Chapter Thirty-four #2
‘I’m sorry that I wasn’t more open with you,’ I say. ‘About the degree, or anything that came after it. About the bookshop. I want to change that. Maybe . . . maybe we can schedule a lunch, once a month.’
She swallows and nods, something that looks suspiciously like tears shining bright in her eyes.
‘And maybe I can pick the place sometimes,’ I add.
She raises an eyebrow.
We sit there in silence for a moment. It’s not comfortable, but it’s not uncomfortable either, and maybe there’s hope in that.
In my first move as someone who no longer has a bookshop up for sale against their will, I sit on a bench by the water, then call Yumi and ask if she’s okay to manage for the rest of the day by herself.
‘Don’t expect the shelves to be the same when you get back,’ she warns.
‘Okay,’ I tell her.
There’s a pause at the other end of the line.
‘Sorry, boss,’ says Yumi. ‘I think the line cut out. Did you just say “okay”?’
A whisper of a smile almost passes my lips at the tone in her voice. ‘I did,’ I confirm.
‘Did your mother drug you?’ she says. ‘Are you still there? Do you need me to send the police?’
‘No drugs,’ I say. ‘And no sale.’
Yumi cheers, then I hear her apologise to the customers in the store.
‘But, seriously, did you mean it about the shelves?’
I think about the crooked shelves in the bookshop. About preserving Gran’s memories, and valuing the new ones. About misunderstandings, and about seeing new things in the dark.
‘Go for it,’ I say.
‘No takebacks,’ says Yumi. Then she adds, ‘By the way, Tessa Dalton phoned the bookshop and I told her you’d call her back. I’ll send her number through. Battle all your demons at once and all that. Okay, bye.’
She hangs up before I can reply, and I stare at the phone in my hand for a few seconds, wondering if I can throw it into the ocean. It beeps with a message from Yumi, sending me the number, and my stomach turns. If I can confront Mum, I can call Tessa Dalton.
I dial the number before I can talk myself out of it, closing my eyes and imagining spotting a masked owl. It’s weirdly therapeutic.
‘Hello?’ Tessa’s voice comes down the line, and I manage not to screech like the masked owl.
‘Tessa,’ I say. ‘It’s Clarence. From Brooks’ Books.’
‘Clarence,’ says Tessa, and I clench my fingers against the seat of the bench. ‘Thank you for calling me back.’ The line goes quiet for a beat, and I wonder whether it’s disconnected. ‘I was just ringing to apologise.’
‘Sorry?’ The word slips out, because whatever I was expecting from Tessa Dalton it wasn’t a straight apology.
‘Yes,’ says Tessa. ‘That’s what I was trying to say. I’m sorry for printing something that incited people to act like idiots, and I’m sorry for the error yesterday.’
It’s like all my words were used up in my conversation with my mother, because I honestly don’t know how to respond.
‘Declan told me that the bookshop isn’t for sale,’ Tessa continues.
‘He – rather forcefully, I might add – requested that I remove the post. We’ve not had great luck with articles, the two of us.
He says I overshare, but, honestly, that man is a vault.
Six months we were together, and he never told me who you were or why he wrote the dedication.
Though, I’ll admit, publishing something that he said about you in the heat of an argument wasn’t my finest moment.
I can see why he broke up with me over that one. ’
My head is reeling from the revelations, but her casual mention of Declan makes my breath catch. He broke up with her over the first article. ‘Right,’ I manage, and I can almost imagine Tessa’s amused look. ‘The article was pretty good, apart from that.’
I’m not sure who is more surprised by my words.
‘Thanks,’ says Tessa.
‘I’d rather not see more articles about myself, though,’ I tell her, watching a man cast off his boat. I cannot actually believe how strange this conversation is.
‘Declan said the same thing,’ says Tessa. ‘You try to set people up, and this is the thanks you get,’ she sighs.
‘Set people up?’
‘Declan is like a snail when it comes to moving on things,’ says Tessa, by way of explanation. ‘I thought a few extra articles might speed up whatever is obviously between you. And I owe him,’ she says softly. ‘Even if the fool is moving to Mayfield,’ she adds, the softness vanishing like mist.
I want to ask her more about Declan, to keep talking, but it’s a slippery slope, and I’m not sure it’s one I can climb back up from at the moment.
‘If Declan didn’t tell you the bookshop was for sale, who did?’ I ask instead.
‘Oh, I can’t tell you that,’ says Tessa breezily. ‘Protecting my sources and all that. I have to go, Clarence, but call again soon?’
The weirdest thing is, I actually might.
I call the hospital next to check on Gran, and they tell me that she’s doing well, but that she might need a rest after all the visitors yesterday. They’re hopeful that they’ll be able to move her back to the nursing home tomorrow to recover there.
The news leaves me feeling both relieved and a little lost, and I walk by the harbour for a while instead, watching the sparkle of light along the water. It’s beautiful, but there’s no shade anywhere, and it’s so strange to imagine that two days ago I was in the forest.
And, just like that, I know what I want to do with the rest of the afternoon.
I get back across the city without crashing Yumi’s car, and I pretend not to see Mrs Potts telling me I can’t park in the visitor space in front of the apartments.
I make myself a coffee and a crappy piece of toast, and I pull my snack bag out from where I dumped it last night under my dining-room table. I can still smell the whisper of Wilson/Milson bakery treats when I unzip it open, and I push aside crisps and apples to find what I’m looking for.
The copy of Talking to Trees that I bought from Alex.
The sight of Declan’s name on the cover hurts, and the desire to call him, to talk to him about everything that’s happened over the last few days, pulses through me.
But I don’t. Instead, I do something I haven’t done since the first time I saw Declan’s dedication. I open his book.
I stay up until I finish it. It’s filled with hope and warm humour and fifteen different kinds of trees. There are way too many references to the wilderness. But I can hear him between the lines of wisdom: the wry, teasing Declan of whom the book has flashes, but never really sees fully.
Then, on page three hundred and sixty-eight, his character visits a bookshop.
It’s small and warm and it feels like home, and the bookseller who serves him has grey hair and a laugh so loud that you can hear it even when the door is closed.
I rest my hand along the page, like that might bring me closer to it.
And if I hadn’t heard that same laugh a thousand times in my life it would be just another interesting character in an intelligent, interesting book.
But I know that it’s so much more than that.
He wrote about Gran.
It’s not in a way that would identify her to anyone else, and it’s not about me. He didn’t even tell me. He wrote about her because she’s his favourite bookseller. He wrote about her because he saw her. Because, for all his fear on stage – he loves people. He sees people.
And, like all the men and women on the tour, I just want more of him.
It’s a really freaking great book.
It’s after 1 a.m. when I take my phone out to message him. I don’t stop to ask whether it’s a good idea, or to think about the fact that it’s probably a bit rude to message someone in the middle of the night.
Instead, I think about how twelve hours isn’t that far, really. About how maybe I’m confident enough to handle that distance.
I finished the book.
I stay up until 2 a.m., irrationally waiting for him to message back. But he doesn’t and, like a sucker, I fall asleep with my face pressed against the cover.