11. Talia
Talia
The chilly salt breeze rustled through Talia’s hair as she walked up the gravel path to Lighthouse Books, Sam’s renovated white lighthouse on the rocky coast. Even in summer, you had to wear a sweater here, but it was a peaceful, rugged kind of beauty that you fell in love with, living in the Bay Area.
Sam liked to say that the sunny, touristy volleyball-strewn beaches of Los Angeles were like paperback romances, whereas Northern California’s cold cliffside beaches were like literary fiction.
They were both wonderful, but most people—like readers—had a strong preference.
And for Talia and Sam, it was these quiet, moody beaches, with their banks of gray fog and their slate-blue waves that sometimes whispered onto the sand and other times crashed into the rock faces with a roar.
The metal door to the lighthouse creaked as she opened it, and a little wind chime further announced her arrival.
“Welcome to Lighthouse Books,” an older man hollered from inside the store. “Feel free to browse and let us know if we can help you find anything!”
Talia wove her way through the labyrinth of shelves.
Unlike a normal store that could line things up at more or less right angles, the lighthouse’s circular walls meant the shelves here curved and meandered, such that you were pretty much surrounded by books no matter which way you turned.
They were stacked high up the walls, too, with ladders that ringed the shop.
Velvet armchairs nestled into every dead end of the bookish maze.
“Hey, Kenneth,” Talia said, when she finally emerged and could see him behind the register.
He was in his late seventies and looked like Santa Claus, if Santa only gave books as gifts.
Kenneth was a fixture at Lighthouse Books and knew where every single book was located as if they were actual extensions of him.
Who needed digital inventory systems, Kenneth would say, when he could find things instantaneously in his memory?
“Oh, hello, Talia. You look lovely today. But I presume you’re here for Sam and not me?” Kenneth pressed his hands to his heart melodramatically, as if it had been crushed.
“You know I keep trying to take you out to lunch, but you’re awfully picky.”
Kenneth wrinkled his nose. “Taco Bell is not real food. When you offer me a proper lunch date, I will accept.”
Talia winked. They ran through the same joke every Sunday.
“Sam is upstairs,” Kenneth said.
She thanked him and started up the spiral staircase.
When Sam had bought the lighthouse, the steps had been the original metal, but he’d since had them refurbished in polished cherrywood.
Combined with all the armchairs, the staircase gave the tower a softer, almost cozy feel, rather than just being a big utilitarian cylinder.
It was the kind of subtle, aesthetic magic that Sam was good at, like his repurposed and restyled thrift store tuxedo jacket that he’d worn to Sugiyama the other night.
She passed the second floor, which housed the nonfiction collection as well as the bookstore’s office. She unhooked the PRIVATE sign and chain that blocked the stairway to the third floor and climbed up to Sam’s apartment.
It took him a minute to come to the door after she knocked.
“Hey, g’morning… I mean, afternoon.” He stepped out onto the stairwell platform and gave her a quick hug while pulling the door shut behind him. His hair was more mussed than usual, and it looked like he’d just tossed a leather jacket on over his pajama shirt and a pair of worn jeans.
“You got something—or someone—in there you don’t want me to see?
” Talia teased. But although her tone was light, her chest clenched.
Which was strange, because she wasn’t usually possessive about Sam.
Maybe the repeated breakfast rewinds of her mom exhorting her to “give Sam a chance” had leaked into Talia’s subconscious.
Sam’s cheeks flushed. He didn’t answer Talia’s question, though. “I’m starving,” he said instead. “Come on—let’s go blow my poker winnings on Sunday Lunch.”