Chapter Nineteen
Milson or Wilson, Jed is right, the salad sandwiches are phenomenal, and I also add a few baked goods to my snack bag. Declan raises an eyebrow when I do, but the side of his lip twitches, and the next few hours pass in relative peace.
When we arrive in Candon, it’s to a motel that is the most hideous shade of orange I’ve ever seen. The rooms face outwards in two neat rows, as though they’ve been told to line up neatly and are sort of grudgingly obeying.
Declan jumps out of the driver’s seat and makes his way to the tired-looking reception. He returns a few minutes later with two massive blocks of wood, a key dangling from each of them.
‘Do you think the wood makes people more or less likely to lose these?’ Declan says, holding them up.
‘They aren’t really pocket-sized.’ His eyes are bright with amusement, but it’s warm, not mocking, and a jolt of unmistakable attraction twists in my gut.
It’s so surprising that for a second I just stare at him.
‘I might go for a walk,’ I blurt out finally. ‘Get some fresh air.’
Declan frowns. ‘Do you want company?’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘Nope. No.’
‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ says Declan dryly, handing me a key. ‘Give me a ring if your ankle gets sore and you need me to pick you up.’
‘Thanks,’ I manage to mumble, shoving the key into the top of my snack bag. It hangs awkwardly out of the top, but mercifully Declan doesn’t comment. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
My ankle is fine, but I bring my stick just in case. From what I could see as we drove through, the main street of Candon consists entirely of one small row of shops. The air is cool but not cold, and I thump my way back along the highway, pausing to stop at a lone tree halfway and catch my breath.
I pull out my phone and dial Ruth’s number. She answers on the first ring.
‘Clarrie!’ she says, her voice filled with delight. ‘Perfect timing! I’m just passing Woodsborough on the train back from seeing your gran.’
I can imagine her exactly where she is, can picture the benches at the fancy, neatly kept station of Woodsborough. I look down the street at Candon – two places for a moment connected by our voices down the line.
‘How’s she doing?’ I ask.
‘She slept most of the time I was there,’ says Ruth, still sounding cheerful.
I wonder if it’s ever hard for her, watching the changes in a friend she’s known forty years.
‘I’ll go earlier in the day next time. The nurses say she’s been in good spirits, though, and I managed to knit a whole sleeve of Finn’s sweater.
How’s your trip going? How is that lovely young Declan? ’
Even the mention of his name makes my stomach tense.
‘It’s good. He’s good, I think.’
I can almost hear Ruth smile on the other end of the line and I clear my throat before she can ask any follow-up questions.
‘Thanks for the update, Ruth. Give her my love.’
‘Any time, dear. Take care of yourself. It’s nice to hear you sounding happy.’
Her words linger with me after I hang up the phone and start my slow walk down the street again.
It’s strange to be back in relative civilisation.
Maybe stranger, though, is the town of Candon itself.
There’s a supermarket and a butcher, but there’s a speciality bike shop and a printer too, all of which look completely empty.
My stick scratches against the concrete, and every person I pass nods hello.
Then there, just before the end of the row, is a small happy-looking bookshop.
At first, I wonder whether I’m imagining it – it seems so improbable that a bookshop would exist in such a tiny town.
But when I step through the door a sweet-sounding bell rings above my head.
Small children run around the shop, their parents chatting in the corners.
An unassuming, casually dressed man moves between them, coaxing one kid off a shelf while passing a book to another.
A large tree-shaped display reaches up in the centre of the store, filled with copies of Talking to Trees . There’s a poster on the side advertising the book as their latest book-club pick, because of course it is.
The man looks up the moment I walk through the door, waving a hand. ‘With you in a moment,’ he calls out while ducking to the counter to ring up a purchase.
‘Take your time,’ I tell him, because I’m honestly still not sure whether this is all actually a dream.
The shop is small, but it’s fascinating to look at the book selection. There are a lot of big-name books that we stock in Brooks’, but their memoir and non-fiction sections are much broader than ours.
Not long after I arrive, the parents and children begin to leave, trickling out of the shop with noise and laughter.
The bookshop falls silent again, pillows and books strewn across the floor, and it’s so like Brooks’ after one of Yumi’s children’s events that it tugs at my chest. I take out my phone to take a photo.
‘I’d tell you to get its good side, but it’s chaos from every angle,’ says the man, turning back from where he was farewelling people at the door.
‘I’m sorry!’ I say, my face already getting hot. The man just waves away my apology, his eyes kind.
‘It’s fine,’ says the man. ‘The truth is I like to think that our mess shows the best of us. I’m Alex,’ he says.
‘Clarrie,’ I tell him, moving my stick to my other side and holding out my hand.
‘And I love your mess.’ I bend down to pick up the pillows beside him.
There’s something about the quiet of the shop, about Alex’s unpretentious manner, that makes me add, ‘I own a bookshop back home, so it’s a familiar sight.
’ The admission trips off my tongue, and it’s only when it’s halfway out that apprehension clenches at my stomach.
Somehow, in eighteen months, it’s the first time I’ve introduced myself to a stranger as the owner.
I’m struck with the irrational urge to add that it’s my grandparents’ shop, really.
But I don’t, and the knot in my stomach tightens.
But Alex is unaware of my internal struggle, and he looks up in delight. ‘I knew you had a good vibe about you,’ he says, tapping his nose. ‘I’m new to it, myself. Opened last year after twenty years as an accountant.’
I have about twenty questions for him, half of which are deeply personal, but I settle on the one I’ve been thinking about since I walked through the front door.
‘How sustainable is running a bookshop here?’ The words are out of my mouth before I can wonder about how rude it is to ask someone about their financial situation.
‘To be honest, it’s better than I expected,’ says Alex with a laugh.
‘Enough people drive through that we get weekend and holiday trade. My projections had us lasting six months, but we’re still kicking along.
You’d know yourself that it’s a passion project, though,’ he says, and there’s something about the easy way he says it that gets caught in my throat. ‘You want a cup of tea?’
A passion project. The words lodge themselves in my chest.
‘Do you have any coffee?’ I ask. Of all the things I expected to do in Candon, sitting in a bookshop drinking a warm drink is not one of them, and yet . . . it feels right.
The lights in Alex’s bookshop don’t flicker when he turns on his kettle, and he sets us up at a table in the middle of the store.
In the time we sit drinking coffee and talking about books, four customers come in.
One of them – a decisive woman named Sarah who walks in knowing exactly what she wants – even sits down briefly at the table with us.
‘What time is the book club tonight?’ she asks, staring at Alex intently.
‘Seven-ish,’ says Alex. He looks at me. ‘Have you read Talking to Trees , Clarrie?’ he asks, and I almost spit my coffee.
‘Not yet,’ I say. My hands clench round the mug at the memory of Declan’s face when he asked me not to.
Sarah gasps. ‘You haven’t read it?’ she whispers. ‘You are so lucky. I wish I had the chance to read it for the first time again.’
‘It’s our book-club pick tonight,’ says Alex, pointing to the poster.
‘You should come along, if you don’t mind the possibility of being crucified by the group members if you haven’t read it.
We raise aggressive readers in Candon.’ He says it with such fondness that it brings an actual lump to my throat.
‘I’ll see how I go,’ I tell them.
I don’t tell them that I’m the bookseller from the dedication, and by the time Alex and I finish our coffee I almost feel guilty not telling him – as though me being on tour with Declan is some sort of secret. I pick a book off the shelf, and Alex rings it up, adding a copy of Talking to Trees .
‘On the house,’ he says. ‘You’ll love it.’
I push another twenty across the table at him. I can’t believe I’m actually buying a copy of Talking to Trees when I have one in my bag , but I also can’t let him give it to me for free.
‘We need you to last at least another six months,’ I tell him, meaning the words more than I can express. I might not be sure of much, but in a strange way Alex reminds me of Gran. And even in the half-hour I’ve been here I can see how much this shop matters to the community.
‘Do you ever think about giving up?’ I ask him as he rings up the purchase.
Alex doesn’t even hesitate. ‘At least once a week,’ he says. He looks up to meet my eyes. ‘But then who would give our community books?’
The words are simple and stark, and I don’t know exactly how to answer, or what I was even looking for. So, instead, I swallow the emotion welling in my throat and point at the poster on the side of the tree.
‘I think I might have something for you,’ I tell him.