Chapter 14 Now
In my five years at The Bookshop, I’ve pushed for two things, and they are the two things I’m most proud of—StoryTime on Tuesday morning and Saturday afternoon, and our monthly book club that I started, which, to my profound embarrassment, Fern referred to on our website and our in-store flyers as Try It with Thea.
The first time I griped to Lauren about that, we were out for Fried Food and French Wine Friday. She laughed so hard, she snorted champagne up her nose, which felt, frankly, like justice had been served.
Try It with Thea, which runs in addition to our main book club (this one, of course, enjoys an innuendo-free name, Fiction with Fern, focused on new-release literary fiction), is a concept I came up with for people who are still figuring out what they like to read, or who, like me, love to read multiple genres but can get overwhelmed by their options.
When I first started the book club last year, I both loved and hated running it.
I mostly loved it, and for many reasons.
I started to make friends among its members.
I had a time and place to spend with people who enjoyed reading as much as I did and see slivers of them peek through their thoughts and feelings on what we read; what they related to or what they didn’t; what they felt was unjust or, conversely, justified; and which characters they rooted for as well as which ones they couldn’t wait to see vanquished.
And I, somewhat, hated it. Sometimes, the monthly pick was a flop, even for me, and our discussion was lackluster.
Then I felt like a failure who’d picked a dud of a book and disappointed everyone and waisted two hours of their lives, plus their reading hours.
It made my people-pleasing skin crawl. Which was why, according to Sue, it was a very worthwhile thing for me to continue doing.
Sue was right. I’ve stuck with it long enough that I don’t hate any part of book club now, besides the name. I don’t love when a book is a flop, but I don’t want to curl up and hide when it happens, either.
I’d like to say I’ve arrived at that same level of comfort with discomfort when it comes to calling meetings with my boss. But I haven’t at all.
Fern walks in through the staff room back door at exactly seven-thirty, half an hour before other staff members will get here to prep opening the store for the day, and for a moment, I’m so nervous, I’m sure I’m going to puke.
“Good morning, Thea.” Fern sets down her thermos of coffee and tucks her usual flowy linen dress, this one in moss green, beneath her as she sits.
Her eyes crinkle behind a pair of half-moon gold wire-rim glasses, and her white hair is, as always, swept up into a small chignon on her head. A cloud of patchouli floats around her.
“Morning, Fern.” I sit down across from her, holding the manila folder that contains everything I’ve been dreaming of, working toward, hoping for. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop the folder.
Fern reaches across the table and rests her hands on mine. I try to smile, to look calm and poised for what I’m about to do.
Slowly, she draws her hands back, across the table, and with them the manila folder. Wordlessly, she opens it, her gaze darting down the first page. Her expression is unreadable, her ever-present serene smile giving away nothing.
My stomach knots viciously.
Fern peers up at me over her glasses. “It’s your meeting, Thea. Take it away.”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “So, having looked at page one, you’ll see first on my proposed agenda is…”
She flicks the manila folder shut, still smiling.
My gaze darts from the folder to her. “Why did you close the folder?”
“I’m not interested in reading an agenda. I’m sure you’ve included valuable data points, all the necessary numbers, but I can look at those later.” She leans in, elbows on the table, and holds my eyes. “What I’m interested in is hearing what you have to say.”
I dart another glance at the manila folder. I’m terrible at presenting, unless I’m talking about a book I love. I was planning on walking Fern through each bullet point, clinging to the order and magnitude of the proposal.
But that’s not what she wants. And if I want this—my dream for this store, for my future—I have to at least try to wing it her way.
Drawing in a deep breath, I shut my eyes. I picture what I’ve let myself want and hope and reach for.
Thea Meyer stood outside The Bookshop, drinking in the sight of it—the tall, colorful shelves teaming with book; the stands of local artists’ cards, stickers, candles, bookmarks; the patrons sipping coffee, plucking a book from the shelf, turning it over to read the back copy, smiling to themselves.
Falling leaves drifted from the tree above her, morning sun warm on her face, as she felt a tug in her heart, a quiet voice inside her growing louder:
You could do more than love this place; you could pour your heart into it.
This place has made you happy, but you could make it even happier.
You could make something good and strong and beautiful even more so.
I open my eyes, meet Fern’s gaze, and take the leap.
My meeting with Fern this morning is taking up 98 percent of my brain space, and only the last 2 percent is left for my last task before vacation—book club tonight.
I’m replaying Fern’s response as I drag chairs into a rough horseshoe shape in the middle of the bookstore and members start to trickle in, ordering from the coffee bar an herbal tea, an evening decaf, a cookie, a muffin.
You’ve given me a lot to think about, Thea. Let’s talk once you’re back from your trip.
“She hates it,” I mutter to myself. “I’m going to get fired, and then I’ll be stuck at a job I hate, scrubbing toilets without the perks of pushing books to compensate for that misery.”
“Who’s scrubbing toilets?” Mr. Fleischer asks, those bushy white eyebrows darting up above his thick black-frame glasses.
I jump and spin around, clutching my chest. “No one.” I frown at him. “How did you even hear that?”
He taps his ear. “Hearing aid tune-up this morning. Now move.”
I step aside to make way for him. He’s leaning heavier on his walker these days, moving slower. I’ve offered every book club since we started to drive him, and every time he’s refused me. I’d take it personally, if I didn’t know I’m still his favorite neighbor and favorite Bookshop employee.
“Quite the selection this month,” he says.
“Quite the selection?”
He grunts.
“What is it with my favorite old people giving me cryptic responses today?” I join him in the next chair over as he eases himself down.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll put you out of your misery. It was gritty and moving and, most importantly, feminist as fuck.” He leans in, voice lowered. “Which means Archie’s going to hate it.”
Archie Burton is Mr. Fleischer’s opposite.
He’s all smiles and chummy small talk, but beneath the surface, he’s a creep of a guy who manages to keep his comments just below the level of inappropriate that would give grounds to kick him out, and I think he does that very much on purpose.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t picked some titles largely in the hopes that they’d be “woke” enough to scare him off. So far, I haven’t had success.
I smile at Mr. Fleischer. “I’m not actually counting on Mr. Burton showing up for discussion tonight.” I lean in, too. “And by that, I mean, I really hope he doesn’t.”
“He will,” Mr. Fleischer says, groaning as he leans back in his seat. “Just for the pleasure of pissing on our fun.”
“You think it’ll be fun tonight?” I ask.
There’s an energetic twinkle in Mr. Fleischer’s eye that I haven’t seen in a while. It loosens my worry for him a little, as he pats my hand. “Oh, it’s gonna be lively, toots. I can feel it.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and smile as I open up the message, a selfie of Lauren holding The Grace Year, her face turned toward it, a smooch pursing her lips. Below it says, Give Burton hell for me! Wish I was there!
“Who’s that texting you a message?” Mr. Fleischer leans in. “Your beau?”
“My friend,” I emphasize, “Alex? No.”
He rolls his eyes. “Right. Your friend, Alex. Who comes over all evening and cooks for you and walks your dog, and drives me to my doctor appointments because someone’s too busy being Ms. Important Bookstore Manager.”
“First of all, that’s what friends do,” I tell him. “They visit each other and cook for each other, and walk each other’s dogs and drive each other’s curmudgeonly neighbors places.”
“Uh-huh.” He rolls his eyes again.
“Second of all, I’ve tried to take you to your doctor appointments, but you keep blowing me off because you want to hang out with Alex while he drives you around, which, you know, ouch. But I get it, he’s a likable guy.”
“And your car is a death trap,” he adds.
“It is not!” I glare at him.
He ignores that. “Who’s that message from,” he says, leaning toward my phone, being his nosy self. “Oh, the shrew.”
“You hush.” I bite back a smile. “Like you and Lauren aren’t both cut from the same cloth.”
“God help me if we are!” He hacks a phlegmy cough.
“Alex has been talking smack about her, hasn’t he?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
I don’t buy it. “You can’t take him literally when he does that. It’s just a petty game between the two of them. He doesn’t actually dislike her.”
Mr. Fleischer gives me a long stare. “Theadora. He’s wildly jealous of her. He’s jealous of anyone he thinks gets more of you than he does.”
My heart skips a beat, then jolts back into rhythm. “That’s not… I don’t—”
“Bah.” He waves his hand. “Forget it. Just answer the shrew.”
I falter for a moment, thrown by his words, before I steady myself. “Only if you take a selfie with me to send her.”
He folds his arms across his chest. “Absolutely not.”
I sigh, turning to my phone, responding to Lauren. I heart the photo she sent, then write, Wish you were here too! Hoping Burton doesn’t show, but if he does, I’m ready to rumble. Did you like the book??