Chapter 11 The Book Keeper
The Book Keeper
The bookstore sat sprawled around a corner. The large sandstone facade rose two stories from the street. Above the glass door, discreet black writing read: The Bookkeeper. Creativity in full bloom.
I stepped inside, a ding announcing my arrival, pausing I took in my surroundings.
The place was as ancient as it was amazing.
Wood-paneled walls met a vaulted ceiling that converged a good sixteen feet above.
In the center of the first room, the exquisitely detailed ceiling housed a large ornate-gold chandelier.
In what I viewed as a crime against heritage, someone had added a cluttered assembly of dimly lit tube lights, and the chandelier’s glitter was lost in gaudy modernization.
Green carpets covered the floor, probably installed to dampen the sound of footsteps on the old timber boards—another sordid crime.
On the right, rows and rows of new books crowded the shelves of old wooden bookcases.
Directly ahead, the biggest timber counter I’d ever seen rambled out from the side wall.
A large, white-faced clock hung on the sandstone wall behind it, the hands stuck on twelve a.m or p.m. I didn’t know. Either way, it wasn’t moving.
As I moved further into the arcade building, a strong sense of calming nostalgia washed over me.
The soothing, spicy scent of newly crafted pages lingered in the air.
The library was the one place that, no matter which family I was bundled off to, served as a constant escape.
As a young child, I could lose myself amongst the shelves and live in the pages of fantasy worlds, which were often far better than my reality.
The past bled into the present. All these years later, my sense of loneliness, of being abandoned and left, of feeling unloved—unlovable, had come back in full swing. Like a broken record stuck on repeat.
“Hello, dear, can I help you?” a man asked, peering up from behind the counter. Disheveled gray hair flared out haphazardly from his head. Before I could answer, recognition flickered across his face. He said with an odd excitement, “You’re the new girl, Amy. Welcome to Church Heights. I’m Bob.”
“Yes,” I answered mildly perplexed. “Word gets around fast.”
“Small town.” He waved it off with a gesture of his hand. “You’ll get used to it.”
I doubted it. “I take it you don’t get new people in town often?”
He pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Not a lot. Mostly just folk who lived here when they were younger and come back for a few months for summer break. Let me show you around.” Bob walked with the stooped posture of someone far older than his face suggested.
“This is where the new books are. This one is row A,” he said over his shoulder and pointed to the row clearly marked A.
“This one is B.” He kept walking and pointed to the next row marked C.
“And C.” Surely, he wasn’t going to go through the whole alphabet, was he?
“All the way to Z. Filed under author last names of course.” He stopped and fixed his icy-blue gaze on me as if checking to see whether I understood.
“Of course.” I nodded.
“Good, good. Now come this way. The older ones you can take home to read and bring back once you’re done—they’re down here.
” He moved forward, and straight ahead were rows and rows of huge wooden bookcases filled with old books neatly stacked sideways.
The cases were easily ten feet high and spanned the width of the room, which ran perpendicular to the first room and was about four times larger.
“Watch the steps, dear.” Bob stepped down the two steps, holding onto a golden rail for support as he went.
“Wow, this is amazing,” I said, gazing around.
He smiled as if pleased and scanned the room. “Yes, I do love old books. You will find the fiction section here, and non-fiction over there.” He pointed in the various directions. “We have almost every book you will ever need, and what’s not here I probably have at home, or I can order in for you.”
A ginger-haired boy was seated at a table, tapping away on his laptop. Three pens—black, blue, and red—alongside a ruler and a blue notebook were all precisely spaced apart on the table beside him.
“That’s Darcy. He’s extremely good with computers.” Bob lowered his tone. “Some of the kids come here to study. Darcy comes almost every day. The other kids give him a bit of a hard time.” The ding of the door chime sounded. “Well, Amy, I will leave you to it.”
I turned my attention back to the books.
There were so many that I didn’t know where to start.
I went to the fiction section, spent a while perusing the aisles, pulling some out and reading the covers.
Some of the books were very old and well-worn.
I pulled out Pride and Prejudice and flipped it over to read the back cover.
Bob returned, taking cautious steps down the stairs, his arms stacked to his chin with books.
I watched through the gaps in the bookcase as he sat them down by a ladder, which sat neatly at the end of the display.
It was secured by hooks at the top of rails that traversed the whole row of shelving, so it could glide to where it was required.
He slid the ladder across, then began to climb it, his legs quivering like jelly.
I popped my book back on the shelf. “Here, please let me do that,” I offered.
He gazed thoughtfully at my face for a moment before he answered.
“Oh, would you? Thank you, I’m not getting any younger, you know.
” He pushed his glasses back up his nose, stepping down off the ladder.
The door dinged again. He glanced toward the front, then back at me as if debating whether to stay and help me or go to assist the next customer.
“Leave them here—I will fix them. It’s a good way to see some of your collection,” I reassured him.
He wandered back to the front, and I spent the next few minutes popping the books away. Mystery and Magic of Church Heights, The Horrible History Behind Church Heights, Murder and Mayhem: A Real Account. I frowned; it seemed strange for one town to have so many stories about death.
“They just had an assignment on Church Heights at school.” I turned toward the timid, slightly high-pitched voice that belonged to Darcy.
He was branch thin, with porcelain-like pale skin, and an archipelago of freckles across his nose.
“I study via homeschooling now, but when I went there, we did the same thing. I wrote about the vampires that live in the mountains.”
“Vampires?” I huffed a laugh.
Darcy blushed and looked awkwardly at the floor. Vampires, like werewolves, were hyped-up myths experiencing a resurgence due to a recent undercurrent of popular books and movies.
“What did you discover, Darcy?” I asked because I felt bad for laughing at him, even if it was absurd.
His eyes lit up as he lifted his head. “History says vampires originated here. The death rate locally has always been high. Even today, people die here all the time. Our death rate per population ratio is almost five times higher than the national average. Most deaths are attributed to car accidents, missing hikers, or”—he paused and held up two fingers, moving them up and down and raising ember-colored eyebrows in a show of disbelief—“animal attacks.”
“Okay,” I answered gently. “But the landscape is harsh, predators like wolves and bears and, maybe cougars are a threat.” I threw up my hands.
“And the roads are sharp and narrow, it only takes a moment of inattention . . . and I’m guessing you don’t have a large police force here, so drink driving might cause a few of the crashes.
I don’t think it’s surprising the death rate is above the national average. ”
Darcy nodded, his brows still raised. “That’s what they’d like you to believe, but I read the medical reports and the accounts—”
“Wait,” I interrupted him. “You read the medical reports . . . how?”
“I hacked my way in—it’s easy,” he said matter-of-factly, with an air of confidence that wasn’t apparent when he first spoke.
“You hacked the hospital records?” I asked, impressed. “You know that’s illegal right? I hope you didn’t put your findings in your paper.”
“No, I know better than that. Last time I got into big trouble.” He frowned and darted his eyes around the room like the walls had ears, and then he leaned in and said quietly, “You won’t tell anyone I hacked in, will you?”
I held up my palms. “No. Your secret’s safe with me,” I reassured him. “You’re obviously very clever.”
“I am,” he agreed. I smiled wryly. He stood there for a long moment, staring at me, wordless.
“I better keep putting these away for Bob.” I indicated with my hand to the pile of books.
“I’ll see you later then.” He gave a tentative smile and scuttled back to his laptop.
I put the rest of the books away and continued to search for a couple to take home to read.
I trailed through the choices for some time.
In the end I chose To Kill a Mockingbird by Lee Harper, and A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare.
I took the books to the front counter and pulled out my wallet to show Bob my driver’s license for a form of ID.
Bob waved it off without even glancing at it. “Don’t worry about that.”
I couldn’t get a library card back home without filling out a few forms and showing two pieces of ID. Bemused, I tucked it back inside my bag.
“Are you interested in some work, Amy? Nothing permanent. I’m shutting down for a break soon.
Winter is our busiest time. It would just be the odd shifts here and there.
I could do with a hand cleaning, serving, putting the books back, that kind of thing.
The knees don’t work like they used to, and my arthritis has been giving me hell. ” He grimaced.
Working in a bookstore sounded like the perfect distraction. “I am, but I just got work at the bar. But it will probably be mainly night work, and I’m not sure how long I’m staying here for. Possibly only a few months.”
“Never mind that.” He brushed off my concerns with a wave of his hand. “We can work around your bar job. I don’t need set days. What about you come in on Wednesday at twelve if that suits you?”
I agreed it would. I collected the books from the counter, smiling as I left. The fist grasping my chest loosened. This new start felt like it was all beginning to fall into place. Maybe I’d even find a new me, a better me, one everyone doesn’t want to leave.
I rounded the corner, my eyes cast down, reading the back cover of Harper’s book.
I took two steps, and something hard smacked into my chest. Breath exploded from my body, and the books flew out of my hands, dropping with a thud to the ground.
I glanced at them, grimacing, hoping I hadn’t damaged them.
Behind the books, a set of polished brown leather shoes and jean-covered legs snagged my gaze.
“I’m so sorry,” I rushed out, feeling color flash to my cheeks.
My eyes traveled upwards and met amused blue ones.
For the second time that day, the breath tore from my body.
My heart jumped and beat quickly in my chest. Standing before me was the most divinely gorgeous man I’d ever laid eyes on.
Even hotter than the man in the bar. Maybe. It was a hard pick. I couldn’t choose.
He was tall, of medium athletic build, with a chiseled jaw, perfect high-set cheekbones, and smoldering lips.
He had a lock of thick, dark hair that fell loosely across his forehead.
But his eyes were so gloriously blue and compelling, they sent shivers of delight streaking through my stomach.
To escape his gaze and remove the burn of my cheeks from his line of sight, I squatted down quickly to grab the books.
He glided down and picked them up before I could touch them.
We both froze, crouched on the footpath, staring at each other in an awkwardly stunned manner.
He was so beautiful I was speechless, and then he smiled.
His blue eyes shone like sapphires, and what was left of my brain dissolved into a quivering, incoherent heap.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, springing to my feet to escape his gaze again and reaching for the books at the same time.
He ignored my waiting hands and rose simultaneously.
“Interesting choices.” He spoke in a deep, melodic tone, like his vocal cords were made of a husky mixture of silk and velvet. He turned Shakespeare over, studying the back cover for a moment.
I searched for a cohesive response. “Oh, I, um . . .” Nerves formed in my throat, and I almost choked on my words. “I love a happy ending.”
Oh my god. Did I really just say I love a happy ending?
I stifled the urge to faceplant my palm. Instead, I stood there like a dummy. A bright-pink one.
He laughed, and the sound spread soft wings across my chest. “That’s pretty forward, given we’ve only just met.”
I giggled. Giggled, as if my face flashing like a traffic light wasn’t embarrassing enough. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I think you did.”
“I didn’t,” I protested.
He was older than me; I’d guess mid to late twenties.
He wore confidence like a shiny, proud coat of armor.
There was a dark edge to him as well, a glimmer of almost feral masculinity to his beauty.
By his smirk, I could tell he was used to women responding like idiots to him.
If God were a female and she’d made him, she had a good sense of humor, because he might as well have had “playboy” stamped on his forehead.
At least then God could say you were forewarned.
His eyes sparkled, like sunlight kissing the peaks of an ocean. “Oh, come on, we all love happy endings.”
“Alright. Alright. Can we drop the happy ending comment?”
He studied me as if I were a butterfly pinned to a board in a museum, and he had a fondness for devouring butterflies. “I’ve not seen you around. You’re new to town, right?”
I bit my lip and nodded.
“Ethan,” he introduced himself, and when I didn’t respond immediately, he cocked his head. “And you are?”
“Um . . . Amy.”
“Well, Um-Amy, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You too,” I muttered, reaching my hands out for the books. He passed them to me. “I have to go,” I lied.
I turned away from his hot gaze, walking toward my car.
“I hope to see you around soon, Happy Endings,” he called behind me.
I groaned and flipped him the finger. His laughter danced inside my ears as I slipped into my car, snapping the door shut behind me.
One day, two gorgeous men. Was there something in the water in Church Heights?