6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Beau Drewitt
A Month After Beau Bought The Bookstore
The concrete floor is worse than I expected, a lot more work than I had anticipated. I know it’s freshly poured, but it was poorly done. I set the broom down and look around the space again, hands on my hips, letting the quiet settle.
This will be the bookstore. Crimson & Quill.
The speakeasy to come later. I just need to find some reliable and trustworthy help.
I’ve already started smuggling crates of alcohol in and out of the cellar, but that’s just a quick fix to circulate some money.
And return the joy to most people’s lives.
How dreadful that this country decided alcohol was the devil.
Right now it’s just a wide rectangle with brick walls and tall front windows clouded with grime.
Disgusting, but I’ll get to it. Light pours in anyway, catching on floating dust and the stacks of boxes lining the walls.
BOOKS are scrawled on most of them in thick writing.
Some say SHELVES. One says MISC in handwriting that looks more uncertain than the rest. It’s truly untelling what I stuffed into that box amongst all the other delivered ones.
I start sweeping again, pushing grit and plaster dust toward a growing pile near the door. The broom scrapes loudly, the sound echoing back at me. Every stroke feels like a small declaration. I am here. I am doing this. This is it.
I open a box near the front window and pull out a stack of novels, their spines worn and familiar.
I set them gently on the floor in a crooked pile.
There is no order to where they will be placed yet.
That will come later. For now it’s enough that they are out of the dark and aren’t left to mold where they sit. Books need fresh air.
By midday, my shoulders ache and my palms are streaked gray.
I mop next, the water turning cloudy almost immediately.
The concrete darkens as it gets wet, revealing stains and hairline cracks I decide to think of as character.
Good thing I paid in full already or I would seriously consider the option of continuing to look.
There has to be another building in this downtown area up for sale.
A knock sounds at the door, sharp and unexpected.
I straighten, chest jumping, then wipe my hands on my jeans and go to open it.
A gentleman stands on the other side, neat and compact, wearing a wool coat and holding a clipboard to his chest. He looks past me into the store, eyes flicking over the boxes and bare floor.
“Delivery confirmation for Drewitt,” he says, glancing at his clipboard. “Four rugs?”
“That’s me,” I say, stepping aside so he can see more clearly, since his eyes still dance between his clipboard and the area behind me.
He nods. “All of them are scheduled to arrive tomorrow morning. Front room, reading area, upstairs landing. We just need a signature. The boys will place them wherever you would like.”
“Tomorrow works,” I say. Relief loosens something in my chest. The thought of bare concrete underfoot forever had been quietly bothering me.
It’s been a learning curve with the lack of rugs here.
There was no quantity issue of rugs while traveling in Spain.
Everywhere you looked there was some form of rug surrounding or cascading over the rubble stirred from the war.
He hands me the clipboard and a pen. As I sign, he glances up. “You worked up quite the bill getting those imported. You from here, youngin’?”
The question lands heavy and causes my hand to pause mid signature.
For a moment my mind goes blank, like a radio losing signal.
“I’m,” I start, then stop. This is the first time I’ve had to answer a question like this without Matteo here.
The words from nowhere feel too small and loaded.
“I’m sort of a traveler,” I say finally. “Of all places.”
He smiles politely, the kind of smile that doesn’t ask for elaboration. “Well,” he says, “welcome, Mr. Drewitt. Happy to have you in town. It’s small now, but we’re growing.”
I hand the clipboard back. He tips his hat, steps away, and the bell over the door jingles softly as it closes behind him.
The store is abruptly quiet again. His face was familiar.
Familiar enough that I could place him as one of the men I had seen outside of the hospital on the other end of town.
It was a small building, but it was the only place I could go to grab a quick ration of blood.
I nabbed a few pints and some sodium citrate and dextrose from a nearby apothecary.
If I add the ingredients to the freshly pulled blood, it will last me for days in between my grab and go.
No feeding on mortals, and now I know my limits of what I can get away with in this town.
I stand for a moment, listening to the wind around the building, then I go back to work. I stack more boxes along the wall where the shelves will go. I picture them already standing, wood warm against brick, books lined up like they belong. Eventually.
Even as my legs start to protest, I climb the narrow spiral staircase leading to the upper level of the building.
The metal steps creak, but feel sturdy enough to hold me.
Upstairs is made up of a long foyer with two doors.
One that leads to a living area of sorts with a balcony overlooking the side street.
Sunlight spills across the floor in a pale stripe.
I imagine waking up here. Opening the store downstairs.
Living on top of it all like a watchful keeper. I like it.
“Yes,” I say aloud, the word echoing softly. “This works. I think… I think this will work.”
Back downstairs, I sit on an overturned box and pull out my notebook. The pages are already crowded with lists and arrows and half crossed out ideas. I continue scribbling and add a new heading.
TO DO LIST (No Specific Order.)
-Shelves. Make sure the underneath is mopped and swept.
-Rugs. (Tomorrow Morning Delivery) *If anyone asks, these were inherited and I did not purchase these myself.
-Sign. (Arriving in two days. Not heard from the man next door about finishing it, but he said he doesn’t talk while he’s actively working.) (Side note: Keep a closer eye on that guy. Possible vampire?)
-Register. (Can use the one from the lady across the street. She offered, but said she was keeping the keys. Could be a security issue. Will access at a later date.)
-Living upstairs. (Willing to sleep on just a blanket for now.)
I pause, pen hovering, then add one more.
-Open the doors. (AS SOON AS POSSIBLE!!!!)
I close the notebook and look around again. The place is still rough. Still empty. But, it’s mine in a way that feels solid and real for the first time in a century. Without Matteo and Itanya, I’m going to have to figure out how to live in this world solo, one way or another.
I pick up the broom and keep going. This is really happening.