Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

  “App?” The head snapped up. Eyes of black fire regarded me with suspicion from beneath a pair of thick eyebrows, deep set in a dark-skinned face of such remarkable beauty I sucked in a breath.

  The new proprietor was younger than I expected him to be – Mr. Simson had been an old man even when I was a girl – and far too handsome to be working in a bookshop. His exotic features and sharp cheekbones belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. The defiant tilt of his chin and twitch of his haughty lips concealed a storm raging inside him.

  Danger rolled off him in waves. Danger… and desire.

  Thick muscles bulged at the seams of his shirt. He’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, one thick forearm graced with the tattoo of a barren, gnarled tree and some words in cursive script below.

  Even though he was an Adonis, this Mr. Earnshaw also looked like a complete wanker. He scrunched up that perfectly-sculpted nose, his lips curling back into a sneer. “What the devil is an app?”

  What kind of weird question is that? “Um… you know, an application for your phone, so you can get the bus timetable or talk to your mates or—”

  “Don’t talk to me about phones,” Earnshaw snapped. “People spend too much time on their phones.”

  Right. I’d forgotten the part in the job ad about hating ebooks. This guy must be one of those weirdos who eschews technology. “Oh, I agree. I mean, phones should only be used for calling people. And checking social media. That’s it. I would never read on mine,” I blubbered, shoving my phone behind my back. “I mean, studies have shown it can cause long-term eye damage and—”

  “No matter how long you keep talking, it’s not going to change the fact that we’re closed. What do you want?”

  “I’m applying for the assistant’s job.” I fumbled in my purse for the envelope I’d carefully sealed, trying to avoid accidentally showing him the ereader tucked behind my makeup case. “I’ve got my resume in here for you with all my qualifications and—”

  “I don’t need that. If you want the job, tell me why I should hire you.”

  “Right, well…” This was the weirdest interview I’ve ever been to. Earnshaw’s eyes stabbed right through me, turning my insides to mush. I opened my mouth, but then he blinked, long black lashes tangling together over those eyes – they were like black holes, gobbling whole universes for lunch. A shiver started at the base of my neck and rocketed down my spine, not stopping until it caressed me between my legs.

  Now I wanted the job more than ever, just so I could stare at this specimen all day. Bloody hell, I always did have a thing for surly bad boys. I blamed Emily Brontë. The brutish and untamable Heathcliff ruined me for nice guys.

  “If your answer is to gape at me like a bespawling lubberwort,” he growled, “then you can take the job and shove it where the sun don’t shine—”

  “That’s not my answer.” My cheeks flared with heat. Who even is this guy? Adonis or not, how’d he get off talking to customers and potential employees like that? No wonder the place is deserted. “I was just collecting my thoughts. You should hire me because I’m a hard worker. I’m punctual. I have some retail experience, as well as design expertise so I can do graphics and window displays—”

  “I don’t care. Why do you want to work here? No one wants to work here. That was the whole point of the ad.”

  I racked my brain for an answer to that question. What does he want from me? “Um… I guess because I used to hang out in the bookshop all the time as a kid. I know where all the books go and I’ve personally helped Mr. Simson fix that till on at least two occasions.” I pointed to the ancient contraption the raven was pecking.

  Earnshaw glared at me, his eyes flicking over my face as though searching for something. He didn’t say a thing. The silence stretched between us until even the raven got bored of hunting for worms in the credit card machine and stared at me, too.

  Is he waiting for more?

  “And… um, I have all sorts of useful skills.” I scrambled for anything that might endear me to this strong-chinned man. “I have a fashion degree, so that’s probably not useful. But I am a Millennial, so I can do the store’s social media. I could build a website—”

  You can see it, can’t you? That strange voice said. It’s obvious. She’s the one he told you about.

  Earnshaw grunted. I narrowed my eyes at him. Does he hear it, too?

  Just hire her already, that voice said again. She’s pretty.

  “Hey!” I glanced over my shoulder, looking for the owner of the voice so I could kick them in the nuts. But there was no one else in the room.

  Was it Earnshaw? But the voice didn’t sound like him, and judging by the way he was still staring at me, he already thought I was nuts. Maybe he didn’t hear the voice after all?

  Besides, the voice sounded like it came from inside my head.

  Please, don’t tell me that on top of everything else, I’m now hallucinating voices—

  I like her, the voice interrupted. I bet she’ll bring me treats. Berries, smoked salmon, maybe even a hard-boiled egg.

  I peered over my shoulder again. Are they hiding in the hallway? Behind the beanbag stack? “Who’s there?”

  Earnshaw’s head whipped up. “Who are you talking to?”

  “You didn’t hear that? Someone prattling on about salmon and eggs.”

  Earnshaw’s eyes narrowed. He reached out and clamped an enormous hand around the raven’s beak. “You didn’t leave the door open, did you? We’re supposed to be closed.”

  “No. I…” My shoulders sagged. Who am I kidding? This is hopeless. “I guess I’ll just be going now. Thank you for your time and—”

  “You start tomorrow,” Earnshaw glowered. “We open at nine. Be here at eight-thirty, but don’t let anyone else in. If you’re late, the bird gets your paycheck.”

  Chapter Two

  “Darling,” a voice purred as soon as I flung the front door open, the pitch rising with excitement. “You’re home! Come help me.”

  My stomach sank at my mother’s tone. I knew that tone. It was her ‘I’ve-discovered-the-secret-to-riches-beyond-my-wildest-dreams’ tone, otherwise known as the beginning of yet another one of her get-rich-quick schemes.

  My mother was obsessed with getting rich. I don’t think she’d actually be rich for long, because she’s hopeless with money, but thus far we’ve never had any to test my theory. For my entire life we’d lived one bounced rental payment away from being turfed out while she flitted from scheme to scheme, convinced that this time she’d make her millions. Smoothie mixes, vitamins, overly-complicated blenders, light-up nativity scenes, glue-on nails – Mum had tried them all, each one digging her deeper into debt. When she wasn’t hawking useless crap to the unsuspecting populace of Argleton, she made her living as a spirit medium and tarot reader at a local crystal and witchcraft shop. She didn’t have a precognitive bone in her body (as evidenced by her inability to predict that her ventures would fail, despite the inevitability of this fact), but she studied the Fox sisters and Mina Crandon and knew all sorts of tricks.

  When I told Mum I’d decided to forgo my scholarship to Oxford in favor of fashion school in New York City, she’d hugged me and told me I’d never been more her daughter. “I didn’t want to have to tell you, darling, but there’s no such thing as a rich professor. When you’re the next Vivienne Westwood, I want to stand next to Edward Woodward on the red carpet.”

  “Edward Woodward’s dead, Mum.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll fix that, honey.” Mum had launched into a long-winded description about the dress she wanted me to design for her wedding to Edward Woodward. That was my mother, off in her fantasy world. We were alike, in that way.

  Right now, she was dragging an enormous metal platform across our cramped living room. “We’ve got to get the rest of these out of the car.”

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a power-plate machine,” Mum grinned, dropping the platform on the carpet with a thud. �
�Russian cosmonauts use them to train their bodies for the rigors of space. Isn’t it amazing? You stand on it and it just wobbles the flab away. Watch.”

  To my horror, Mum pulled off her sweater and stepped on to the platform, plugging it into the wall socket. It sprung to life, vibrating her whole body so the flesh on her stomach jiggled like a Polaroid picture, which was not a thing I ever wanted to say about my mother.

  “It’s w-w-w-working every m-m-muscle in my b-b-body,” she juddered. “And increasing circulation, m-m-muscle strength, and st-st-stimulating collagen. And look, if I do this…” she crouched and leaned forward so her weight was over her knees. “M-m-my belly is getting an even b-b-bigger work out.”

  “Argh, Mum!” I turned away. The sight of my mother’s jiggling stomach would haunt my dreams tonight. “Do you even know what stimulating collagen means?”

  “You’re such a spoilsport.” She stepped off the machine and flicked the switch. “I’ve just burned twenty-two calories. That means I can have a piece of cake for dessert. I’ve got twenty more of these in the car. Aren’t they brilliant?”

  “Why do you have twenty wobble plates in your car?” I asked with sinking dread, already knowing the answer.

  “It’s my new business, of course!” She beamed as she pushed me back toward the door. “I know you’re pulling a face at me, Mina, but hear me out. This will be different. It’s so much better than anything I’ve tried before, because I can diversify. I can have multiple income streams. As well as selling the power-plates, I’ll run classes, sell workout supplements, exercise videos, and smoothie blends—”

  “Not more smoothies,” I groaned, my stomach twitching from the memory of Mum’s last endeavor – so-called healthy smoothie blends with flavors like ‘broccoli, dandelion, and blueberry,’ and ‘green tea, asparagus, and cayenne pepper.’

  Mum’s ridiculous schemes wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t constantly force them on me. A green tea, asparagus and cayenne pepper smoothie is borderline child abuse.

  Under the carport, Mum’s tiny Fiat sagged under the weight of the wobble plates. Grey clouds converged on the horizon, shrouding the estate in dreary grey haze. I popped the trunk and hauled out a plate, my muscles straining under the weight. Across the street, drug dealers peered at us through their blackout curtains.

  I dragged five wobble plates inside and stacked them in the corner of the living room, next to five boxes of baby clothes left over from the Baby-Mobile business. Mum managed to get two in the door before she came down with a mysterious coughing fit and locked herself in the bathroom. I was tempted to just leave the rest in the car for her to finish off, but I was in a good mood about the bookshop job so I hauled the rest inside.

  Mum emerged just as I perched the last box on top of a precarious stack. “See? This is going to work, Mina. These power-plates will be the ticket to our dreams, I can feel it.”

  “We can’t see the telly now,” I pointed out.

  “It’ll only be for tonight, darling. I’m going to sell all these tomorrow and then we’ll have enough money for a really big telly.” She wrapped her arm around my aching shoulders and maneuvered me into the kitchen, her life-threatening ailment now vanished without a trace. “Tea?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” In our narrow kitchenette, I put the kettle on while Mum pulled out cups and milk and tea bags.

  “How did you go down at the bookshop?”

  “I got the job,” I beamed. “I start tomorrow.”

  My mother shook her head. She didn’t share my enthusiasm for old bookshops or stable incomes. “Don’t worry, darling, you won’t have to work in that horrid place for long. As soon as I’ve sold these power-plate machines and recruited ten salespeople, I’ll be able to keep us both in the fabulous manner we deserve. Then it won’t even matter when you go bli—”

  “Don’t say that word. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I know, darling, but—”

  “Have you heard anything about the guy who owns the bookshop, Mr. Earnshaw?” I cut her off as I bent in front of the fridge to see if we had any wine or cider. Upon reflection, tea wasn’t going to cut it tonight – I needed alcohol to wipe away the memory of Mum’s wobbling stomach.

  “That surly gypsy? I thought he’d left town by now. Oh, Mina. You can’t work for him.”

  “You shouldn’t use that word, Mum.”

  “Pfft, a lot of PC nonsense.” Mum was of the generation that required others to tolerate their racial slurs in the name of the Great English Cultural Tradition. “He is a gypsy, with that dark skin and those evil eyes. I heard he’s some far-removed cousin of Mr. Simson. He came down from the North when Mr. Simson retired, but he doesn’t seem to know the first thing about running a bookshop. Or any kind of shop. He doesn’t know about diversification or multiple income streams. The village had the Christmas market last week and he didn’t hang any decorations! Debbie Fisher asked him to run a stall at the animal shelter charity fundraiser and he glowered at her! A man like that should not be glowering.”

  “He does have one mean glower,” I agreed, thinking back with a mixture of trepidation and desire as my new boss’ eyes bore into mine.

  “If you insist on working for him, maybe you can get him to clean that place up a bit? Some nice window displays and maybe a vibration machine station in the corner?” Mum looked up at me hopefully as she poured the tea.

  “He doesn’t seem the type of guy to embrace change, but I’ll do my best.” I sipped my tea. Perfect, with just the right amount of milk and a tiny sprinkling of sugar. As much as Mum drove me crazy sometimes (okay, all the time), she knew what mattered in life.

  Mum reached across the counter, rubbing her fingers against mine. The wrinkles in her skin stood up like mountain ranges. Her eyes sagged at the edges. A pang of guilt struck my chest. Was this just my mother getting older, or had everything I’d put her through these last few months aged her prematurely?

  I stared past Mum’s head at the tower of boxes from a cosmetic MLM company stacked in the corner of the kitchen. They were filled with miracle anti-aging treatments that would help Mum turn back the clock. If only I could turn back the clock on my life.

  “As I said, I really don’t want to talk about it.” I forced a smile on my face. “I’m fine. I’m getting on with my life.”

  Mum looked unconvinced. She had to know I wasn’t telling her the full story. She knew about the diagnosis, of course. I’d cried down the phone to her enough times. But as far as she was concerned, I’d left the internship at the end of my allotted time and was back in Argleton to enjoy some home cooking while I figured out my next move.

  “I’ve been reading the cards for you.” Mum dug a tarot deck out of her pocket and spread the cards across the table. “Every time, I see the same outcome. You’re running from the past straight into trouble.”

  “You don’t believe in tarot cards, Mum. Seriously, I’m okay.” I finished my tea, dropped my cup in the sink, and opened the bottle of cider. “What are we going to do about dinner? I was thinking grilled cheese. Or Indian takeaways from down the road?”

  “Let’s go with grilled cheese. I spent all my cash on the power-plates…” Mum took the bread out of the cupboard while I grabbed the cheese and a tomato. I started slicing the cheese, but Mum waved me away. “Go sit down, honey. I’ll make these. Just think, it won’t be long now until we can hire a personal chef.”

  “Sure, Mum.” I sipped my cider.

  Her brow wrinkled. “You’re just so sad, Mina. You don’t seem excited about my business. Oh, I know what will cheer you up. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you, I saw Emma Greer at the post office when I was picking with the power plates, and she said Ashley’s visiting. She’s staying right up until Christmas.”

  I froze, my teacup halfway to my mouth. Ashley.

  “Isn’t that nice, Mina? You two will be able to hang around together, just like always.”

  No. This can’t be happening. I can’
t deal with my ex-best friend. Not with everything else going on. Not after she…

  I leaned back in my chair and tipped the entire bottle of cider down my throat, not even stopping when the bubbles shot up my nose. I stood up, pushing my chair back so hard it hit the boxes. “I’ve just remembered, I’ve got to… practice my glower in the mirror. Mr. Earnshaw said I’d better match the shop’s vernacular.”

  “Mina—”

  “Call me when tea’s ready. Later, Mum!” I scrambled to my room, flicked the stereo on full blast, and slammed the door behind me. Leaning against the frame, I sank to my knees, letting the angry wails of Sid Vicious roll over me as I swiped at the tears rolling down my cheeks.

  I moved to the other side of the world to get away from Ashley, and now she’s here. Why does the universe hate me so bloody much?

  Chapter Three

  It’ll be fine, I tried to tell myself as I tossed and turned in bed, trying to sleep. Argleton is a big place. I bet I won’t even see her.

  I’m strong, I repeated as I pushed the straw around in my QuikFit Pure Plus Strawberry Smoothie (at least this one was mildly edible). I’ve handled much worse in my life – growing up poor and without a dad, all the years of bullying at school, Mum being… Mum, my diagnosis, losing the job with Marcus… I can deal with a run-in with Ashley.

  Ashley hates reading, I reminded myself as I stamped up Butcher Street to Nevermore’s front door in my favorite pair of vintage Docs, the cherry-red patent leather ones. She’ll never even think to come into the bookshop.

  I checked the time as I twisted the door handle. Eight thirty on the dot. Not a minute earlier or later. I’ll impress Earnshaw today and he’ll grow to like me and maybe one thing in my life will go right—

  The heavy door wouldn’t budge. I walked around the side of the shop and tried the back door. Locked as well. I went back around the front and banged on the door.

  “Will you keep it down out there!” A crotchety voice yelled from across the street.