Chapter Thirty-Four
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The personalized Bildungsroman items arrived, everything thoughtfully designed: the free bookmarks to tuck into purchases, which were gorgeously illustrated but easily compostable; ethically made shirts and hats and totes; and custom mugs crafted by a local potter.
Seeing the store name in print was a thrill, and I was proud of the product line we’d come up with.
Amelia Louisa gave us the rest of our point-of-sale training while her teenaged sons stamped the Bildungsroman logo onto countless brown paper bags and followed Jo and her tattoos and dyed-black hair around like lovesick puppies.
They helped her create my dream centerpiece for the children’s section: a fake fireplace inspired by the one at the library.
She’d found a shabby but handsome antique mantel, and they painted it to complement the walls.
Inside the mantel, they painted impressionistic flames.
Fairy lights illuminated a stack of real logs, and they placed a cozy round rug in front of it with adorable child-size wooden chairs.
Banned Books Week had already passed in September, but Mika and I gave it an extension by crowding one of our front windows with challenged titles. In the other, we placed seasonal reads arranged on a scale from cozy autumnal to blood-chilling horror.
And finally, our shelves filled in with the expected sections but also the sections we’d been looking forward to the most: local authors, regional reads, and staff picks, plus temporary displays like Books Down Under (a table honoring Kat’s favorite Australian fiction), The Book Was Better (novels that had recently been adapted for film or television), and Book Xanax (gentle stories where nothing too stressful happens).
“Ingrid!” Mika called out the evening before we opened. “We need a tiebreaker.”
I emerged from the back room, tangled in more fairy lights. I’d picked up a box stuffed with them from a garage sale, and I wanted to hang them everywhere during this first holiday season. My coworkers were huddled near a display of books that we’d deemed fantastic despite their intimidating size.
“Jo and I want to call it ‘I Like Big Books and I Cannot Lie,’” Amelia Louisa said.
“While Mika and I prefer ‘I Promise They’re Worth It,’” Stephen said.
“Not to be one of those people,” I said, “but those are both great.”
“The first one,” Macon said from a row over, “because all the other displays also include the word book .” He’d stopped by with another carload of plants and was tucking them into the store’s nooks and crannies. They were cuttings from the same plants that filled the library’s nooks and crannies.
“Damn.” Stephen ran a hand through his graying floppy hair. He was a floppy guy in general, from his posture to his cardigans. “That’s a good point.”
“Just make sure they all have shelf talkers,” I said, before moving toward Macon. “People will need more convincing to buy those.”
“Give me a stack, and I’ll fill some out while I’m at the library,” Macon said.
I leaned against the bookshelf beside him. Not sexily but exhaustedly, arms still tangled in unlit lights. “Are you sure you don’t want a job here?”
His eyes remained focused on his work. “I don’t want you to be my boss.”
My heartstrings zinged to attention. His tone was as carefully modulated as ever, but he’d left plenty of room for interpretation.
I debated on a flirtatious response but then remembered my failed dance.
“They’re all so cute,” I said, switching to the plants.
Something safe. He’d been caring for the cuttings all summer long in his greenhouse, another thoughtful vegetative gift I hadn’t known was coming. “I’m afraid I’m going to kill them.”
“You won’t,” he said. “I’ll teach you.”
He’d also donated a dozen pumpkins for our window displays.
He’d grown them for their flavor, but they were still beautiful.
“Next year, I’ll plant some decorative varieties,” he’d said, concerned that I was disappointed somehow.
Next year! was all I heard. He was planning for a future that assumed my store would still be open—and that I’d still be in his life.
He stopped futzing with the pilea and gestured to the lights. “Need some help?”
I held out my arms.
Slowly and patiently, he began to unravel them. I closed my eyes while he worked around me. He smelled like potting soil and aged library pages and leather bindings and the bars of soap from his house that I had learned were eucalyptus mint.
“Ingrid,” he said quietly.
I startled awake—and then a second time to see him so close to me.
“Did you fall asleep?”
“I’m tired,” I said.
“I gathered that. I was afraid you might fall over.”
“Speaking of jobs,” I said.
“Were we?”
“Sue mentioned that a reference position is opening up. Are you gonna apply?”
He frowned. “Did she ask you to ask me?”
“Yeah, but you should do it. You’re qualified, and it’d be a good match for your strengths and interests. The work would be more engaging, too.”
He handed me the cord, neatly wrapped. He’d untangled the entire strand without ever touching me. I wanted him to touch me again.
“Plus,” I said bravely, “Rowe is so close. We could have lunch together.”
“Ah. The real reason emerges. You just want me to cook for you.”
I understood he was teasing me. But was it flirtatious? His serious tone still made it impossible to tell. “Obviously,” I said, going for it this time.
He didn’t volley back. “Apparently, a few people are interested in the job. People who are better with people. I have a difficult time imagining them hiring me over somebody like… Candice from West.”
I pretended to vomit, and he gave me half a smile.
We both found Candice exhausting. She was the sort of person who volunteered for everything and then tried to invent new tasks to do.
But I was also surprised to hear him talk down on himself.
“You’re better with people than you think,” I said.
“And you’re great with the unhoused community and the mentally ill.
That matters at Rowe.” Libraries were a safe and warm space for vulnerable people, and our downtown location received the highest volume of them by far.
Macon was calm and patient with a lot of difficult people that other librarians couldn’t handle.
“ You don’t give yourself enough credit .
You said that to me once, but you don’t give yourself enough credit either. ”
His expression grew puzzled. “When did I say that?”
“At the 911 call center.” It was the day we’d admitted that we would have missed each other if we’d been sent to separate locations. It had felt like a confession, some sliver of unspoken truth cracking through.
“God,” he said. “Remember that time we worked at the 911 call center?”
“Seriously. What the fuck. But also, we were sent there because they trusted we could do the job.”
“Yeah, okay. I see what you’re getting at.”
“I’d hire you. I tried to hire you,” I said, which made him almost laugh. “I mean, you definitely won’t get the job if you don’t even apply.”
“You’re starting to sound inspirational, which you know I can’t tolerate.”
“My bookstore opens tomorrow. I’m allowed to feel inspirational.”
“So it does.” His voice softened with affection. “So you are.”