Chapter Thirty-Five
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Our doors opened to the sweet brown scent of autumn.
The temperature had finally dropped, and a crisp wind chilled the air.
We bustled around like eager squirrels gathering nuts, still setting up shop and wondering how many people would notice that our closed sign had flipped to open.
We’d decided to wait a day before setting out the A-frame sidewalk sign with its handwritten entreaty for customers to come in.
We needed to make sure everything was running smoothly.
Our first customer was a tourist from Chattanooga, and her first purchase was a popular romantasy. She held up the novel and agreeably posed for a photo with me for social media. And then—as easy and impossible as that—we were in business.
Clyde the joke man passed her on the way out. “I’ve got a special one for you this morning,” he called out, dentures flapping.
“Hit me,” I said.
“Why did the librarian become a bookseller?”
I was touched before he even got to the punchline.
“Because she wanted to start a new chapter in life!”
“ Clyde ,” I said, almost tearing up.
“I would like to buy something,” he said. “Something cheap.”
It made me laugh. I sold him a greeting card for his granddaughter’s birthday—it turned out we shared the same date—and he had a skip in his grandfatherly step as he exited.
Macon arrived a few minutes later, popping in before work. The cheerful bell on the door surprised him, and he looked up. “A final gift from Len,” I said, hurrying to meet him. He was carrying a heavy-looking slow cooker. “Mika found it in one of the drawers.”
“It’s from the old shop?”
I nodded, beaming, and slipped the ladle out from underneath his arm. “We’ve already had two customers!”
“Oh my God. That’s great.”
I finally realized the importance of what he was holding. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Don’t tell my coworkers. I haven’t had a chance to make it for them yet.
” The slow cooker was filled with pumpkin spice latte made with real pumpkin, not a flavored syrup.
He usually brought it to the library on the first day of autumn.
He set down the appliance behind the registers, and I lifted its lid to smell the heavenly brew.
Coffee, pumpkin, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, cloves .
“Your timing is perfect. I’m actually a little cold. Didn’t think I’d ever be cold again.”
He took in what I was wearing, a short-sleeved blouse that he’d seen an infinite number of times before, and it dawned on him. “Your winter clothes are in Edmond’s room.”
I laughed. “I realized that this morning, too.”
“Well, stop by whenever.”
“It feels like an eternity since I was at your house.”
“I agree,” he said with an unexpected catch in his voice.
And there it was, that hum of electricity, that gravitational pull between us, and I know he felt it too because his body leaned in closer.
His mouth parted as if he were going to ask me something.
Or suggest something. But then my entire staff swooped in, descending upon the slow cooker, and his mouth and body closed up again. Our connection was severed.
He headed for the door, clearing his throat. “I just wanted to say congratulations. To all of you. And good luck.” The bell rang again as he exited.
Amelia Louisa inhaled a deep whiff of latte and sighed. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d ask for your permission to date him myself.”
I turned toward her sharply.
They all laughed at me.
“Like I said,” she said, grinning, “I know better.”
Every recent interaction with Macon had been laced with this tension of being observed. We hadn’t been alone in so long. I wondered what might happen the next time we were.
Frustratingly, I didn’t have the opportunity to stop by his house for another week.
The store was busier—more noticed —than I’d expected, which was exciting for business but ruinous for my spare time.
Our restroom remained under noisy construction.
It was a mystery how we had managed to put together an entire store while my contractor had failed to finish a single room.
I fantasized about skipping a year into the future: listening to the hushed shuffles of browsing customers, feeling settled into the pace of the business, and living…
wherever I’d be living. Knowing that I still had to move made me anxious, and I had to keep forcing myself back to the present.
The present, which was loud with power tools.
Where I was worried about sales and the possibility of failure and losing that dream of the future. And all of my money, too.
But the present was also rich with hope.
Our first local author showed up and signed stock and promised to send in her author friends.
Amelia Louisa arranged our first event and, at the request of several customers, organized our first book club.
Many of our earliest walk-ins gave us helpful advice.
Others, who had never worked in retail, gave us awful advice.
And several times a day, somebody strode through our door and exclaimed, “A bookstore! I didn’t think there were any of these left in the world.
Aren’t you scared about—” and then they would name the Bad Place.
These people never bought anything because they weren’t book people, so their words didn’t faze us.
Everybody else was happy to have a bookstore in town again.
“How are you?” Macon asked when I finally appeared on his doorstep.
“Frazzled,” I said, but my smile was enormous.
“I’ve been wanting to stop by, but I also haven’t wanted to bother you. I know you need to get into the new rhythm.”
“Please bother me,” I said, unpacking the slow cooker from my backpack and handing it over. “It’s clean, but you’ll probably want to wash it again anyway.”
He lifted the lid to inspect the situation, and his brows rose to discover that the pot was packed with tightly rolled tank tops.
“Space is precious on a cargo bike,” I explained.
He nodded in appreciation. “Smart.”
“You should know Stephen is still talking about those lattes, and he’s not a talkative guy— Edmond!”
Edmond Dantès trotted into the room, and I dropped to the hardwood to greet him. He started purring as soon as I touched him, a soft sound like crackling static.
“Have you missed me? I’ve missed you.” I glanced up to say something to Macon but then caught sight of his bookshelves, which had been built but were not yet painted. I gasped. “You didn’t tell me you and Phil had started.”
“We’re working on the cat tree now. I’ve been sanding and oiling the wood.”
“And the chairs!” I made a beeline for his dining room. “I love them.”
“Do you mean it?” he asked nervously. He’d found a full set at the Habitat for Humanity store and had texted me a photo. They had a cute shape, and I’d liked them immediately.
“Yes. Screw my mismatched plan. These look great. They’re perfect.”
“Would you still recommend painting them?”
“God, yes.” They were a trashed-looking shade of putty. “Red.”
He looked doubtful, which made me smile again. “Like the accent color in your kitchen,” I said.
“I don’t have an accent color in my kitchen.”
“But you will once I finally get around to picking out the rug and curtains.”
It made him laugh. I loved making him laugh.
“What about the couch?” He motioned toward the living room again. “It’s been looking a little worse since the rest of the upgrade.”
“Destroy it. Burn it. Toss the ashes into the river and piss on them.”
I was on a roll, but he was taken aback. “Didn’t realize you had such strong feelings about it,” he said. “Noted.”
“That couch is a physical manifestation of depression.”
“What would you replace it with?”
“I’ll text you some links. Help me with the rest of my stuff?”
We unloaded the rack and pannier bags from my bike and carried everything inside. I’d only been able to cart over my summeriest clothing. I’d have to drop off another load later, but as I dug through my belongings in Edmond’s room, I grew worried. “Am I missing some boxes?”
“Shit.” Macon flinched. “Yeah, I moved a few into my bedroom to make it easier to reach the litter box. They’ve been there for so long they’ve become invisible.”
“Oh no.” I was mortified. “I’m sorry.”
“I promise it’s fine. Like I said, I forgot about them.”
“Well, I promise I’ll get them out of here as soon as I have a new apartment.”
I followed him into the only room that I’d never been inside of before.
I’d seen more of it since that first night cat-sitting, as I passed nearby whenever I used the bathroom, but my inconvenient interest in it had prevented me from examining it up close.
Macon’s bedroom was small but cozy. The walls were the same beaten-up white that his other rooms had been, the same color that his study and Edmond’s room still were.
There was the large dresser and mirror that I remembered, as well as the matching side tables and lamps and a queen-size bed.
The furniture was nondescript but sturdy, and the bed was draped in a surprisingly nice quilt.
“Who made that?” I asked.
“Bonnie. She gave it to me as a housewarming gift, even though the house itself was already practically a gift.”
“That was sweet of her. How’s she doing, anyway?”
He thought about his response. “She answers when I call. She sounds okay. That’s more than I get from her when times are bad.”
I nodded, unsure what else to say.
He gestured to the quilt. “That was one of the only things I had left when Dani moved out. She even took the mattress,” he added.