Chapter 7
Seven
Shit.
I never slept in. Without time to worry about whether the alarm didn’t go off or I somehow slept through it, I tossed on a sundress, skipped makeup and made it to the shop ten minutes before opening. Thankfully, I’d finished the display already and mornings were usually slow, except for weekends.
“Oh thank goodness.”
I’d just put Father Simon’s chronicle under the front counter—the plan I’d hatched late last night likely the reason I’d slept in—when Mazzie pushed the front door open.
The Boots and Brews owner headed straight for my coffee station and made herself a cup of brew.
“Somehow I don’t have Nolan’s cell number. I have a bit of an emergency and need his help.”
Before I could even answer, the door opened and two customers came inside, laughing in a way that told me they were tourists. Most locals wouldn’t be so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this early on a weekday. I greeted them as they headed toward my ‘new release’ display.
Heading behind the counter, I took a sip of coffee and sat on the stool, thoughts of Riven and Rowan … and Nolan’s hug … never far from my mind.
“He’s not at the store?”
“It’s closed.”
I looked at my phone. “That’s odd.”
“Not really,” she watched as the two friends headed into the stacks. “Transformers are out on their block again.”
I winced. He wouldn’t be thrilled about that. I’m surprised he’s not climbing the pole himself to fix it. So what’s the emergency?”
“Excuse me. Any chance you have Dark Flight by James Blatch? My boyfriend loves him.”
One woman emerged to ask, and I was happy to tell her we did.
Sending her to the right spot, I answered Mazzie’s unasked question.
“A cold war aviation thriller. I started carrying it when my dad wouldn’t stop talking about how much he loved it.
He follows the author on social media and shows me his videos 24/7. So, about that emergency?”
“Something’s up with the stereo system, and I have a guy coming all the way from Maine. A banjo player Gian and I saw up there last month. He’s incredible. Writes books too … you should come and meet him.”
“What’s his name?” I was already into the system to look him up. My favorite books to carry were ones that came from personal recommendations.
“Book Walker. I even read one after we met. Red Mountain. Check it out.”
“I see it here. Looks like a perfect book club pick. I’d love to meet him.”
“Maybe tonight you’ll stay for more than a song or two.”
Mazzie stepped aside as the customers checked out.
“Guess you noticed,” I murmured, chatting with the customers before they left.
“Everything okay?” Mazzie asked as they left.
Grabbing my comfort coffee, I considered telling her the truth. No. Everything was the opposite of okay. Instead, I gave her Nolan’s cell and promised to stop by Boots and Brews. Not every night one got to meet a banjo-playing author.
After Mazzie left, it was a steady stream until almost lunchtime. While normally that would have been a pleasant mid-week surprise, it wasn’t until almost noon that I finally went to sit down at my computer and type out an email to my old medieval studies professor.
“Hi Dr. Hensley,” it began. “I wondered if you could look at screenshots of this rare text and let me know if you’ve ever heard of it before.”
What else could I say? That it had been pulling me through the pages in a dream-like state I was ninety-five percent sure was real? Allowing for the five percent chance I was, indeed, going crazy?”
Hitting send, the ‘whoosh’ of the email seemed louder, more ominous, than usual. I couldn’t dwell on it as the shop got busy again—at least, my small-town bookstore version of busy—for another half hour.
Every so often, I looked at the book but didn’t dare touch it.
When the banging on my roof began, I abandoned the book, stopped hitting refresh on my email, and headed out to the street. At first, I couldn’t see anything, but then he appeared.
Jeans. No shirt. All … Nolan.
“What the heck are you doing up there?”
He came too close to the roof’s edge for my liking.
“Fixing your roof. Your gutter’s half melted and the flashing’s toast.”
He had a million jobs to do, his hardware shop was closed which means he wasn’t making money and … he was fixing my roof?
“Nolan,” I scolded. “I know full well how many jobs you have. The insurance guy is supposed to come this week. Why are you fixing my roof?”
“Now that is one fine-looking repairman.”
A group of four women, girls’ trip most likely, stopped next to me.
“He can fix my roof anytime,” another said.
“Is the bookstore open?” asked a third.
“Sure is. Don’t mind the banging though.”
“I don’t mind it at all,” said the one who originally spotted him as the others giggled and headed into the store.
The brunette stood with me, apparently content to watch Nolan on my roof.
To be fair, she wasn’t wrong. “Even in his prime, my husband never had more than one ab. I’m not sure that I’ve seen a six-pack in real life. ”
Nolan, who apparently could hear us, chuckled.
“If you ladies are done admiring the goods,” he patted his very fine-looking stomach, “I’ll get back to work.”
“Nolan,” I called, attempting to reprimand him, but he’d already walked away. Sighing, I shook my head and escorted the woman into my shop.
“You don’t look happy about him being up there,” she observed.
“I’m not. He’s a friend, doing me a favor.” Because I’d told him I was worried about it getting fixed.
She blinked. Smiled. “Uh, just stating the obvious but, he didn’t look at you like a friend. Excuse me a sec, I’m getting summoned.”
With that, I was alone again in the shop's front, Nolan’s banging above me, and the tourist’s words echoing in my ears.
He didn’t look at you like a friend.
She wasn’t the first, or even the fiftieth, person to say that. My friends, my parents … pretty much everyone had been shipping Nolan and I for years. But usually they said things like, “You’d make a perfect couple.” That was very different from “He didn’t look at you like a friend.”
Was that true?
My reverie was interrupted by one of the women purchasing a mug. At first, I’d resisted selling anything but actual books, but the bills had to be paid and the cutesy bookish and wine related items flew off the shelves. Catering to wine-country tourists kept the doors open.
For a few blessed moments, I’d forgotten about the chronicle until I opened my email.
Subject: Re: Inquiry on De Cura Sanguinis Manuscript
Lena,
If the title page also bears the same embossed crest as the cover, that split cross encircled by vines, then what you have isn’t a copy. It’s a Father Simon original, or a very convincing forgery.
That chronicle was believed lost in the mid-fourteenth century. The title’s translation, by the way, isn’t “Cure of Blood” but “The Keeping of Blood.” That distinction has… unsettling implications. I’d like to see it myself, but please handle it carefully in the meantime.
– Dr. Hensley
P.S. The title's meaning is disputed, but some scholars believe "Keeping" refers to binding. Not preserving, but “holding” something across time. Blood memory, perhaps. Or souls seeking their mirrors. Just something to note.
Handle it carefully? That had to be the most understated warning in history.
I fired off an email, hoping to connect with him sooner rather than later, and somehow put the book from my mind. Not that Dr. Hensley totally validated that I hadn’t lost my mind—clearly there was something strange about that text—but it was a plan. A start.
I wasn’t alone.
By the time I ate lunch with Nolan, grabbing us hoagies and trying to ignore his bare stomach that had suddenly become such a distraction, I'd made up my mind.
I quickly changed for the night to meet Mazzie's author musician and decided …
I was done being controlled by a book. It was time for some answers, and now the book would answer to me.