by Jade Astor
After he left, Stephen held the bill up to the light, half expecting it to come up counterfeit. Luckily, this one looked real enough, even if the guy himself seemed a little too good—or maybe a little too weird—to be true. Who willingly paid double for a musty old poetry book?
Still, Stephen had to admit, he liked the way the guy said his name—softly, like it was also part of a classic old poem. Too bad he hadn’t offered his own in return.
Just another day in Used Book Land, he mused, tossing the money in the till. Otherwise known as the Land of the Lost.
Soon Uncle Vernon and Geoffrey returned, having exchanged their load of boxes for a bag of delicious-smelling sandwiches and three cans of orange soda. They dragged two chairs up to the front counter and spread the napkins out to form a makeshift tablecloth.
“I thought you deserved this, since you’ve been working so hard,” Vernon said, handing Stephen one of the sodas. He popped the others for Geoffrey and himself. “Do you remember when you used to come and visit during school vacations? I’d put up a sign and we’d walk to the corner store, just you and I. I’d buy you a comic book and any snack you wanted. You never asked for candy, though—orange soda it was, every time.”
“I remember. That was a long time ago.” Stephen smiled. The loving gesture filled Stephen with affection and warmth, not to mention a salting of plain old-fashioned guilt. His resentment at being stuck in the store faded, at least for the moment. “Thank you, Uncle Vernon.”
“Now you’ve finished college,” Vernon said wistfully. “Who ever knew time could go so fast?”
“Andrew Marvell, maybe,” Geoffrey suggested. Uncle Vernon ignored him.
“Just wait until you’re old, like Geoffrey and me. Then you’ll watch the days slip away like water dripping down the sink. Faster and faster. Nothing you can do to stop it.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Geoffrey. “Here’s to making every moment count.”
The three of them clicked their cans together like champagne glasses.
Uncle Vernon sipped from his can and winced a little. “I see they’re putting just as much sugar in this stuff as before. Thought people were eating healthier these days.”
“You should, certainly,” Geoffrey reminded him, prompting a withering look from Vernon.
“Anyway, never mind that. Did anything happen around here while I was gone?”
Stephen took a long swallow of soda, which really was too sweet for him now that he was an adult. Then he started to tell him about his strange young customer, his dramatic reading of Coleridge’s creepy poem, and his apparent belief in evil books. At the last moment, he stopped himself.
“We had a sale,” he settled for saying. “A Coleridge book. It was marked eight bucks, but the guy insisted it was worth twenty. Paid up without argument. And yes, I checked to make sure it wasn’t a fake bill.”
Uncle Vernon beamed. “Obviously a collector. Well done, young man.”
“Sales have been slow, I take it?” Geoffrey offered both of them a sympathetic gaze.
“I’m afraid so, though Stephen’s idea of selling things on the computer has worked out remarkably well. Don’t think I can’t see the irony. Those damnable machines are what killed the public’s appetite for books in the first place. Now we’re using them to simultaneously preserve and annihilate this store and hundreds more like it.”
“Don’t say that, Uncle Vernon,” Stephen objected, though privately he didn’t see the transition to digital texts—and modern attitudes—as a bad thing in any sense of the word. “There are still people around who want what we offer. A lot of them are looking through our web listings now, and we’re getting good prices, at least for the moment.”
“So you can keep the place going for a while,” Geoffrey said, making Stephen want to kick him—right after he kicked himself. The orange soda must have gone to his head.
“We would have gone under when I had my heart attack if Stephen hadn’t arrived to help out,” Uncle Vernon grumbled. “As it was, the place was shut down for almost three weeks. Put quite a dent in things, I don’t mind admitting. And frankly, I’m not sure what I’ll do when Stephen moves on at the end of the summer.”
Geoffrey glanced from Vernon to Stephen. “I thought he hadn’t made any definite plans yet.”
Stephen started to answer, but Uncle Vernon cut him off. “He hasn’t, but he can’t stay here forever. Nothing for him to do in this town. He’s a college graduate now, and with a degree in business besides. He needs to go out in the world, find a job and a boyfriend. I can’t be the one to keep him from that.”
“You’re right,” Geoffrey said solemnly, gazing at Stephen. “Everyone should have a partner in life, or at the very least a steady companion. I’m glad you think so, Vernon.”
“Well, someone his age should, certainly,” Vernon said, picking up his soda again. “Best to get that over with before you get old and set in your ways, like me.”
“Oh, come now, Vernon, surely you don’t think one has to be a certain age to fall in love,” Geoffrey pressed on, a bit desperately. “It can happen at any age, and it can turn out quite well if both people are willing to work at it.”
“Well, there you are,” Vernon said. “Who has time to work on such things? I don’t certainly. Keeping this store afloat takes up all my time, and then some. It’s not as though I can afford to hire an assistant. Stephen’s father is taking care of his expenses while he’s here. Another reason this can’t go on long-term. My brother would never agree to that, and I would never ask him to.”
“It’s all right, Uncle Vernon. The summer’s only begun. Everything will work out eventually.” Stephen spared a meaningful glance for Geoffrey as he said it, but by then Geoffrey had slumped over his sandwich, despondent.
Not noticing, Vernon lifted his eyes to the portrait of Maynard, gazing sternly down on them. “We inhabit a world far removed from the one Maynard Carlyle knew,” he said solemnly. “The past exists only in echoes…and the books in our store, of course. As long as Carlyle Books still exists, we can still hear the voices of those who came before us. And I intend to make sure it exists at least as long as I do.”
Crumpling his sandwich wrapper, he stood and marched to the back office as Stephen guiltily cleared away the remains of his own lunch. However he might feel about the store and its contents, this place was Uncle Vernon’s dearest possession in the world as well as a link to the days of his own youth. He’d be devastated by its loss unless Stephen did something to soften the blow. He’d have to talk to his father about that as soon as possible.
Then again, a lot could happen in two months. He glanced at Geoffrey, still munching his sandwich in gloomy silence. Time to get that particular horse on the track, and fast.
“Thanks for your help with the packages,” Stephen said cheerfully. “I know Uncle Vernon appreciated it, even if he forgot to say so.”
Geoffrey shook his head sadly. “Every time I think I’ve taken a step forward, I find myself being kicked back into the gutter. And the worst part is that he doesn’t even realize he does it.”
“We’re just going to have to double down,” Stephen said. “Frankly, I think—”
He froze when Uncle Vernon stuck his head back through the door.
“By the way, Stephen, please make some time this afternoon to finish cleaning those pictures. The frames are an utter disgrace. Somehow the dirt has now migrated to one side.”
Chapter 2
All morning, Uncle Vernon had been bustling around the store in an agitated state. He charged through the shelves, rearranging the books Stephen had already alphabetized, dusting off the covers with a new white rag, and even changing the prices on a few. Next, he prowled through Stephen’s work area, picking up and moving items for no good reason. Stephen silently planned to put them all back as soon as he disappeared into his office again, but he finally had to protest when Uncle Vernon grabbed a stack of books from right beside him and tried to whisk them to so
me unknown location.
“Uncle Vernon, please! I was about to put those into the computer! If you move them you’ll mess up my whole system.”
“Well, your desk appears to be covered in clutter. Do try to tidy it up a bit, Stephen.” Glancing up at the big round mirror they used to monitor the back of the shop, Vernon straightened his striped tie and pushed his round gold-rimmed glasses up on his nose.
“Uncle Vernon, what’s going on? You act like we’re expecting the mayor, or the fire inspector, or something.”
“No, no, nothing like that. Well, perhaps a bit like that. Only much more exciting. I had a phone call this morning that promised a very important visitor by mid-afternoon. If things proceed as they should, this meeting could result in a significant—and of course lucrative—outcome for our store.”
“Oh.” Stephen’s first thought was that a serious collector might be on his way to search for specific items. Nothing made Vernon happier than when a like-minded customer—such as Geoffrey, who hadn’t turned up yet today—came to browse.
“That sounds good.”
“‘Good’ will be an understatement if the information I received proves accurate. However, I hesitate to raise your hopes unnecessarily. Therefore let us wait and see what actually transpires.”
Stephen got the impression it was his own hopes he was trying to protect. He was willing to play along, though, if it made his uncle happy. He hadn’t seen him this excited in a long time.
“You’ll know everything the moment after I do,” Vernon promised. “Just now, I think I had better see to the back office. There are entirely too many loose documents fluttering around back there. One day, you really must teach me how to use that infernal machine of yours. What do they call it? A paperless office?”
Stephen bit back a smile. “I’ve tried, Uncle Vernon. Several times, in fact.”
Pretending not to hear, Uncle Vernon bustled off. Stephen listened to him opening and closing file drawers and dragging shelves and tables around. He found it hard to believe he would go to so much trouble to indulge a collector. Besides, a person like that would be unlikely to go into his office. No, this had to be someone much more important. Could it be a famous author? That might impress Uncle Vernon, depending what sort of books the person had published. He was as particular about his reading as he was about what he allowed on the shelves of his shop.
With a sigh, Stephen turned back to his computer and continued entering merchandise to sell online. When he had updated his college friends on his activities in the store, they dutifully told him how important and interesting his job sounded. Either they were trying to be nice while they sipped tropical drinks and floated on that balmy Caribbean water, or they imagined him polishing heavy books with big gold clasps, happily discovering Edgar Allen Poe’s signature or a long-lost love letter from Robert to Elizabeth Browning. They couldn’t have imagined shelves full of dreary old tomes no one wanted to read even in their own time, the air filled with mold spores and echoes of his uncle’s nagging. Boxes and boxes culled from estate sales and aging collectors sat waiting for Stephen to clean, catalog, and upload them. By ten o’clock, he was already fighting off a monster-sized headache.
Eventually, needing to stretch, Stephen got up to wander around the store. He wasn’t especially surprised when his feet took him, more or less of their own accord, to the poetry section. There, he ran his hand along the spines, the bumpy lettering and embossed edges tickling his fingertips. It took a few minutes of searching, squinting, and opening a few volumes whose titles had faded away, but eventually he located his target. He knew Uncle Vernon would have another copy on hand. What serious book collector wouldn’t?
The book was old and heavy, somewhat more difficult to hold than a modern hardback. Somehow, though, it seemed fitting that serious literature would weigh more than stories people read for fun. The font was heavy, black, and curlier than modern typeface, which also seemed appropriate.
After scanning the first few pages of ‘Christabel,’ Stephen flipped to the end and found that his mysterious customer had been correct. Coleridge had never finished the poem, though it seemed plenty long enough to Stephen as it was. An elderly knight and his innocent daughter targeted by a demonic girl whose skin sprouted snake scales? Sounded like a crappy straight-to-cable horror movie. Still, if he wasn’t mistaken, the scenes between the seductive Christabel and her sweet young hostess crackled with erotic tension.
Had that been some kind of hint? If it had, Stephen had not been sufficiently well-read to pick up on it in time. Damn. Maybe he should have paid more attention in his English lit classes after all. Apparently fluency in such subjects had more uses than he had ever imagined.
Several more hours passed before the mystery guest turned up. Stephen didn’t recognize him—so much for it being someone famous—but instead of a wizened scholar with thick glasses and thinning hair, their guest turned out to be a tall, well-dressed man in his late thirties or early forties. His tousle of thick black curls, which hung almost to the shoulders of his tailored suit jacket, bobbed as he shook Uncle Vernon’s hand.
“Vernon Carlyle, I assume? I’m Malcolm Argyle.”
“Delighted, sir, absolutely delighted!” Uncle Vernon chirped. “This is my nephew—and assistant—Stephen.”
“Your nephew? I take it he shares your interest in old books.” Malcolm Argyle’s lips curved into a cool smile. “A pleasure to meet you, Stephen.”
“It’s more than a mere interest, Mr. Argyle. A love for the treasures of the past runs deep in every Carlyle. The business has been handed down through several generations, you know. The contents of these shelves represent my life’s work. My life’s passion, in fact.”
“So I understand. And I won’t deny that tradition is important to me. It’s one of the reasons my client sought you out. Now that I am here, I see that your shop is much as I pictured it. I find that reassuring, too.”
“From what you told me on the phone, I feel confident in saying I can offer you exactly the sort of expertise you require. Shall we step into the office and discuss the issue further?”
“By all means. Please lead the way.”
“Stephen, you can man the desk for a bit.” Uncle Vernon bustled off to his office, shepherding Malcolm Argyle along. As soon as he had shut the door, Stephen hurried over to listen. Their voices were muffled, but he could make out enough to piece together the basic conversation.
“As I mentioned before, my cousin and client, Owen Fairbourne, passed away last month. No need to offer sympathy—you didn’t know him, and besides, he had been unwell for a long time. His release was a blessing, in some ways. There’s no tactful way to put it, so let’s just say he suffered from a disease of the mind. Anyhow, Fairbourne House has now passed into the hands of his son, Roark Fairbourne.”
So his house had a name, like the English manors on the public television shows his uncle adored. No wonder Uncle Vernon was impressed. He often commented that the people who owned such structures, which were usually stuffed with the kind of old junk Uncle Vernon drooled over, were the closest thing America had to royalty.
“An extraordinary legacy, I’m sure,” Uncle Vernon said. “The place must be filled with priceless and irreplaceable objects.”
“Therein lies my client’s problem, you see,” Malcolm Argyle went on. “After his father’s death, Roark suggested we commission a precise inventory of certain assets, in this case a collection of rather old and probably rare books. As his attorney as well as a concerned family member, I suggested we tap your expertise, Mr. Carlyle.”
“I would be delighted to offer my services,” Uncle Vernon said proudly—and perhaps a bit smugly. “I price estate collections all the time. I buy a fair amount of them, too.”
“Obviously, I’m not in a position to entertain offers just yet. On the other hand, you probably won’t be surprised to hear that Fairbourne House costs a pretty penny to run, as my cousin used to put it himself, and the books certa
inly aren’t earning their keep at the moment.”
“He might consider selling, then?”
“He’s mentioned it. Roark is in a difficult position. For more than a century, our family has been the subject of sordid rumors and the object of irrational hatred from the surrounding community. Part of him is eager to sell everything off and make a new start for himself, and as head of the family now, that is certainly his right.” He paused, leaving something unsaid. Uncle Vernon wasn’t shy about filling in the blank.
“I take it you are not entirely on board with that plan?”
Stephen heard Malcolm Argyle sigh. “I’m sympathetic to Roark’s ambivalence, of course. At the same time, grief has made him somewhat irrational. I hope an infusion of cash from the book collection, or at least part of it, will help Roark restore and perhaps come to enjoy the estate again. It would be a shame for our family to lose it after so many generations.”
“So this Roark Fairbourne is the only heir?”
“Not exactly. His younger brother, Justin, left for Europe some years ago, and he has been unreachable ever since. He appears to have no interest in the estate or his family. He didn’t even turn up for his father’s funeral service.”
“How shocking,” said Uncle Vernon.
“So I doubt he would object or interfere in whatever Roark decides. However, those are legalities I will have to deal with on another day. For now, my only concern is to value the contents of the Fairbourne library.”
Though he couldn’t see either of their faces, Stephen could imagine his uncle’s eagerness to examine such wonders up close and assist in preserving them for future generations. It was the sort of opportunity he’d always dreamed of.
“What I propose is this,” Malcolm went on. “Why don’t you come and take a look at the stuff, just to get a feel for what the job might entail. Fairbourne House has an empty cottage on the property where you can stay as Roark Fairbourne’s guest for the weekend. If we can come to agreement, we can make arrangements for you to carry out the work at a time that’s convenient for you. I can’t pretend it will be a quick, simple task. There’s an entire roomful of volumes, all of various ages and in no particular order. It could take weeks, even months, to go through them all even superficially.”
