by Karen White
Emmy sat back, her breathing loud and her forefinger pressed against the page. Who are these people? The books were old, and the handwriting faded, which made her fairly positive that whoever had written these notes hadn’t done so recently.
A clock struck four times somewhere in the house, and Emmy closed her eyes. She needed to at least try to get some sleep if she didn’t want to be a complete zombie later that day. Reluctantly, she began stacking the books back into the box, being careful to stick book-marks into the books she’d found with notes, and to separate the stack into books she’d searched through already and those that she hadn’t. It would give her something to look forward to, and she felt the old flutter of anticipation.
She reached for a short stack of books, accidentally flicking open the back cover of the one on top, a dog-eared copy of Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms. As Emmy bent to close it, her skin pricked again, and she knew with absolute certainty that something was about to happen—some change or shift in her universe was going to take place and there was nothing she could do about it. She paused, realizing she’d reached such a dark place in her life that she no longer even cared.
Peering down at the book in the dimly lit room, she found herself holding her breath. Staring out at her from the opened inside back cover was a hand-drawn picture of what appeared to be tall sticks dug into the ground to give the resemblance of a tree. On the tip of each limb, inverted so that the openings could fit onto the tips, were bottles of different shapes and sizes, all colored in shades of black ink.
Emmy sat on the edge of her bed, the book open on her lap to the picture of the bottle tree. She felt an odd compulsion to laugh but instead fell back on the bed, the book clutched in her hands. Ever since Emmy’s mother had given her the jar of sand, everything had taken on an air of inevitability, as if she were slipping on ice and unable to right herself.
It’s time to go. She wasn’t sure if the voice came from inside her head or if it was just a memory of Ben’s voice. She listened to the silence for a moment, then, feeling bolder, said the words out loud: “It’s time to go.” She didn’t know who had written the messages in the books, or who had drawn the picture of the bottle tree, but they had managed to shake her awake. They’d given her something to look forward to: unanswered questions in a life that she’d begun to assume wouldn’t have any more. Folly Beach was unknown to her, but it seemed to be as good as any other place without Ben. She’d done the equivalent of spinning the globe and pointing her finger, but she couldn’t help the feeling that the box of books had nudged her hand toward the small barrier island off the coast of South Carolina.
She closed her eyes again, listening for the footsteps but heard instead the soft sighing of a summer wind whispering inside the glass of her mother’s bottle tree.
CHAPTER 3
FOLLY BEACH, SOUTH CAROLINA
January 1942
Maggie kneeled in front of the bookshelf in the back of Folly’s Finds, reshelving the atlas she’d borrowed to take home the previous night. She was always careful not to leave fingerprints on the covers or bend the spines, and since the atlas was one of the more expensive books she had in the store, she’d been extra careful. She normally limited her selection to a classic romance, but she’d taken the atlas on impulse, wanting to learn what she could about Poland.
She eyed the shelf critically, noticing how some of the books had been wrongly shelved and began pulling them off to reorganize. She gritted her teeth as she wondered if Cat had done it deliberately so that she wouldn’t be asked to do it again or if she really was incapable of shelving books alphabetically by author. Sitting back on her heels, Maggie called out, “Lulu, could you please open that small box behind the counter—the one that arrived yesterday? It’s toothpaste and shaving cream, and needs to go on the shelves.”
Lulu didn’t answer right away and Maggie pictured her sitting behind the counter out of view, her nose buried in yet another Nancy Drew mystery. Or drawing inside the back cover in ink. The first time she’d caught Lulu drawing in a book, she’d been angry until she’d seen how good it was. She’d held her anger in check and instructed Lulu to contain her drawings to her notepads, but every now and then she’d find an ink drawing tucked into the back cover of one of her precious books, like Lulu’s signature.
With a halfhearted voice, Lulu called out, “Where do you want them?”
“On the front shelf to the right, third row down. Next to the soap if we have any left.”
Maggie listened as Lulu let out an exaggerated sigh, followed by the sound of a box being shoved across the wood floor. She was about to call out again to tell Lulu to pick up the box because she was scratching the floor when the sound of a man’s voice, slightly accented, stopped her.
“May I help you with that, young miss?”
Maggie felt her cheeks heat as her hands went to her hair to smooth it quickly. She bit on her lips to color them and stood, hastily untying her apron and shoving it on the shelf behind her. With what she hoped would be a calm and mildly interested smile on her face, she walked to the front of the store.
Peter wore a dark blue suit with a neatly pressed white handkerchief stuck inside the pocket. He finished moving the box before straightening and smiling when he saw her, making Maggie blush. “Margaret,” he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips in a decidedly old-fashioned way.
“Peter,” she said. “What a nice surprise to see you here.” Peter had escorted her home the previous evening since Cat had pulled another disappearing act, but when Peter had kissed her hand and wished her good night, there had been no promises and she hadn’t expected any. Most of the men on Folly were here only temporarily, and her experience with Jim had taught her to not look beyond the present.
He raised an eyebrow. “But you told me about your store. I presumed it was because you’d like for me to see it.”
She appreciated his efforts to save her from embarrassment and found herself smiling back. “Yes, of course. And you’re just in time for the morning paper. We just received our News and Courier delivery.”
He nodded as his gaze traveled over the well-worn oak counter that had been there before Maggie had acquired the store and probably been there since the store’s existence. He noticed without comment the candy baskets at the foot of the counter, the short shelves of cigarettes and the bowls of matches, the magazine racks of House and Garden and Good Housekeeping, the Coca-Cola ice cooler.
“It looks like you’re not having any shortages here.”
“Not yet. We’ve only been at war for two months. But I have a feeling things are going to change pretty soon. Already I’m finding it difficult finding ladies’ hosiery. All the silk seems to have been requisitioned by the military.”
He nodded and was silent for a moment as he continued to peruse the shelves. “You have a very nice store here,” he said as he walked to the back, where the bookshelves stood. Lulu and Maggie followed him. “Ah, books.” With reverence, he slid a volume from the shelf and examined the cover.
Maggie leaned over to look and read the cover, Porgy and Bess. Feeling the need to impress him, she said, “The author, DuBose Heyward, had a cottage here on Folly. He invited George Gershwin to stay in it while writing the music for his opera based on the book. I was only a little girl—about Lulu’s age, I think—but I saw him a few times.”
She knew she was rambling with nervousness, but when he looked at her with a raised eyebrow, she took it as encouragement and continued. “When he first got here, he was all New York and very formal with suits and proper shoes. It didn’t take him long to go ‘native,’ though. He was going barefoot and had a beard within the first few months.” Maggie’s smile faded as she noticed that Peter didn’t seem as enthusiastic as she was about the renowned musician.
His eyebrows knit together as he slowly flipped through the pages. “I’m familiar with the book although I can’t say it was one of my favorites.” He turned to Maggie. “George Gershwin�
�he’s a Jew, isn’t he?”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “I have no idea. I love his music, probably because I was raised on it. My mother played piano and Rhapsody in Blue was her favorite. Why do you ask?”
Peter closed the book with a solid thud before reshelving it exactly where it had been, making sure it was lined up with the edge of the shelf. “Just an observation. In Europe everyone knows who the Jews are, yet here in America, they’ve been assimilated into the culture so much that it seems as if it’s merely an afterthought.”
Maggie turned back to the bookshelves with a shrug. “I can’t speak for the rest of the country, but here on Folly, we’re pretty accepting. We have our own little melting pot here, with people of different races and religions rubbing along with very little friction.”
A smile tightened the corners of his lips as he let his index finger drift across the shelves. “I suppose that’s what makes America so charming—your little ‘melting pot’ concept where everybody is equal.”
Maggie looked at him sharply. “But that’s exactly why you’re here—why your parents were welcomed here and allowed to succeed in business. Because here a man’s measure is determined by how hard he works, not by who his father was or what religious faith he practices. I would think that would make you proud.”
Lulu, apparently bored with the conversation, returned to the front of the store, and they both watched her go. Peter’s voice was gentle when he spoke. “And you are absolutely correct, of course. I was merely making a social commentary. We have a war raging in Europe seemingly against a single race of people, whereas here it’s not even a concern. I am very proud of my adoptive country, and very thankful that my family and I are here now instead of over there.”
His tone indicated that he was finished with that line of conversation, and he turned back to the books. Maggie watched as he slid his index finger along the shelves, silently reading the titles. He paused at Romeo and Juliet but continued without picking it up. She still wasn’t sure why he was in the store, and she began to interpret his silence to mean that he was there to look for a book. But she stayed near him while he browsed, telling herself it was because she was unsure how to leave without being rude. She found herself studying his hands, noticing that his fingers were long and elegant like the rest of him, and it made her wonder if he played the piano. On the third finger of his right hand, he wore a gold insignia ring. Leaning in closer, pretending to line up the spines of books on the shelf, she saw the ring bore the letter K. He looked at her suddenly, catching her staring at him, and she stepped back, mortified at having been caught.
He surprised her by smiling. “It was my maternal grandfather’s. He was killed in the First World War, so I never knew him. I wear his ring to honor him.”
Maggie held up her arm, displaying the slim gold chain with the single pendant of a sand dollar. “This was my mother’s. I wear it to remember her.”
Peter’s eyes softened. “Were you very young when she died?”
“Fifteen. My little sister was barely three.”
He was silent for a moment, his expression closed. “Losing a mother is always hard, especially for one so young. My own mother passed away two years ago, and I still miss her every day. We had the same eyes, you see. So whenever I look in the mirror, I’m reminded of her.”
Maggie was embarrassed to find tears stinging her eyes, but his voice had been filled with sadness, reminding her of her own loss, which never seemed to get easier to bear. “Two years isn’t that long. It’s been six years for me, yet it still feels like yesterday.” She raised her hands, splaying the fingers wide like a starfish. “We had the same hands, and I inherited her love of books. That’s why I bought this place. It was always the first stop we’d make when we came to Folly. My mother and I would spend hours on the beach reading each morning. Those were the happiest days of my life.”
Maggie blushed, embarrassed that she was telling this virtual stranger her life’s story. But his eyes were warm and understanding, inviting her confidences.
“We have a lot in common, it seems,” he said softly before turning back to the bookshelves. After a moment he pulled another volume from a shelf and opened it, and when she leaned forward, she saw the title printed on the top of a page. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The tragic story of Jay Gatsby. I was never sure if I should admire him or pity him. Regardless, it’s one of my favorite books.”
It was one of Maggie’s favorite novels, too, and she felt herself flushing again. “You may borrow it, if you like.”
He raised an eyebrow in question.
“These were all my mother’s books, which I brought from the house in Charleston when I sold it following my father’s death three years ago. I didn’t have room at the cottage but I didn’t want to get rid of them, either. They’re all so much a part of her, and so much a part of what we shared together. So I keep them here, and allow people to borrow them. We do have a library here on Folly. I’m just another option. And instead of issuing library cards, I use the honor system.” Maggie pointed to the old coffee can on a bottom shelf. “When you take a book, you place a nickel in the can, and when you return it, you take one.”
“But what if I want to purchase a book for my own pleasure?”
The way he said the word “pleasure” reminded Maggie of the way Cat spoke, emphasizing certain words so that the listener was left wondering at the speaker’s true meaning. Flushing again, she said, “Then I can order one for you. You don’t even need to pay me until the book arrives.”
He nodded as he opened the book and began to flip through the pages before examining the spine. “This book—has it been borrowed before?”
Despite Maggie’s extreme care while reading her books, this copy was dog-eared and well read by not only her but by every customer who asked her for a recommendation. “Quite a bit. And I’ve read it at least five times, although since I own it that wouldn’t really be considered borrowing it, would it?”
Peter’s smile broadened. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a nickel before dropping it into the can, the sound very loud in the quiet store.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t want another book . . . one you haven’t already read? Or at least one in better condition?”
He studied her, his gaze intent. “It doesn’t matter which book I borrow. My aim is really just to have an excuse to return.”
Maggie flushed yet again, but was spared from fumbling for a response by Lulu emerging from the front of the shop. She eyed Peter suspiciously. “I finished with the toothpaste and shaving cream. Can I go back to reading now?”
Maggie put her arm around Lulu’s shoulder. “Thank you, Lulu. And you may go back to reading as soon as you allow me to introduce you to my new friend, Mr. Nowak.”
Lulu eyed him in silence before raising her hand and allowing Peter to shake it just as Maggie had taught her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Her sullen tone belied her words. “You talk funny. And why aren’t you in uniform?”
“Lulu!” Maggie warned, squeezing Lulu’s shoulder.
Peter put a gentle hand on Maggie’s arm. “That’s all right. The young should be rewarded for being inquisitive. . . . It’s how they learn. To answer your questions, young lady, I’m originally from Poland but emigrated to the United States when I was a boy. As for my lack of uniform, it is because I have asthma. I seek only to do as much as I can for the war effort without donning one.”
“Jim wore a navy uniform. He died at Pearl Harbor defending our country.”
Peter sent Maggie a questioning look.
“Jim was Cat’s husband. We . . . we were very fond of him.” Peter raised an eyebrow. “It’s hard to say good-bye to those we love, isn’t it? He must have been an admirable and honorable man to have won the respect and admiration of three beautiful and intelligent women.”
Lulu’s face softened for a moment and Maggie gave her shoulder another
squeeze. “He was.”
Peter knelt in front of Lulu and reached inside his jacket. “Because of my travels and position, I am sometimes able to acquire items that are a little more difficult to find these days. When Margaret told me that she had a younger sister, I knew just the thing that I had to bring if I had the good fortune to meet you today.”
He pulled out a cream-colored lace hair ribbon. “Handmade in Brussels, Belgium. I bought just a few last time I was in New York looking for fabrics. And I can’t think of a lovelier young lady more deserving than you.”
When Lulu hesitated to take the proffered ribbon, Maggie nudged her. Slowly, Lulu extended her hand and took the ribbon. Fingering it gingerly, she looked up at Peter, her face serious. “Thank you, sir.”
Maggie wanted to suggest that Lulu place the ribbon around her ponytail as a proper form of thank-you, but she didn’t. Lulu was always slow to warm up to people—except for Jim—and some people never did break through her reserve. It would take more than an exquisite hair ribbon to win her over.
Peter stood and faced Maggie again. “If I’m not being too forward, Margaret, I was wondering if I might ask you to accompany me tonight to dinner, and maybe some dancing afterward.”
“I . . .”
Maggie’s answer was interrupted by Lulu, who blurted out, “She can’t. She needs to watch me in the evenings because I’m only nine years old.”
