CHAPTER 11 A WINDOW FULL OF STORIES
Opening day began with a broken coffee machine.
At six-thirty on September fifth, Clara stood in the reading room staring at the machine as water leaked steadily across the counter.
“No,” she told it.
The machine continued leaking.
Maggie appeared in the doorway carrying two airpots.
“I sensed despair through the wall.”
Clara pointed.
“Traitor.”
“Appliances can smell fear.”
“I bought that three days ago.”
“Return it. I brought coffee.”
Clara hugged her.
“Do not tell anyone.”
“Too late. I’m putting it online.”
By seven, volunteers began arriving.
Anna brought balloons.
Noah brought a hand-lettered sign that read GRAND RE-OPENNING with two Ns.
Clara did not correct it.
Mr. Soto arranged local-history books in the reading room. Mrs. Garland placed a vase of fresh flowers on the counter. Walter Dean arrived with two westerns to trade and announced that he wanted to be the first official customer.
At seven-thirty, Eli walked in carrying the restored exterior sign.
Clara stopped.
The old green board had been stripped and repainted. Gold letters curved across it:
THE BOOK NOOK
BOOKS NEW, OLD, AND WORTH KEEPING
Beneath the words, Eli had added a small carved spray of honeysuckle.
“You did this?” Clara asked.
“Sign painter had a cancellation.”
“Liar.”
He smiled.
“You did it.”
“Mostly.”
“When?”
“At night.”
“You have a business.”
“So you remind me.”
Clara touched the carved flowers.
“It’s beautiful.”
“June wanted the same words.”
“She chose them forty years ago.”
“Some words survive.”
Their eyes met.
Clara looked away first.
At eight-fifty, a line had formed outside.
Clara stared through the window.
“There are forty people.”
Maggie looked. “Closer to sixty.”
“Why?”
“Because you are opening a bookstore.”
“In a town of seven thousand.”
“Exactly.”
At nine, Reverend Hale stood on the sidewalk with a pair of oversized ceremonial scissors borrowed from the chamber of commerce.
Clara had specifically said she did not want a ribbon cutting.
There was a ribbon.
“You betrayed me,” she told Maggie.
“Several of us did.”
Reverend Hale said a brief prayer asking God to bless the work done within the shop, the people who entered, and the stories that encouraged truth, courage, mercy, and hope.
Clara bowed her head.
For a moment she felt Aunt June beside her so strongly that grief became gratitude.
Then she cut the ribbon.
The bell over the door rang almost continuously for the next four hours.
The shop filled.
Children crowded the moon corner. Teenagers browsed a table Clara had created from their suggestions. Elderly customers stood in the reading room drinking Maggie’s coffee. A local author signed books near the front window.
Clara ran the register.
The new system worked.
Mostly.
At ten-fifteen it froze.
Clara restarted it while Walter Dean announced to the line that June used to write receipts by hand and nobody died.
At eleven, the credit-card terminal failed for six minutes.
At noon, Noah knocked over a display of bookmarks.
At twelve-thirty, a customer asked for a book Clara had shelved in the wrong section.
At one, Maggie delivered sandwiches and forced Clara to eat half of one while standing.
At two, Eli quietly replaced a loose hinge beneath the counter.
At three, Clara realized they had sold nearly all the featured new releases.
At four, she checked the sales total.
Then checked again.
Eli saw her face.
“What?”
“We did four times June’s average Saturday.”
He leaned over the screen.
“Opening-day bump.”
“I know.”
“But still.”
“Still.”
Clara smiled.
The last customer left at six-twenty.
Everyone applauded.
Clara covered her face.
“You people are ridiculous.”
“Sales total!” Maggie shouted.
“No.”
“Sales total!”
Others joined.
Clara looked at the screen.
She announced it.
The room erupted.
Even Eli laughed.
They cleaned for another hour.
Then the volunteers drifted away until only Clara and Eli remained.
The shop looked wonderfully used.
A few books leaned crookedly. Chairs had moved. The children’s rug was covered with paper stars. Empty coffee cups waited near the reading room.
Clara stood at the front window.
Outside, evening settled over Honeysuckle Street.
“We did it,” she said.
Eli stood beside her.
“You did.”
“We.”
“Your shop.”
She looked at him.
“Thank you for keeping your promise to June.”
His expression shifted.
“Opening day,” he said.
Clara understood.
His promise ended today.
The realization unsettled her more than she expected.
“So you’re done?” she asked.
“With free labor?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely.”
She smiled.
“With being here?”
Eli looked at her.
“No.”
Her heart moved.
He continued, “If you want me here.”
Clara had spent years avoiding sentences that required courage.
She knew one when she heard it.
“I do.”
Eli’s gaze held hers.
“Good.”
Neither moved.
The room seemed suddenly quiet enough to hear the old clock behind the register.
Clara thought he might kiss her.
She wanted him to.
Then the front door opened.
Noah ran back inside.
“I forgot my dinosaur!”
Clara jumped backward.
Eli turned away, laughing under his breath.
Anna appeared behind Noah.
“Sorry. He realized halfway home.”
Noah retrieved the book from the bench.
He looked between Clara and Eli.
“Were you talking?”
“Yes,” Clara said quickly.
“About boring grown-up things?”
“Extremely boring.”
He nodded, satisfied.
After they left, Clara locked the door again.
The moment was gone.
But not entirely.
Eli picked up his keys.
“I should go.”
“Yes.”
He reached the door.
“Eli.”
He turned.
Clara walked toward him.
She did not overthink.
She did not schedule the decision.
She did not measure the exits.
She kissed him.
It was brief.
Soft.
Almost cautious.
Then she stepped back.
Eli stared at her.
Clara’s face burned.
“That was—”
“Clara.”
“Yes?”
He kissed her.
Not cautiously.
Thirteen years disappeared and did not disappear at all.
The kiss carried everything they had been, everything they were not, and the possibility of something new.
When they parted, Clara rested her forehead against his chest.
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“We are both too old for terrible ideas.”
“That is not how age works.”
She laughed.
Then she grew serious.
“I don’t want to repeat the past.”
“Neither do I.”
“I don’t know what happens next.”
“Neither do I.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It’s honest.”
She looked up.
“Yes.”
He touched her cheek once.
“Then we go slowly.”
Clara nodded.
“Slowly.”
Outside, the new sign hung above the window.
Inside, the shop smelled of coffee, wood, and books sold to people who had waited for its doors to open again.
Clara looked at the sales total one more time after Eli left.
Then she looked at the dark reflection of herself in the window.
She had reopened a bookstore.
She had kissed Eli Mercer.
The first seemed somehow easier to explain.