Chapter Three #2
‘Are you okay?’ Yumi asks.
‘I’ve been better,’ I tell her, without looking up. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Five minutes. We’ve got five minutes. ‘Did you really tell the people outside that to ask a question they had to buy a book?’
‘I really did,’ confirms Yumi, patting me on the head.
I half groan, but as much as I would like to keep the door locked and my head on this blissfully cool counter there’s a crowd outside the bookshop.
If I can steel myself, if I can ignore all the awful things people are undoubtedly saying on the internet, and can fumble my way through questions about Declan Archer’s book, we might manage to hit our targets this month.
I might even be able to pay some of the bills in the drawer out the back, and the relief at the thought makes me feel like weeping.
‘You should probably start thinking about your answers,’ says Yumi.
She squeezes my hand, then strides to the kitchenette and flicks on the kettle.
We both look up at the lights – Mike the electrician did some temporary fixes, but he said he’s going to put together a quote for rewiring.
I’ve mostly managed to push that worry to the back of my brain for the moment, but I can feel it lurking. Yumi grins.
And even over the dread in my gut, as I push myself up and straighten my hair, I can’t help but think – Gran would have loved this.
I’ve been asked everything from What does Declan Archer eat for breakfast?
(granola is what I finally burst out after the first three people who asked weren’t satisfied with me telling them I didn’t know) to Is it true that he threatened to burn down the bookshop?
(No. Emphatically no, despite Yumi nodding and giving me a thumbs up in the background, then pretending to light a match.)
The crowd of people in the bookshop is crushing, and we’ve almost sold out of our copies of Talking to Trees , including the three boxes we had in the storeroom out the back.
Still, the line of customers waiting to get in stretches down the block.
We have a queue . And after half an hour we have a security guard – also known as Dave the delivery guy, who Yumi dives on and somehow manages to talk into working at the shop for the rest of the day.
My first instinct is to tell her its unnecessary, but three people have tried to grab at me across the counter, and one woman yelled abuse about hurting Declan until another customer managed to get her to calm down.
Mentally, I’m shaken, but there’s enough adrenaline coursing through my system that I just keep moving.
I have honestly never seen so much fuss over a book.
By lunchtime, the article has – unbelievably – been picked up nationally.
It’s not the lead article – it’s not even the lead puff piece, thanks to a new, and very sweet, giraffe romance at Sydney Zoo – but it’s enough to send more people down to check out the shop.
My phone has thirty-four messages and counting. That’s more than I get on my birthday . . . by a lot. And everyone in the neighbourhood has come down to see what’s happening.
‘But, seriously, are you selling drugs or something out of our back room?’ I ask Yumi in one of our brief respites out the back.
‘Because there’s no way people are actually this curious about a dedication.
’ My head feels like it’s on fire. With Dave looking menacing by the front door and vetting anyone wearing T-shirts with Declan Archer’s face on them, the day hasn’t been as bad as I know it could have been, but I am exhausted.
I’m not sure how long I can stomach questions about Declan Archer.
‘Have you seriously missed how obsessed people are with this book?’ asks Yumi.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it. People are really, really into Declan Archer’s descriptions of trees.
Or his face. Or both.’ She pauses. ‘We should really think about making a tree with Declan Archer’s face on it for our window display. ’
‘But . . . all of that has nothing to do with the dedication,’ I tell her.
‘Declan Archer is mysterious , Clarrie,’ says Yumi, lifting her hands in what I think might be exasperation. ‘The dedication is one of the few crumbs about his life that we have. Bloodhounds will follow anything that even vaguely smells like the right track.’
‘Is that true?’ I ask her.
‘I have no idea,’ says Yumi. ‘But it sounded good.’
The bell above the doorway rings, and we both look towards the door.
Yumi shoves a bagel into my hand. ‘Eat,’ she says. ‘Take a drink of water, and five minutes. I’ll handle the counter until you’re done. I can pretend I’m you for a bit.’
‘That’s definitely fraud,’ I call as she jumps down the step and back out into the shop. I take a bite of the bagel, listening as she greets the newest customer.
‘Hi, I’m Clarence Brooks from Brooks’ Books, which is the bookshop you just entered. My bookshop.’ Yumi’s voice trickles back. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I have a question.’
A low, gravelly voice responds, and the sound sends a jolt straight through my stomach. A voice I’ve only heard once, more than a year ago, but that seems to be etched in my nervous system.
Crap.
I’m on my feet before he’s even finished speaking. Yumi is typing something into the computer, only half her attention on the customer at the counter. ‘About Declan?’ she says. ‘No problem, you’ll just need to buy a book first,’ I vaguely hear her say over the ringing in my ears.
My cheeks are tingling, and there is nothing I want more than to burrow deeper into the back room, but I can’t bear for Yumi to keep talking, to reveal any more about what’s been happening in the bookshop before she realises who is standing in front of her.
I take a breath, readying myself to come face to face with Declan Archer for the first time in eighteen months.
But when I step down it’s to see that his stupid baseball cap-covered head is already fixed in the direction of the kitchenette.
Staring at me.