Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Henry
“The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry by Gabrielle Zevin feels like stepping into The Last Page.”
—Noah’s Staff Pick
A few hours later, the store opened, but I hid in Leo’s office. I’d been running the morning meetings for the past month, but I couldn’t face the booksellers anymore, knowing the end was near.
When I eventually left the office, I intended to just take a walk around the store to stretch my legs. But Ella’s voice floated through the second floor. She was doing storytime in the children’s section like nothing was wrong.
The children’s section had a rainbow carpet, tiny chairs, and tables. Ella sat in one of those tiny chairs, a small group of children staring up at her, mesmerized, as their parents stood against the shelves, smiling.
Ella went all in, too. She was reading Pinkalicious by Victoria Kann with no embarrassment whatsoever. She mimicked the actions in the book, switching in and out of different voices.
And for just a second, I was five years old again. I had sat on that very carpet, countless times, feeling so proud that Leo was my grandfather.
Ella fit nicely in his shoes.
What was it like to be that magnetic? I’d never know how it felt to have the kind of inner beauty that brightened every room.
I hated our situation for a lot of reasons.
But what would have happened if I walked into The Last Page as a patron after our subway run-in?
I tried my best not to think about it, but when I heard her laughter from across the main floor or watched her dip into a book in the basement, I couldn’t help it.
I wanted to know who she was when no one was around. Now, I’d never get to.
When she finished reading the book, a young boy ran up to her for a hug. Ella laughed easily at the gesture and squeezed him back.
“Don’t forget attendees of the children’s storytime get half off one picture book! Once you make your selection, come up to the register with your grownup,” Ella said kindly, still holding on to the little boy.
As the crowd dispersed, she spoke quietly to him. Curious what she was saying, I inched closer when a hand on my elbow stopped me.
I turned to find an older version of Ella staring up at me.
“You must be Henry,” she said, a slight accent curling her words.
Her hands were clasped in front of her, her back straight and chin high.
Though she had white hairs peeking out at the roots and laugh lines near her mouth, she looked strikingly similar to Ella.
Something about her made me straighten up and pull my shoulders back, lest she scold me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “You’re Ella’s mother?”
She frowned. “What? Do I not look young enough to be her sister? Do I look old to you?”
My eyes widened. “No! No way. That’s not what I was trying to say at all. Of course you look young. I just mean—”
“Mamí, stop giving him a hard time,” Ella said. She was carrying the little boy now, resting him on her hip. “Henry, this is my mother, Lucía. Mamí, this is Henry.”
“It’s great to meet you, ma’am,” I said, holding out my hand.
Lucía shared a glance with Ella before pulling me into a hug. I bent down and hesitantly wrapped my arms around her. As pathetic as it may sound, I really missed my own mom at that moment.
Envy seemed to haunt me whenever I was around Ella—this time not over Leo, but that she got to hug her own mom whenever she wanted.
“In Peru, we hug,” Lucía said, simply. “Even if you’ve stolen this store from my daughter.”
“Mom,” Ella said sharply. “It’s not his fault.”
“Carmelita, you should have the store—”
“And I don’t, end of story. That’s not Henry’s fault.” Ella shot her mom a look. “And you wouldn’t dare get mad at Leo.”
After this morning, I’d been certain Ella would ignore me until I left. How could I blame her? But here she was defending me, like she had the right to yell at me and no one else did.
“Fine.” Her mom lifted her chin and said to me, “Your store is lovely.”
“Thank you. It’s all Ella’s doing anyway.” I shot a sideways glance at Ella, who had a faint blush on her cheeks. “Who’s this?” I asked, nodding to the little boy.
Ella grinned and tickled his stomach. He giggled as she said, “This little monster is my brother, Carlos. Say hi to Henry.”
“Hi!” Carlos said eagerly, nearly shouting. “Did you hear my sister reading today?”
“I did,” I replied. “She’s really good.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said confidently. “She reads me to sleep sometimes.”
I smiled at that familiar pride. “You’re really lucky. Her voices are pretty good.”
“They used to be horrible. She said I was her test rat.”
I laughed at that and Ella stared at me, her lips quirked up. “So we all have you to thank for her performance today?”
He looked to Ella, confused.
“Performance is like a show,” she explained patiently. “When someone reads or sings or acts in front of an audience, that’s a performance.”
“Performance,” he repeated the word, testing out the word on his lips.
“Carmella, you’ve got a line forming.” Her mom nodded toward the register where eager kids and parents were waiting. She gestured for Ella to hand her Carlos. I’d seen her name in the files before, but never said it out loud. Never heard the beautiful lilt of it in someone’s voice. Carmella.
“I’ll see you both later. Thanks for coming.” She gave them both a quick hug, blowing a raspberry on Carlos’s cheek. “Henry, you want to help me out?”
“Sure,” I said, a bit surprised. “It was nice to meet you both.”
I joined Ella behind the counter and she spared me a glance. “These books are more your reading level, right?”
“Are you shaming readers?” I tsked.
“You’re not one of those, though,” Ella replied, taking a stack of books from a customer.
“I read,” I said defensively.
It’d been years since I actually worked at The Last Page, so I didn’t really remember how to use the POS system. So instead, I slid our free bookmarks into each book and bagged them.
“Reading is a hobby to you,” Ella said. “It’s my religion.” Before I could respond, a little girl stood at the register, her head barely reaching over the counter. She slid Junie B. Jones toward Ella, who gasped. “Did you know this is one of my favorite books?”
“No way!” The girl grinned.
“Way. I love Junie! Have you read the one about the fruitcake? It’s the best in the series.”
Nearly every interaction Ella had with the customers was like that.
Every book a kid bought was the most exciting one she’d ever read.
And she really had read them. She gave some of the kids sneak peaks at the plot or told them about her favorite character to get them excited.
All the parents were glowing, but I watched in awe.
Leo had had good reason to train her to take over as owner, but witnessing the reason why was something else altogether.
Leo had been effervescent. His joy for life and literature was infectious and it was obvious that Ella took after him.
Once, Leo told me he tried to read a book from each section in the store every year.
I knew Ella had done the same. I didn’t even have to ask.
When the line finally died down, she looked behind her for the stool before climbing onto it.
“Must’ve forgotten to get rid of the ones up here.
Might as well enjoy them before they’re gone,” she said, nodding at the other stool at the kids’ desk.
When she read the guilt on my face, she laughed and said, “Take a joke, Henry, sit.”
We sat in silence, the loud laughter of children now gone, replaced with the ever so serious shoppers.
“I know what you’re going to say.”
I looked over at her and raised an eyebrow. “You do?”
“You’re going to tell me that discounted books aren’t helping us.”
I shrugged. “Well. They’re not.”
“This store is more than a business. It’s the birthplace of so many readers. Do you know how many of those parents came here themselves for storytime when they were little? And want their own children to experience the exhilaration of picking out their new favorite book?”
“I know that,” I said defensively.
“Customer loyalty was always more important to Leo than money.”
“I know that, too. And that’s why we’re in the red. He couldn’t find a balance.”
I hated that she thought I was some penny-pincher. If we weren’t at risk of closing in a matter of months, I’d want to give the kids books for free. I’d buy Magnolia Bakery cupcakes every month. And I’d never sell the store.
But it wasn’t so easy.
“I shouldn’t have said that in your office,” she offered quietly. “Any of it. I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s really not. Grief doesn’t follow any rhyme or reason. We might be experiencing a different kind of pain, but that doesn’t mean one hurts less than the other. And I hope you know I’m really sorry for your loss.”
I nodded, looking down at my shoes. Ever since Leo died, I’d been struggling with how to grieve. Did I even have a right to grieve when I’d spent a decade ignoring his calls? Or his apologies and obvious desperation to reconnect?
The kicker was that I’d wanted to. Every time he called, my hand itched to pick it up and just say hi.
But I didn’t, and now I’d never hear his soft, low voice again.
Hear him talk about whatever weird book he was reading with an old Louis Armstrong record playing in the background of his call.
The truth was I had stopped being mad at him soon after our fight.
Instead, I was just embarrassed by how I acted and how I pushed him away, but it felt too late to apologize.
Could I grieve while being sorry? While seeking forgiveness?
“Yours too. I’m really sorry,” I said, my throat growing thick with tears that I tried to swallow back. “I want you to know I don’t think this store is mine. It’ll always be Leo’s. In generations to come, whoever buys it. This place will always be Leo’s.”
“You can’t seriously be thinking about selling,” she said, shaking her head, desperation tingeing her voice.