Chapter 12 Taking in Strays
Taking in Strays
George hadn’t asked a woman out in a few years. He’d dated some since his divorce, but nothing had stuck, and in the end, he’d decided that he’d lost his chance for more romantic love in this life.
Yet, here he was, standing across the street from the bookstore, looking beyond the scaffolding to the entrance.
He hadn’t thought so much about a woman since Faith. Funny how they did that to a man, the right one, something like magnetism, giving courage where there was none. A guy smitten by a girl will do about anything to get a chance with her—even a fellow in his sixties.
They’d barely spoken, but there was something so utterly divine about Sandy, and he’d enjoyed their brief banter.
A thousand voices told him to turn back; they’d been on him all morning, but he simply had to give it a shot.
What was the worst that could happen, that she would reject him?
Such a brick wall couldn’t be nearly as bad as being dumped on his ass by his employer of almost thirty years.
And a worse alternative would be returning to Arizona with the regret of not asking her out at all.
Deciding there was no more time to waste, he crossed the street, nodded at the workmen who flashed big grins with cigarettes poking out of their mouths, then ducked into the store. A bell dinged. Soft classical music played in the background.
A few customers wandered about, but he didn’t see Sandy.
Perhaps she was upstairs. As opposed to fixating on his mission, he thought he might play it casually.
Unable to remember when he’d last visited a bookstore, he glanced over at the featured bestsellers, didn’t recognize a single one.
Meandering under the arch and coming under the impressive vaulted ceiling of the main room, he studied the categories on the signs above the shelves.
Fantasy and Sci-fi certainly weren’t for him.
He wasn’t even sure fiction was his thing.
Maybe something nonfiction made more sense.
A display of Bianca’s books stood at the end of one shelf.
He tried not to think about how he hadn’t read her book.
He’d tried, for the record. Exactly two chapters when she’d first sent the advance reader copy.
And it had just about killed him, how he was a mirror of Peggy Meh’s father.
Not that it was the first time he’d considered it, but the words on the pages had confirmed that he, George, had failed as a father and left lasting effects that his daughter was still working through.
“Mr. Briggs?” said a voice from behind.
He turned to find the young English woman who’d interviewed Bianca at the signing. Her glasses were so thick it made it hard to see her eyes.
“Hi, there,” he said. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Moira.”
“Moira, that’s right. Good to see you.” The purpose of his visit returned to him and gave him a fresh wave of nerves, a tingle in hands and heart.
“May I help you find something?”
All at once, his heart pounded, one big solid thud that made him feel dizzy. “Oh, no, just poking around. I . . .” It was now or never. He waited a moment to let his body settle. “I was hoping to find Sandy. Is she around?”
“She is indeed. I think she’s upstairs. Let me go retrieve her.”
George pretended to look at books, but he peered inward, talking to himself. Play it cool, George. Be interesting. Most of all, be confident.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Young Adult reader,” Sandy said, appearing to his left moments later. The Fault in Our Stars faced him. He noticed the YA sign that hung above the shelf. Busted.
“Not that I’m judging,” Sandy continued. “I enjoy YA from time to time. Just didn’t see that one coming.”
He turned fully in her direction. “I tend to surprise people.”
“Is there a particular title you’re looking for?”
He couldn’t pretend another second. “I better come clean before it’s too late. No, I don’t read YA, was just off into space, thinking.”
“Ah, another peruser without any intention of buying anything. Can I get you a latte and a zuppa Inglese?”
“A what?”
She allowed a hint of a smile, which he took as a gift. And boy was she pretty. The whole package, really. It was all he could do not to stare. She had the finest legs he’d ever seen, perched in heels as long as pencils.
“I’m kidding,” she said. “We don’t do food or coffee here. I’m venting some of my frustrations regarding the people who darken my door without spending a dime. Anyway, what can I help you with?” Her smile went away as fast as it had come, like a shooting star.
“I hate to have darkened your door, but I was looking for you.”
“For me?”
What followed was a nightmare of stops and starts, coupled with scolding internal dialogue. Get your words out, George! Quit acting like a teenager!
He finally did. “I keep thinking that I’d like to ask you out, so here I am. Would you care to go to dinner with me?” He could have shaken a martini with the tremor in his voice.
She clasped her hands together and cast a glance over his shoulder before finding his eyes. “I’m not sure that would be the best idea, but I’m honored.”
Her words filled the room, the rejection freezing everything, including George’s body. How mortifying. Had he known how badly it would hurt, he wouldn’t have dared an attempt.
He had to chip away at the ice of himself before he could respond. “Okay. Well, I tried.” He almost added, “Let me know if you change your mind,” but thankfully caught himself.
A man must admit when he’d been defeated, and the best way to respond was politely, before disappearing. At least, this was George’s logic. He smiled with respect and started toward the stucco arch that led to the exit. “See you around.”
It was all he could do to move his legs, but he did so with his chest up.
Once outside, he sucked in air and started quickly back across the street.
He fumbled for his keys and had to focus to open the door leading to Bianca’s apartment.
Once he’d made it into the courtyard—the courtyard that hadn’t been swept in a decade—he leaned against the wall and stared down at the gravel.
What the hell had he been thinking?
Later, Sandy and Moira were shelving a new shipment of books when Sandy finally said, “What is it? Out with it.”
“Out with what?” replied Moira.
Sandy slipped a copy of Stephen King’s latest into its rightful place.
The American travelers loved King. “Don’t pretend with me.
Let’s get it over with. Just . . . please don’t ask for a raise because we’re making no money as it is.
We’re right on the precipice of either going out of business or filing as a charity organization.
” That last bit was funny, but Moira was too far gone into her own stream of thought to laugh.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. I don’t mean to overstep, but I have a few ideas to go along with starting the book club—if that is something you’re still okay with?”
Here we go, Sandy thought, pulling out a stack of the new Elin Hilderbrand, another one who killed it with the tourists.
She could pick out a Hilderbrand reader right as they entered.
They’d rush in like they only had a moment because hubby was watching the kids, then say, “I’m so glad you’re here.
I haven’t been able to find any English books, and I can’t stand reading on a Kindle.
Do you, by chance, have the new Elin Hilderbrand?
” Sandy could potentially mouth the words with them, it was so predictable.
Then she’d correct the pronunciation of Hilderbrand’s first name (“sounds like Ellen, not EE-lin”) and point to her bestsellers.
If Sandy had a dollar for every one of those—wait, she did.
One dollar was about all she made selling these books, once you took out rent and bills and all.
Which meant she needed to sell about three hundred times what she was selling now if she were to return this to a viable business.
Okay, maybe a little more than a dollar, but not much more.
The downward sales trend hadn’t been such a big deal for a while, as the settlement on her divorce from the dumb-shit real estate agent had been substantial, but she was starting to worry.
What if she accidentally lived till she was ninety?
If God truly existed, that’s exactly what he’d do to her, sentence her to a long life.
“What do you think?” Moira asked.
“About what? I was doing my best to tune you out.” Sandy immediately felt remorse for her inexcusable behavior. God, Moira needed to toughen up. They both did! “Okay,” Sandy said, “let’s try again. What were you saying in your infinite wisdom from the entirety of your short bookselling career?”
What Sandy liked most about Moira was that she, for the most part, completely ignored Sandy’s attacks.
Moira had accepted that Sandy needed to express her frustrations, and someone had to be her punching bag.
But Sandy didn’t mean a lot of it. She didn’t dislike Moira. As far as humans went, Moira was fine.
“About this community idea, a book club. A newsletter. All the things that could help us grow. You mentioned last night that you might let me?”
“Is that a question?” Sandy could hear how mean she was being as she gradually gave in.
She’d thought about it, too, the book club idea and how Moira was such a soldier and loved her job so much and how she wanted to help.
Maybe Sandy should let her. If only to give her some sort of purpose. Some people needed that.
Moira adjusted the windshields that hung over her face. “I’d like to at least try to build a community.”
But people are awful, Sandy thought to herself. Why would I want to bring them together? Nevertheless, she might have to let Moira learn this one the hard way.
“Let’s take it one thing at a time. A book club. What are you thinking?”