her daughter’s contempt and her son’s defeat. He’d learned his lesson well. Keep your head down and your mouth shut in hopes the Brittany-storm would blow past you. Not this morning. Brittany had been angry about the laundry. The darks, meaning her leggings, weren’t dry yet.
“They’ll be dry by this afternoon. I can’t put them in the dryer or they’ll pill and fade.”
“I need them today.” Arms crossed, the girl had ground out each word.
“Find something else. You have plenty of clothes.” Claire had worked to sound nonchalant, as nonchalant often quelled the rising storm.
“You don’t get it. You never do. This is what the team is wearing today, and when you’re new, you don’t want to stand out, Mom.” She spat the last word.
“Lucky you’re not new this year,” Claire quipped back.
The look on Brittany’s face stripped her comment of any humor. “I’ll always be new.”
She had stormed out of the room as Claire sank onto a kitchen stool. She knew her daughter was right to some degree. Moving as a junior in high school to a new town where most kids had lived their whole lives had put Brittany in a tough spot. And, as they now applied to colleges, she faced “new” again, as she called it. It was an adjective, a verb, and a noun packed into three little letters.
“You n
ever get it.” Brittany blew back through the kitchen and threw open the back door. “Matt, get down here. I’m leaving in one minute with or without you.”
“You can wait for him.”
“Not today.” She stomped out the door.
Claire had stepped to the window, thankful for the previous night’s ice. The need to scrape off the windshield would give Matt extra time. He raced through the kitchen.
“Grab your lunch off the counter.”
“Bye, Mom.”
“You don’t have to rush.”
“If I want a ride I do.” Then he, too, was out the door.
Claire dwelt on Brittany during her drive to work—not that anything could be solved in three miles. She asked herself if it was a phase. Some experts would say yes. Others stood firm that there was no such thing as a phase, but that theory worried Claire more. Had she been too lenient when they moved? Given in to too many demands to try to make up for the loss of their Ohio home? Had her daughter intrinsically changed, never to return? Whatever it was, somehow the fine threads between them had been severed. There was no communication or respect, only recrimination and disdain all wrapped up in an angry, blond, seventeen-year-old girl.
Now Claire made her way through the back office, dropped her bag and coat, and rounded the corner into the shop—and met chaos.
“What are you doing here so early? And what . . . What are you doing? We open in a couple hours.”
Books lined the center aisle. Paper, lights, and boxes were scattered everywhere. She could barely find the floor. And was that a model train?
“This won’t be done by then,” Janet commented over her shoulder.
“I figured that.” Claire stared, unsure what to say.
Janet spared her a quick glance. “I’m changing the windows. I remembered Chase’s model trains last night and got this wonderful idea of running them through the window display and into the store across these two tables. It’ll be spectacular. We can load the little coal cars with small gifts and stack the books in the center like a mountain range.”
Claire picked up the engine. It was heavy, impressive, with its real screws and soldered pieces. “These were Chase’s? They’re antiques.”
Janet paused. “Seth owned them first. I think they were his father’s, but he gave the whole set to Chase for his tenth birthday.” She pointed to the engine. “The engine is actually built from Ephraim Shay’s original geared locomotive designs, scaled down.”
“Are you sure it’s okay with Seth to use them?”
Janet’s hands worked double-time pinning a garland to the upper corner of the window. “He left them behind. Chase did too. I’m sure he’ll want them someday, but it’s not like I’m going to ruin them. I’m helping them. The gears will freeze if they don’t get used and stay lubricated.”
Claire shook her head. “Any idea how long this will take?”
“Does it matter if it takes all day?”
“This close to Christmas, foot traffic is usually high. This season we need it to be high.”
Janet threw her a look.
“I guess not.”
Hours later, Janet was still deep into the window, leaving Claire alone to unpack the daily book boxes and handle the foot traffic. The shop burst with customers as if everyone needed a dose of their beloved friend’s shop.
“Maddie always picked out my gifts for my great-grandchildren. Are you still holding the Holiday Bazaar?” Dottie Neuland asked, then purchased a variety of gifts, books, and another pair of plus-five readers.
“You won’t change anything in here, will you? We love this store.”
Claire smiled as two young moms gathered their collective five kids after a full hour of play. They’d sneaked off to the armchairs in the shop’s back corner to chat while the kids pored through dozens of books and scattered the toys.
“The Further Adventures of Ebenezer Scrooge is this year’s book club holiday selection. We need thirty copies by next Wednesday.” Doug Benson never smiled, but he always placed a large monthly order.
Camille Johnson, one of Maddie’s closest friends, simply stood in the center aisle and breathed deeply. “I still feel her here, don’t you?”
“Yes, but the Holiday Bazaar is a little later this year. On the twenty-first, at six o’clock.”
“We wouldn’t change a thing . . .”
“We can have thirty copies here by Tuesday afternoon . . .”
“Yes, and I hope she always stays close by.”
Claire fielded the questions, rang the sales, consoled the friends, and placed the orders—all while Janet finished her masterpiece.
The store quieted after the lunch rush, and Janet joined her at the counter.
“Welcome to the fourth quarter.” Claire dropped to a stool and rubbed lotion into her hands.
“We need help.” Janet arched her back. “You should ask Brittany to come after school and help with all that unpacking.”
“I asked last week. She’s not interested. She said we couldn’t pay her enough.”
“She and a friend used to do it last fall for free.”
“That was before I worked here.”
“Is that a problem?” Janet reached for the lotion.
“Apparently.”
“That’s too bad, but we need someone.” Janet opened her mouth as if to pursue Brittany again.
Claire felt a wave of relief when nothing came. She knew Brittany had once enjoyed working after school at the Printed Letter. She’d enjoyed Janet and Maddie. And somehow Claire had ruined that, along with everything else in Brittany’s life.
Janet opened her mouth again. “Latte?”
“Sure. Let me—”
“My turn. I’ll be back in ten.” Janet was out the alley door, without a coat, and without shutting it behind her.
Claire closed it, then headed to the front door, stepping over a few decorating elements still in the center aisle and straightening books as she went. She walked outside to look back at the window and into the shop. Janet was right—it was going to be spectacular. She had covered the table in green velvet and tied huge red grosgrain bows along the skirt. On top she’d set the tracks around the perimeter, then displayed books in the center, green covers, spines out, with a sprinkling of white books thrown in, growing whiter near the top like snowcapped mountaintops. In the second bay she had created a display full of red-, brown-, and orange-covered books that gave Claire the feeling of a lodge’s roaring fire and the sense that if she walked into the store, behind this display of green and cold to the left, she could find that warm place depicted to the right. She laughed aloud. Janet was a challenge most days, but she was brilliant, and when she created, you could see her heart—and it was beautiful.
She felt a presence beside her and turned. “Seth?”
“Are those . . . That’s my train set, isn’t it?”
“Janet brought them in this morning. She thought they would make a welcoming display for the store. She ran to get coffee if you want to wait.”
“No.” His reply was quick, but it held no anger. Claire heard notes of surprise, even panic in the simple word. She tried to read his expression, but he kept his eyes trained on the tracks and the one car Janet had set on them. It was a coal car, and she’d placed a small gold-wrapped, red-ribboned box inside. “Don’t tell her I saw this. Don’t mention that I walked by.”
“Why not?”
“Please. Don’t.” Seth glanced toward the coffee shop. “She looks thinner. I saw her at Maddie’s funeral yesterday . . . Is she eating? She’s a wonderful cook, but she tends not to prepare food or eat much when she’s alone. When I used to travel . . . Never mind.” He cut himself off and studied the train tracks.
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
Without another glance or word, Janet’s ex-husband walked away.
Claire watched him until he was out of sight, then turned back to the window. She had met Janet after her divorce. She knew little of Seth, other than Mad
die had adored him.
A paper cup materialized before her face. “Almond-milk latte.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s wrong? You don’t like it?” Janet stepped closer. Their shoulders touched as they both gazed at the window.
“I love it. Looking at it makes me happy.”
“Same here. It’s the closest I’ve felt to home in a long time.”
* * *
Madeline
A light rap on my door preceded “Mr. Frankel is here for you.”
“Thanks, Patricia.” I tapped my screen black and slid the case file aside before looking up. Liam Duncan, of Duncan, Schwartz and Baring, taught me that. Put your work away, physically, as the client enters. It not only shows you’re giving them your attention, but it makes them reticent to waste your time. Maybe that meant less drama and hand-holding for a divorce lawyer like Duncan, but it rarely made a difference in contracts. Nevertheless, I followed his edict.
I looked up, action ended, and no one entered. I leaned back, waiting and preparing myself for small-rimmed glasses, young, and sloppy. Still no one. Ten more seconds passed before I found myself faced with tall, dark, massive, and a dusting of gray hair.
I stood immediately. “Mr. Frankel?”
“Miss Cullen.” He boomed like James Earl Jones—the Darth Vader version, not The Sandlot’s. “Call me Greg.”
“Please come in and have a seat.”
My eyes must have appeared huge, because he grinned a full set of bright white teeth. His eyes almost folded shut with the smile.
“I’m not what you expected, I see.”
“I expected you to be young, and your voice is different . . . I . . . I know I sounded so patronizing.”
The Printed Letter Bookshop Page 5
