“Wait, I thought you were the king of No Strings.”
He hangs his head, then looks up at me with a sheepish grin. “This one had strings all over it. I would’ve thrown everything away for love, that one time. My mind was mush.” He presses a finger to his forehead. I can’t tell whether he’s pointing to illustrate his words or pretending to shoot himself in the head.
“What happened?”
He drops his hand to the table, plays with the wooden coffee stirring stick. “I wasn’t the one who ended it. I fell in love, and then he cut all the strings, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do.” He points the stirring stick at me. “That was when I went crazy. I ran down the street in my underwear, chasing his black Mercedes.”
My jaw drops open. “You did what?”
“Middle of the city, morning commute traffic. Everyone got a good look at my Calvin Klein undies. Or were they Ralph Lauren? I don’t remember, but who cares? They were briefs, not boxers.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“I wouldn’t have thought I would ever do anything like that, but I was desperate. We do crazy things when we’re desperate.”
“Yes, we do.”
Like fall for a rugged but gentle doctor when you’re still getting over your ex-husband.
But I’m smiling a little as I imagine Tony, with his coiffed hair, running down the street in his designer underpants.
“I wish I could fall in love again,” he says wistfully. “If you don’t want Connor, can I have him?”
“You bum!”
“Okay, I’ll wait until you’re done with him. First, you have to let him ravish you. You’re already different, since you met him. More relaxed, more … in your element. And you’re not sneezing.”
I press a finger to the bridge of my nose. My sinuses are clear. “I haven’t taken an allergy pill since—I don’t know when.”
He points his stirring stick at me again. “Since Dr. Hunt kissed you. See what I mean? There you go.”
Chapter 29
Back at the bookstore, I glance at my face in the restroom mirror downstairs. My cheeks are flushed. My eyes are no longer so puffy, and my hair looks darker. Fewer gray strands sprout at my temples.
“Maybe it’s the kiss,” I say to my reflection. “Or maybe it’s because I’m reading
Winnie the Pooh
again. Go figure.”
When I step out of the bathroom, I glimpse a little boy wandering into the children’s book room, his mess of hair like a pile of wet straw. Perched on his nose is an enormous pair of glasses that make his eyes appear unnaturally big. He bends his head forward, nearly resting his chin on his chest, as if the weight of the glasses is all too much for his head. On his back, an enormous blue, lumpy backpack protrudes like a grotesque growth. He’s in a miniature gray suit jacket, plaid sweater underneath, with a red tie tucked inside, jeans, and brown penny loafers. He stares at the floor, his hand gripping the straps of his backpack.
“May I help you?” I ask him. “Are you looking for a book?”
He nods, still staring at the floor.
He does not like to hunt or hurt, he does not play in sand or dirt… .
Dr. Seuss, speaking in my head. Must be a memory rising to the surface. “Do you want adventure, to escape to another world?” I ask the boy.
The boy nods, his face lighting up.
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
falls sideways on one of the shelves right at the boy’s eye level. He picks up the book, looks at the picture on the cover, and smiles.
I kneel in front of him. “It’s a wonderful story, and we have many more.”
He smiles, and I see how much courage he gathered to come here. I see how the world appears to him—large and noisy and scary. He is afraid to look anyone in the eye. He’s so shy, he crosses to the other side of the street as soon as someone appears in the distance, walking toward him. He doesn’t ask for things. He goes without, so he won’t have to talk to anyone.
“You can take the book,” I say. What am I doing? I’m not helping Auntie’s profits.
He smiles as if I’ve handed him a million dollars. He rummages in his pocket, pulls out a wallet.
I push his hand away. “This one is on me.”
“Really?” His smile widens.
“Hold on to your cash.”
He is bursting with happiness as he heads for the door, a bounce in his step. His gaze angles a little upward now, not down toward the floor.
In this moment, I don’t want to be anywhere else, doing anything else, even when a young woman wanders into the parlor, crying, and stands in front of the Grief and Recovery shelf.
“Are you all right?” I ask. “Did you lose someone?”
“How can you know that?”
Good question.
“I just figured. You look sad.”
Tears slip from the corners of her eyes. She holds a paperback,
Surviving Pet Loss
. She wipes her cheeks, her lips trembling. “I’m Olivia.”
“Jasmine. The book you’re holding—”
“Pets this, pets that. He wasn’t my pet. He was my muse, my soul mate. I don’t know what I’ll do without him.” Her voice shakes. She needs something, anything to grasp on to. “I remember every detail. He used to wake me with a paw on my cheek. So gentle. He curled up in my lap and rested his chin on my wrist. He was the most magnificent, fluffy tabby. He used to squint up at me with such love and trust.” She sniffs, breaks into sobs.
“You came to the right place.” My voice is thick with emotion.
“Sometimes it’s nearly impossible to go on.” Olivia presses her hand to her chest. A tear hovers on her eyelash, catching the light. “When I remember he’s gone, my sweet little fur boy, it’s like someone is dropping a house on my heart. But nobody understands, because he wasn’t human.”
“I’m so sorry. You’ll always miss him, but there will be hope.” I want to tell her I understand loss. The death of dreams, of shared daily habits, of comfort.
“Thank you,” she says. “I hope you’re right.”
My gaze is drawn to the shelves. A book glows in a direct shaft of sunlight. Just as the mango book was illuminated when Professor Avery came in. Only I ignored the light then.
I pull out the book, a tattered hardcover with a drawing of a ragged-eared cat on the front. I hand the book to her.
“
The Fur Person
, by May Sarton,” she reads softly. “My Taz was a fur person, too. In his eyes, I saw the soul of a little old man.” She reads the first page. “This cat lived with her years ago. They’re both long dead now.”
“But he was alive once, experiencing the world,” I say. “Now, through her words, he’s immortal.”
“I wish Taz could have lived forever. His playmate, Molly, misses him. She’s a calico cat.” Olivia is quiet a moment. “Do you have animals?” She looks at me sharply, as if my answer will be the measure of my soul.
“Well, uh, I’m pretty busy these days.” I feel a strange pang in my chest, longing for a soul mate like Taz. “I had a cat once, Willow. She lived seventeen years. I would’ve liked another cat, but I left for college, and then … My ex-husband was allergic.”
“Which is why he’s your
ex
.”
“Exactly.” Until now, I’ve focused on what I miss about Robert, not on the restrictions he imposed on my life.
Olivia throws her arms around my neck. “Thank you for helping me find this book.”
“It was just … there.”
“No, you helped.” She steps back, holding the paperback close to her chest. “It’s good to know someone else loved her cat enough to write his story. This bookstore could use a cat, don’t you think? Bookstores are supposed to have resident felines.”
“That’s up to my aunt.”
Olivia hands me a business card. “This is where I work. Come in anytime. I’m sure your aunt would love a cat.”
The card reads,
Meow City. A No-Kill Cat Sanctuary. Fairport, WA.
I tuck the card into the back pocket of my jeans. “Thanks, I’ll think about it.”
On her way out of the store, she turns to look over her shoulder. “Don’t think too long.”
Chapter 30
I watch Olivia walk along the block and disappear around the corner, her head down as she reads.
“What’s the title?” a teenage girl is saying to her friend as they stride past me in the hall.
“I forgot my book list for the stupid assignment,” the other girl says. They’re both dressed in black, wearing eyeliner so thick, they look dead. “It’s about some old guy who wants to catch a giant fish. I mean, how boring. And then he kills it, even though he calls it his brother. Come on, who would kill their brother? Totally lame.”
“Yeah, lame-o-rama,” the other girl says.
I clear my throat. “Um, I bet you’re looking for
The Old Man and the Sea
by Ernest Hemingway.” How could I remember such a detail? I must have read the book in high school.
The girls stare at me as if I have a large blemish on my nose, but they buy two copies of the vintage paperback before leaving the store. Now they’ll have to read the book, no excuses.
I managed to open most of the windows, clear a few aisles, dust tables and shelves, and bring in more light. As the days pass, I fall into a rhythm, jogging on the beach in the mornings, visiting my parents, helping Gita make wedding arrangements. Each conversation brings back a painful memory, but I don’t complain. Gita deserves these fleeting moments of happiness.
I keep hoping to see a hint of Connor. I find I’m watching for him, spinning around when I feel a breath on my neck, jumping when the telephone rings.
The next Thursday morning, Auntie Ruma calls again.
“Auntie, you haven’t called in a week. I was worried about you.”
She sounds distant and perky. “My heart has been fixed, once and for all.” I can tell by her voice that she’s smiling.
I mouth a silent prayer of thanks. “I’m so glad. When did you have the procedure?”
“Procedure, ah, yes. Few days back.” I hear conversation and commotion in the background.
“What’s going on there? Where are you?”
“Just preparing for a little travel.”
“Are you well enough? Are you in the hospital?”
“Of course not. I’m quite well.” She sounds far away.
“Who’s taking care of you? Are you in Kolkata?”
“So many questions. I’ll tell you all, in time. For now, I’m safe and happy. You must keep my secret, nah?”
“I hope you know what you’re doing. Do you have a telephone number? When will you be back?”
“On schedule. Two weeks. How do you like working at the bookstore?”
“Just fine.” Maybe it’s the soft rain tapping the windows, my longing for Connor, or my general sense of disorientation, but suddenly I’m fighting off tears. “My boss arrives from L.A. tomorrow.”
“
Acha.
Make him feel at home, and perhaps you will stay a little longer, after I return?”
The heating system hums as the furnace kicks into gear. “I can’t. You know that. My clients probably think I died.”
“But what about the doctor?”
My heart is suddenly heavy. “I hope I see him again before I leave, but I’m afraid I scared him off.”
“Ah, I see.” She sounds disappointed, but not surprised. “Look, Bippy, there is something I must tell you, about Ganesh.”
“The statue in the front hall?”
“He is all knowing, remover of obstacles. He wrote the Mahabharata with his own broken tusk, but most people have forgotten. He helped me when I was very young, and so I agreed to help him keep the spirit of books alive.”
“How did he help you?”
She covers the phone, speaks to someone in a muffled voice, then comes back on the line. “I must go.”
“Wait. So Ganesh was your inspiration for opening a bookstore?”
The line is full of static now. “My talent passes down … women … family … inherited. You …”
The line goes dead. What on earth is she saying? Nothing I have to worry about now. I need to prepare to meet my boss.
Chapter 31
My second Friday morning in the bookstore, I’m once again dressed in a blue suit and heels. I haven’t worn pumps since I arrived. The straps dig into my feet. As I brush my hair, I silently practice my presentation. Soon I’ll return to sunshine, palm trees, and my real job. I try to focus on the Hoffman account. I check through the green bar reports, catch up on e-mail, and study stock prices and trends.
When Tony shows up, he whistles. “Whoa, girl. You look like you’re headed back to the city.” He’s in black today, as if mourning my pending departure.
I smooth down my suit and straighten the collar of my silk blouse. “My boss will be here in fifteen minutes. He wants to discuss my presentation.”