“Can’t Tony come in?”
“I live in Seattle,” Tony says, frowning. “I take the ferry. Usually only on weekdays, but I’ll be here this weekend to help you out.”
Auntie pats my arm. “You see? Tony is dedicated. Book-selling is a lifestyle, not a job. You don’t expect to arrive when the store opens and leave when it closes, do you?” Her eyebrows rise like two silver suspension bridges.
“Actually, I do.” My handbag is slipping off my shoulder. I hastily pull up the strap.
Tony is chuckling. I want to slap him.
Auntie waggles a bejeweled forefinger in front of my face. “This is the nature of running the bookstore. Working after hours. Sleeping in the attic, listening to the books breathing at night.”
“Books… breathing?” I hope not. My aunt needs to clean the rooms, open the windows, install more lights, and order in the new bestsellers.
“Full-time job, nah?” she says.
“But I have a lot of work to do while I’m here, for my real… my
other
job, and I’m wondering about the cell phone signal.”
“You won’t find one here.” She gives me a warm smile, then turns to Tony. “She’s so busy, you know. She helps people sock away their money for retirement.”
“In socially responsible accounts,” I say.
And if I don’t make a perfect presentation to the Hoffman Company when I return to L.A., I may be out of a job.
Tony looks me up and down again. “Girl, you know how to dress, but those threads are for the city, not here. You can’t wear those heels to work. Your feet will start hurting.”
My toes are already sore. “I have a pair of sneakers in my suitcase.”
“Then wear them. And you have jeans, I hope?”
“Only one pair.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’ll be doing a lot of laundry, unless you buy another pair of jeans. You’re going to be on your feet all day.”
“I thought I might help at the checkout register—”
Tony guffaws. “What rock have you been hiding under?”
“I’ve been living in the real world.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “You call L.A. the real world?”
I bite my lip to keep from spouting an acerbic reply. The snoring man snores louder. A bulb flickers on the ceiling; the floor squeaks; and a cloud of dust wafts by. I break into a fit of sneezing. The next few weeks are going to crawl by at a slug’s pace.
Chapter 3
Auntie ushers us back through the hall.
“Check that front display in the parlor,” Tony says before veering off toward a back room.
Auntie leads me into the front parlor, where the dust rises like a desert sandstorm. I can barely see through the particles hanging in the air. I have a strong urge to run out the door and dash down the street. I’ll leave my suitcase behind; who cares. As long as I have my technology.
“Auntie, have you considered opening the place up, bringing in more light, and while you’re at it, more copies of the books that are in high demand? Like the titles I saw on display at the airport—”
“Not again!” Auntie stops in front of a window display, hands on her hips. “What a mess. Ay, Ganesh!”
The books are all used classics by Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Charlotte Brontë.
“Like right here,” I tell her, pointing at the display. “Organizing this. Arranging newer books face out. Maybe typing up your recommendations on little cards—”
“You must get to know my store before you rush into giving advice.” She gathers up the old books. Behind us, a slim volume slides off the shelf and lands with a thud on the floor.
Altering Your Living Space.
“Oh, stop your complaining,” she says to the book, then throws it back on the shelf.
I follow her into the Classics section, where I help her shelve the books. “So the display in the parlor—”
“Is for newer books.”
“Do you classify them by title, or by—?”
“Author. Other questions we get: Do you sell stamps? Do you have a copy machine? Do you have the Internet? No, no, and no.”
“But why not? The Internet would draw more customers. And maybe add a little café.”
“Restroom is in the hall,” she says, ignoring my suggestions. “Then they want to know, do I give them a discount because they are spending so much money? Ay, Ganesh.”
“Surely you don’t get many people asking questions like that. I mean, your store is so
out of the way
.” And the weather is miserable.
“Out of the way! I’m most central in this town. People can’t live without my bookstore.”
Can’t live? She’s the queen of overstatement. I follow her to the Literature section. The dust is thick on the windowsills. She extracts a series of hardcovers, which she arranges in the front window display.
“There, back to normal,” she says.
“Do you consult the bestseller lists? I understand the independent bookstores have their own recommendations—”
“This is not just any bookstore. Sometimes I wake up, and everything is moved. Books here, books there—”
“Who moves them? Tony? Customers?”
“Who knows? Someone who wishes the classics were not forgotten. The culprit included a few different authors in this display so I would not know who is to blame for the switch. Now come. I’ll show you around. We’ll have tea.”
I don’t have time for tea. I need an espresso. “Does this happen often?” I say, following her down the hall.
“Now and then,” Auntie is saying. “This and that. Items left behind. People appearing and disappearing. Men sleeping here all day, what gall.” She pats my cheek, her gnarled fingers like dry leaves against my skin. “Speaking of gall, what’s happening with that pile of dung you call an ex-husband?”
The word
ex-husband
sends my heart plummeting. “I still have to deal with him, unfortunately. We’re selling the condo.”
“Could you not keep it for yourself?”
“I can’t afford the mortgage on my own.” No more sunlight spilling across hardwood floors, cozy meals in the breakfast nook, sunsets viewed with Robert’s arms around me. “Don’t tell Ma and Dad.”
“I won’t say a word,” Auntie says, hugging me. “But I worry about you.”
“I’m okay, except the divorce cleaned me out.” I should frame my latest bank statement, highlight the nearly zero balance.
“Do you need money?”
“No, no. I’ll be okay. You take care of yourself.” A lump rises in my throat. I hug her again, and her warmth banishes my uncertainty.
“You’ll forget Robert while you’re here. The authors will help you.” She points to framed prints on the walls, pen-and-ink drawings of famous authors. Charles Dickens. Laura Ingalls Wilder.
I try not to laugh. My aunt has always been eccentric.
“The authors will help you,” she says again. “Their words. That man with the large forehead is Edgar Allan Poe. And of course, there’s Jane Austen. This is the only surviving sketch of her, a reproduction.”
“She looks so young and plain.” I touch the picture, the rough canvas of her cheek. Jane’s eyes seem to follow me across the centuries.
“Don’t speak ill of the dead.” Auntie glances around, as if Jane Austen might jump from a corner. “Come, we’ll have some tea.”
“I need to check my messages.” My fingers are itching to get at the keys of my BlackBerry, to get my netbook booted up.
“There will be plenty of time for that.” She leads me down the hall and makes an abrupt left turn into the children’s book room. Of course
she
always has plenty of time—she’s living in slow motion on the far edge of civilization.
“The stock markets are closed for today, and I need to check some prices.”
“If they’re closed, they’re closed. They’ll be closed all night, nah?”
“I suppose, but—”
“Do you remember this room, Bippy?” Toys litter the carpet; books are piled on a low desk in the corner.
“Vaguely.” I shift from foot to foot. My toes are squished in these pumps.
“That desk belonged to E. B. White. He sat there to write all his books. Even
Charlotte’s Web
. Not in this house, of course. But at that desk.”
“Isn’t that something.” Next, she’ll say the ornate candle-holders belonged to Jane Austen.
A pigtailed girl sits cross-legged on the floor, reading
Peter Rabbit
. She glances up, then returns to her book. Behind her, watercolors dance across the wall—Winnie the Pooh, the Hungry Caterpillar, Madeline. I’m surprised I remember those characters.
“Do you remember this?” Auntie hands me a tattered copy of
The Cat in the Hat
.
“Everyone knows Dr. Seuss.” I push the book back into her hands.
“Do you remember anything more?”
“More than what?” I tap my cell phone. “If I don’t find a signal soon, I could lose a client.”
I need this job. At Taylor Investments, I’m walking a tightrope.
“Your clients can wait. If they really love you, they will not abandon you.”
Oh, yes, they will. In a heartbeat.
“We’ve already closed three west coast offices. I have to prove my worth. It’s all about money, not love.”
“Everything is about love,” Auntie says and winks again.
I take a deep breath—let her believe what she wants. She has the luxury. “What’s next?”
“The Antiquarian room.” She leads me into a stuffy room filled with tall bookshelves. “Look there. That mirror belonged to Dickens.”
On the wall, I catch a glimpse of my face in an ornately framed, rectangular mirror. Do I really look so tired and puffy? “Great mirror. Must be worth a fortune, if it really belonged to Dickens.” Which I doubt.
“Conventional early Victorian chimney breast mirror, circa the eighteen thirties.”
A man clears his throat in the aisle, his face lost in shadow.
“Sorry to disturb you,” Auntie says; then she mutters under her breath, “If he wants quiet, he should go to a library.”
The man is tall, broad shouldered. For a moment, I’m sure he’s Connor Hunt, but when he steps into the light, I see he is someone else. This man is clean-cut, wearing a gray suit.
Auntie leads me back to a small, jam-packed office, where stacks of files cover her desk. Yellow Post-it Notes stick to every surface. “I’ve got to clean up this place someday. No time, no time.”
I’m not accustomed to working in such a mess. My life is organized, categorized, classified. “I could tidy up for you, get rid of some of this clutter,” I say, holding out my hands, palms down. On the desk, mixed in with the files, are useless artifacts that Auntie has accumulated through the years—a lacquered, canoe-shaped pen tray full of brushes and fountain pens; a wooden box full of clips; a flat gray rock; a clear bottle of blue ink and an antique white-quill pen.
“How can I part with Faulkner’s rock?” she says, pointing. “And Kipling’s wooden box? They’re rare treasures worth keeping. Now, come with me.” She yanks me out into an open tea room, which hasn’t changed in decades. A counter runs along one wall, complete with two burners, and there’s a miniature refrigerator, cabinets, armchairs, and couches.
“For my customers,” Auntie says. “Keeps them here longer.”
Nobody is in here. She needs new couches, not thread-bare thrift store castoffs. She needs an espresso machine, books lined up on shelves. She needs to sell designer mugs, book-plates, reading lights.
She pours us two mugs of hot tea from a metal pot and motions to two plush blue armchairs. I choose the one with the saggy middle. Auntie sits across from me, kicks off her flat-soled sandals, and wiggles her gnarled toes. She has painted her toenails in silver polish. She sips from her mug and makes a face, as if the tea tastes bitter. “I’m afraid I’m leaving you with a hot mess. You’re so good with numbers. Perhaps you’ll stay permanently and straighten everything out.”
“I have a job, remember? Big presentation to a potential client, right after I get back to L.A.” My career depends on it. I’m single again. And broke. I have to make a future for myself.
“Oh.” Auntie’s face falls. She pats the arm of her chair. Jewelry clinks on her wrists—a cacophony of gold, silver, and painted Kashmiri bangles.
“You’re okay, aren’t you?” I ask. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you?”
Auntie pats my hand. “Not to worry, Bippy. Your old auntie will come back right as rain.”
“Oh, good.” I breathe a sigh of relief. I want to know what’s wrong with her, but I won’t press. When I push too hard, Auntie closes up like a flower at night. “You’ll show me the basics before you go, right?”
“I meant to tell you, I must leave tomorrow morning.”
I nearly choke on my tea. “So soon?”
“Tony will help you. Quite a character, isn’t he?”