Chapter 49
JACK
I get up from the reading chair, placing the children’s book about a magical eagle on the table.
The author, Patrick Shaw, is coming to the opening in two weeks’ time.
My progress is slow, but I’ve got to page five of twenty and only had to use the app six or seven times.
Reading is a different experience now, filled with tastes of strawberry laces, music, the smell of rosemary or mint when I read the grapheme ‘sh’ and lemons, always lemons.
Since getting all of my memories back, the pain has gone.
Do I wish I could read like I used to? Of course I do, but there is also something…
more in the experience now. I read books like nobody else and that is something to be grateful for.
The bookshelves around the shop are full, the paint on the walls fresh and clean.
There is a separate bar to the side of the store, book-spined wallpaper behind dark wooden tables.
I’m going to introduce open mic nights, and Nell’s idea of speed dating with a book is starting to feel more like a possibility, too.
I hope it’s enough to make it a success.
I make my way to the door, postcards as similar to Maggie’s as I could find, are tacked to the wall to the right, some the same places, and others are stills from films. Levin is standing outside.
His dark hair is wild and his cheeks are flushed.
I swing the door open. The street is lit up, and after the council grant came into action, there is rarely a night that’s not busy, even at this hour, but tonight it’s teeming with activity.
‘Thought you were going to leave me freezing my naughticles off.’ I bump an eyebrow as he steps through.
‘Naughticles?’
‘Had the snip years ago. My late wife named the boys naughticles.’
‘That’s too much information.’ I shake my head, closing the sounds of traffic and Valentine’s Day behind him. He unbuttons his coat, looking around.
‘No such thing. Well, what a place, eh? Looks great, Jack.’
‘Cheers.’ I gesture to the bar. ‘Coffee? Tea? We have beer on tap…’
‘Ah no thanks. I won’t beat about the bush. I wanted to give you this.’
He unpacks a pile of paper, bound together at the top with a bulldog clip. I glance down. ‘Um, you do know this will take me about a decade to read?’
‘I know, I know, and call me sentimental but still. I’m pretty hopeful my career is going to take an upward swing when I publish this, and, well, it felt right that you should have it first. It’s my first draft. It needs a lot of work yet…’
My finger follows the first letter. Ffff. Then the next. Iiiii. Nnnn. My brain pulls away but I force it back with a snap. Din? I let out a breath. Ggg. Fiiiinnnndddd-ing. Finding. The familiar Darth Vader death march leaves me with no qualms about the last word.
‘Finding Jack?’
‘I know it’s a bit on the nose, and well, I can change it if needs be, but it felt right somehow.’ He crunches his gloves in his hands. ‘I can change the title if you want?’
‘No. No.’ The lump in my throat bumps up and down. ‘That’s a great title.’
He gives a little nod. ‘Oxford University Press are interested in the pitch and, well, it might help. Others. You know. Like you. You’re my best case study.’
I laugh. ‘Thank you, Dr Levin. For this and for everything. I know I wasn’t always the easiest of patients.’
He taps his palm with his gloves and smiles.
‘It was an honour, Jack, really. And if I might be so bold… but I’m very proud of you.
’ He looks around, eyes lighting up as he takes in the shop.
He gives me a slightly awkward pat on the shoulder, clears his throat and pulls his gloves back on and heads to the door.
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to pop in. Once in a while?’ He pulls up his collar and tries to pat down his wild hair.
‘I’d like that. I…’ He turns back at my words, bushy eyebrows puckering up. ‘I… I never thought that I’d ever find pleasure in books again and, well, thanks. Again.’
‘Truth be told, I was on the verge of giving up. You came to me and validated my research. I’m just as grateful to you as you are to me.’
He puts out a hand and I shake it. It turns into this weird man hug, hand-shaking, shoulder-clapping affair.
I close the door behind him, pull down the shutters and stand looking at the inside of Chadwick’s the Second with my hands in my back pockets, and a swell of pride in my chest. I check the clock on the wall, the hands hitting ten past ten: happy time Maggie used to say, when the clock is smiling.
I wonder what she’s doing, if she’s noticed the time too.
I’m about to turn off the light when a postcard falls from the wall.
I bend, pick it up, see Ferris Bueller looking up at me with his rebellious grin.
We never did get to watch it together, but having it in my hand makes me feel closer to her, reminds me of the first night we met.
I clutch it in my hand, make my way to the counter, pulling open a drawer.
I don’t let myself think too much about what I’m doing, just peel a save the date sticker off a sheet with the opening day and time and stick it on the back.
I write Maggie’s address, stick a stamp on and put it in the pile of envelopes ready to post in the morning.