by Amy Meyerson
We had three additional readings scheduled for later in the evening. At eleven, Malcolm’s friends were set to play. By the time Raw Cow Hide took the stage, napkins littered the wood floors. Empty glasses cluttered the tables. Malcolm and I stood against the wall, watching the crowd dance. My parents were at the center, Mom’s blouse untucked, Dad’s golf shirt darkened with sweat. Joanie shimmied up to Mom, and they held hands and stomped their feet like they were dancing the hora. Malcolm asked me if I wanted to dance, and we joined Mom, Dad, Joanie and Chris in a circle. The song ended and we danced to the rhythm of the drunken conversations as we waited for the next song to begin. Raw Cow Hide slowed it down with a Fleetwood Mac cover.
“I love this song.” Mom shut her eyes and swayed. Her face was rosy from the warmth of the room and the two glasses of wine she’d drunk. The heavy guitar buried her voice, but I saw her lips move, I saw her face soften, I saw that she could still disappear into the song, not yet hardened by life.
I whispered to Malcolm and he ran up to the stage to talk to the guitarist. His friend nodded and resumed his musical interlude.
“Mom? Would you want to sing with the band?”
Mom opened her eyes. She stopped dancing. Dread paralyzed her face as the lead singer waved to her. Mom and I studied each other. I’d thought she would want this, to reclaim the spotlight, to defy age in a way Sheila had protested the old couldn’t. She looked scared. The band dragged out the instrumental interlude, but they wouldn’t wait forever.
We continued to stare at each other as the room faded away. It was Mom and me, and the guitar’s chords. Suddenly, a smile surfaced on Mom’s face, no hand covering her mouth, just the parted lips of unadulterated happiness.
At first, she sang timidly, barely audible above the drums. As the song continued, her voice grew louder, and at one point she tilted her head back and began belting the lyrics to “Landslide.”
The song ended, and Mom whispered something into the lead singer’s ear. He signaled to his band, and they started in on a Rolling Stones cover. Mom marched up and down the stage. She allowed her short curly hair to mask her face, not quite as emblematic as the ironed hair of her former self, but I could see Suzy with her long, straight hair and bright miniskirts. She was still there.
Dad and I watched Mom walk toward us, exhilarated and a little bit sweaty. “Isn’t she glorious,” Dad said, never taking his eyes off her.
“She is,” I agreed.
Raw Cow Hide was halfway through its set when the cops arrived. Although bars up and down Sunset had lines snaking their exteriors, one of our neighbors had called in a noise complaint. Malcolm briefly argued with the cops until they noticed the wineglasses and asked if he wanted them to check everyone’s identification. The party thinned quickly.
Mom was sitting at a table in the corner, mopping sweat from her neck. Dad whispered into her ear, and she laughed from her beautiful, wide-open mouth. They collected their things and found me to say goodbye.
“It’s about three hours past our bedtime,” Dad said.
“Speak for yourself,” Mom said. Mom and I waited while Dad got the car. “I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun,” she said as he pulled up. She took my hand in hers. “Evelyn would have loved it.” She gave my hands a squeeze and ran outside. Dad waved goodbye as they sped off toward their lives on the Westside. As I watched them go, I saw that Mom was finally free. But Billy was still trapped in Prospero Books. Evelyn was, too.
Malcolm found me by the window after my parents left, staring onto Sunset. “It seems like they had fun.”
“I think so,” I said distractedly.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“It’s really over,” I said. “Billy’s quest is really over.”
“Now your journey begins.” Malcolm put his arm around me. “Too cheesy?”
“A bit.” I elbowed him. “I like it.”
After the last guests left, Lucia sat behind the desk, counting our profits. Joanie and I broke down the tables while Charlie swept the floor. Sheila and Dr. Howard sat in the corner smoking a cigar as they watched us work.
“You missed a spot,” Sheila said, using the cigar to point out a plastic cup Charlie had overlooked in his haste.
We could hear Chris and Malcolm laughing outside as they smoked pot. In a state where anxiety or back pains offered you access to a smorgasbord of cookies, lollipops and popcorn laced with THC, I didn’t know why I was surprised. I’d never seen Malcolm smoke before.
“It’s going to stink in here tomorrow,” Malcolm shouted as he came in from the back.
“On the contrary,” Dr. Howard argued. “We’re cleansing the space. What would you prefer, Cuba’s finest or stale beer?”
“Neither!”
Sheila exhaled and handed the cigar to Dr. Howard. She walked over to Malcolm and put her hands on his cheeks. He tried to shake his head free of her hands.
“Tonight was a good night.” Sheila kissed him on the cheek. “Enjoy the success.”
Malcolm found the remains of Billy’s Scotch bottle in the kitchen and poured each of us a glass—Sheila, Dr. Howard, Joanie and Chris, Lucia, Charlie, me. We crowded around one of the mosaic tables.
“This is the end of Billy’s bottle,” Malcolm said, and we all raised our glasses.
“‘I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety,’” Dr. Howard recited as he downed the Scotch.
“‘I say the gentleman had drunk himself out of his five senses,’” Sheila said, shaking her head.
“The Merry Wives of Windsor,” Dr. Howard said. “Impressive, my fair lady.”
“‘As you from your crimes would pardon’d be, Let your indulgence set me free.’” Everyone stopped talking and turned toward me. Some of them surely recognized Prospero’s famous line. Others didn’t. They all stared at me, waiting for me to explain. “At the end of the play, Prospero asks the audience to release him.”
“Well, really, it’s Shakespeare talking through Prospero. It was his last play,” Dr. Howard explained, and Sheila swatted him to shut up.
“Not every table is your podium,” she said.
“We need to change the name,” I said. At the end of The Tempest, Prospero left his enchanted island. It was time for Billy to leave his, too. His charms were overthrown and we needed to set him free.
“Of Prospero Books?” Charlie couldn’t decide whether to be hurt or offended.
I glanced over at Malcolm for support. He looked deep in thought. Or maybe he was just stoned. I felt the first tinge of frustration with him, a comforting irritation, the way you can let someone annoy you disproportionately because you know you’ll eventually get over it.
“Miranda’s right,” Malcolm finally said. “The store’s changed. If we want it to survive, it can’t keep living in the past.”
Lucia choked. “Says the man who’s decried every lost Laundromat in the neighborhood.”
“I’m not saying get rid of the Prospero Books,” he said, his voice ripe with condescension, “but it’s changed. It has to keep changing in order to stay the same.”
“That’s stoned logic if I’ve ever heard it,” Lucia said.
Dr. Howard tugged his goatee. Sheila tapped her nose with her index finger. Lucia nudged Malcolm with her toe, goading him for her own entertainment. Joanie swayed with her eyes shut to a melody she alone could hear, and Chris had almost certainly fallen asleep. Only Charlie searched for communion, for someone else who seemed as alarmed as he was.
“Yesterday’s Bookshop,” I said. “It commemorates the past but acknowledges that we aren’t still living in it.”
“Every day has a yesterday.” Dr. Howard continued to stroke his goatee. “They are inextricably linked.”
“And every day has a tomorrow,” Sheila agreed.
“Yesterday’s Bookshop,” Malcolm sa
id. “I can get behind that.”
Dr. Howard and Sheila continued their garden variety musings on the past and present. Malcolm started listing changes he could make to the store, hanging pictures of old Silver Lake on the walls of the café, making the front window look like an apothecary. I stopped him when he mentioned the walls.
“They stay green,” I said, and he agreed, knowing why they were green, whose favorite color it had been. Malcolm put his hand on my shoulder and leaned over to kiss my forehead. It was the first time he’d kissed me in public, and I didn’t need to scan the room to gauge everyone’s reaction. I didn’t need to get used to it. It simply felt right.
Lucia and Charlie began to argue about who was going to be more hungover in the morning. Joanie chatted with Malcolm, who kept his hand on my shoulder, rubbing it absentmindedly. I watched my oldest friend, the friends I’d recently made, the people who knew me before I knew myself. Yesterday’s Bookshop belonged to them as much as it did to me, but Prospero Books was Billy’s. Evelyn’s. We were giving the store a chance to survive. I needed to give myself a chance, too. It’s what Prospero had wanted for his Miranda, not to be burdened by the past but to know it farther, to prepare for the future.
* * * * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For years, when I fantasized about publishing a novel, one of the things I was most excited about was writing the acknowledgments. Whenever I sit down to read a new book, the first thing I do is turn to the acknowledgments page. I love hearing about a writer’s community because it reminds me that, although only the author’s name appears on the front cover, so many other people have contributed to the process through their encouragement, wisdom, hard work and faith. For me, this novel has been a labor of love, and I simply could not have done it without the insight and enthusiasm of my teachers, friends and family, as well as all of the wonderful people I’ve met along the way.
Thank you to my incredible agent, Stephanie Cabot, her equally incredible assistant, Ellen Goodson Coughtrey, and everyone at the Gernert Company. To the magnificent trio at Park Row Books: Erika Imranyi, who took a chance on me, and my tireless editors, Liz Stein and Natalie Hallak. And to Shara Alexander, publicist extraordinaire. Words cannot express how fortunate I feel to have had such smart and kind women working with me on this project.
Thank you to my thoughtful readers and talented fellow writers who helped me through the messy first drafts: Lynn Elias, Alexandra D’Italia, April Dávila, Corey Madden, Erin La Rosa, Jackie Stowers, Kelly Morr, Will Frank, Yance Wyatt, Tatiana Uschakow, Mary Menzel, Lauren Herstik, Taiwo Whetstone and Jessica Cantiello. To the talented Amanda Treyz for her beautiful photographs and for many talks over many meals. To Katie Frichtel and Troy Farmer at raven + crow studio for the awesome website and their awesomeness generally. To Kevin Doughten for his editorial insights and support from day one, probably even before day one.
To all of my wonderful instructors and mentors at USC, especially to Judith Freeman, who was the first person to see promise in this idea, and to Aimee Bender, who has encouraged me in more ways than she knows. To my colleagues in the Writing Program—through you, I’ve found a nurturing and supportive home at USC.
Thank you to Steve Salardino at Skylight Books for giving me an insider’s glimpse into independent bookstores and to Eoghan O’Donnell for sharing stories of his dad’s used bookstore. Independent bookstores have been a vital part of my reading and writing life. Whenever I travel, I make sure to save a good chunk of time—and luggage space—for browsing local bookstores. I’m constantly inspired by the celebration of books, ideas and reading that persists in our communities through these bookshops. Prospero Books is my ode to you and your shelves.
To my family: the Meyersons, the Perrottas and the Chans. A special thanks to my parents, who encouraged me without ever seeing a page (now’s your chance!). To my brother, Jeff, for his advice and support through the process. To Lindsay and Jan Perrotta for their enduring enthusiasm. To Jessica Chan for her sage medical advice and to Jen Chan for her social media savvy. And to my exceptional friends; I am indeed very lucky to have such a vibrant and inspiring community.
Finally to Adam, who always believes in me, even when I don’t believe in myself.
ISBN-13: 9781488078736
The Bookshop of Yesterdays
Copyright © 2018 by Amy Meyerson
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor, Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
