Chapter 18
Celia sat watching Daphne flitting about the shelves moving books that a week ago she would have complained about even having
to touch. She carried the most unused and ill-looking volumes down to the basement storage area and occasionally returned
with others. Which was not the best of ideas. Many of those books were in the basement because Olivia wasn’t sure whether
they would be considered lewd or scandalous. . . . It was hard to know with their nemesis always lurking and changing the
rules.
But after her first warning, for which she received a nasty look and an eye roll from Daphne, she kept quiet. She could always
tell Olivia later. If Olivia ever came down again.
“What are they doing up there? It’s been almost three hours.”
“I wonder,” said Daphne.
“Wonder what. You can be so annoying.”
“Who is he, this Mr. Lienhardt?”
“I don’t know. A customer.”
“We’ve never seen him in the store. She’s never mentioned him, and yet she came to greet him immediately, like they were old
friends.”
“Maybe they are,” Celia answered, beginning to wonder herself.
“Have you ever heard her mention him?”
“No. Maybe someone she met on a buying trip? If he was a local owner or dealer, we would have met him before now.”
“True. Or I suppose it could be someone she met while she was working at the Met. I wonder if Mr. Lienhardt could be one of
her colleagues from there?”
Celia shrugged. “She never talks about it.”
“I don’t think she wants to remember those days.”
“Why?” Celia asked.
“Don’t you remember hearing her crying night after night after Papa died.”
“Sort of, but I thought she was sad that he was dead.”
“Or the fights before that?”
“Between Father and Olivia? I just stuck my fingers in my ears.” Celia shrugged. After the loss of their mother, she’d had
no desire to be around her preoccupied, unapproachable father. She’d pushed those memories to the recesses of her life. Nicely
forgotten, until the appearance of Olivia carrying that old briefcase had brought it all tumbling back. “I remember he called
her ungrateful. I didn’t know it was because of her job at the Met. You’d think he’d be happy she had such a good position.”
“Not to him. He’d paid for her to go to college so she could eventually take over the business.” Daphne shuddered. “But she
wanted to restore and translate great works of art. She was passionate about her work there. He was furious, accused her of
going behind his back after he’d spent all that money for her education. Some of their fights were quite awful.”
“She’s never discussed it.”
“She wouldn’t, would she.” Daphne sighed. “But never mind. It’s best not even to think about the past. I just hope she won’t do anything to get us in trouble.”
“She won’t,” Celia said, knowing she already had. It was just unclear how Max Lienhardt fit into it all. She feared it was
nothing good.
“Well, if you’ll watch the shop for a few minutes, I have a box of books I want to store in the basement.” Daphne made a face.
“Nothing that is in the least bit off color. I just need more space. It will only take a few minutes.”
“Sure,” Celia said. “Take your time.”
“Really?”
“Sure.” Celia didn’t know why she’d forgotten the fights between Olivia and their father. Actually, she never thought about
her father. But she was suddenly thinking differently about her older sister. She’d never really thought about Olivia’s dreams
to work at the museum. Now, it seemed, the museum had come to her. And out of the blue, Daphne was running around reorganizing
the shop as if she wasn’t usually trying every way she could think of to leave it.
Hmm, she thought. She slipped The House on Henry Street out from under the counter and began to read.
There had to be a better way to get all these books down to storage, Daphne thought as she carried an armful of books down
the steep stairs. There used to be a dumbwaiter, but it didn’t work anymore. She considered asking Celia if she could borrow
her knitting bag, but it was so old that it would probably fall apart from the least amount of weight. She would have to ask
Kirsch’s boy to help again.
She didn’t like going to the basement. It was dark and musty and crammed with tottering stacks of books no one wanted. And God knew what might be living down there in the dark recesses. She shuddered. She would not be deterred.
She had a plan that only partly had to do with books. She did want to make the shop more “presented” in order to attract ladies
and working girls. To carry new and slightly used books that people might not only notice but actually want to buy.
Wasn’t that what bookstores were for? She reached the bottom of the stairs and stamped her way over the cement floor to the
old mailroom table, making as much noise as she could to frighten away any skittering thing that might be out and about.
If she was honest, she’d have to admit she did have a bit of an ulterior motive. It wasn’t just the books’ presentation she
was concerned with, but her own. It hadn’t escaped her notice when she’d been at Wanamaker’s that all those bright ribbons
surrounding the salesgirls brought out the color in their complexions and brightened up their whole demeanor.
She plunked her books down on the old, unused table. Maybe being surrounded by shelves of dull old books wasn’t setting Daphne
off to her best advantage.
She could hear Celia saying, “How can you be so self-centered?”
Well, she had to be.
Her sisters might be content to live locked away like characters in an enchanted, but dusty, fairy tale, but Daphne was not.
And she wasn’t willing to wait two hundred years to be awakened by a kiss. She was ready now.
She brushed her hands off and climbed the stairs for another load, but after three more trips up and down those uneven treads, her back hurt, her mouth was dry, and she had to admit she was going to need some help.
A lot of help. Because now that she’d started clearing out the first floor, she was beginning to see opportunity for “presentation” everywhere.
Starting with the balcony of books that was hidden by shelves and stacks of junk and heaven knew what else.
The simple but pretty-enough iron railing that created an arc over the back wall was covered by faded cloths.
The double staircase was cordoned off at both ends so no one could access the books there.
Daphne didn’t even know what books were up there, but if she took out the middle two or three bookcases on the main floor
and refurbished the balcony, it would look just like a tiny Book Row version of Wanamaker’s.
So what if the walls weren’t polished to a sheen and the staircase wasn’t marble? She sighed. But what to do with all the
books and shelves? Maybe Olivia would let them auction them off. . . . Probably not. But what if . . .
She stood at the bottom of the steps looking around at the stacks of boxes that balanced precariously on top of one another
like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, tenfold, fiftyfold.
It was a nightmare.
Celia appeared above her in the doorway. “Are you okay down there?”
“Yes. This place is a tottering accident waiting to happen.”
“Well, be careful.”
“I will, but I’m going to ask Olivia if we can put some of this junk out for the auction.”
“She’ll never agree without having each one priced by her.”
“Most of this is stuff that won’t ever sell; some of it’s been down here so long it’s probably rotted. And all the inventory we’ve displaced in case of a Comstock raid has just been thrown down here without cataloguing or anything.”
“Listen to you, Miss Book Business.”
“Well, somebody has to be. With Olivia never making an appearance, except to take strange and stranger men upstairs to get
them to buy stuff. And you running around doing God knows what at all hours of the day and night.”
“Fine, I’ll let you get to it.” Celia disappeared from view.
Daphne turned back to the room. It was more than a mess. It was . . . There were no words to describe it. She cautiously scooted
past torn, half-filled boxes and freestanding stacks of old magazines.
She dragged a nearly empty box over and peered inside, pulled out a volume, faded and water damaged. Checked the date, not
that old; she checked the rest of the box’s contents, all headed for the throwaway box, if not the garbage. She pulled out
another half-filled box. After a cursory look she threw most of the contents into the first box and pushed it aside.
She pushed both against the wall, a keeper box and a throwaway box. It was a start. But she couldn’t do more today, especially
not in this dress, even with the work apron. She’d ask Mr. Kirsch or Mr. Henderson to recommend some strong, able-bodied boys
to help. . . . As soon as she proposed the idea to Olivia. She’d gladly accepted Daphne’s first suggestions after her visit
to Wanamaker’s. She’d thought Olivia was probably just humoring her, but she’d said yes. Maybe she’d say yes again.
She walked toward the front of the basement; the walls were lined with stacks of really old crates. Most of them had been labeled, but the writing was faded and hard to read in the light from the lone electric lightbulb.
She shoved the sturdiest-looking box, labeled “American History,” up against the nearest tower. Holding on to the edge of
the table, she tested its strength then climbed on top. It took her weight. There were two more “American History” boxes and
a box of magazines. A peek inside divulged they were old copies of Ladies’ Home Journal, Harper’s Bazaar, The Delineator, and older women’s magazines of household tips. They were old, but they could be interesting as a display, or maybe even
worth auctioning. Not that she knew anything about how to go about it. Olivia did, and she should be glad to get this junk
out of the way. It was a fire hazard.
Right. That was the tack she would take. Olivia would understand fire hazard.