The Printed Letter Bookshop

by Katherine Reay

  He did not refute my statement as his smile grew broader. “People say I sound different on the phone. I’m not sure what that’s about. And I found you refreshing. Not many people coach me so readily. But then again, I don’t work in wills and estates often. Perhaps a little coaching was warranted.”

  “What is your specialty?”

  “I work mainly in the prison system and a little with the Bluhm Legal Clinic when I can, mostly in children and family justice.”

  “At Northwestern?”

  “Yes.”

  “I went to law school there.” Pride straightened my posture.

  “Yale man myself.”

  I swallowed. Hard. I felt my throat lift up and lodge and it didn’t settle back in place. I swallowed again, and again, working out my embarrassment, and something that tasted worse.

  “Now I’m the one who’s sorry.” He leaned forward, eyes still crinkled.

  “For what?”

  “I’m enjoying this a little too much.”

  My face flashed hot. I waved to his chair and lowered myself into mine. And while his chair was a few inches lower than mine, he still sat taller. “You deserve the moment.”

  Again he didn’t contradict me. Instead he pulled a file from his messenger bag and laid it across his lap. “I’m sorry, as well, that we meet under these circumstances. Maddie was a good friend; I can’t imagine the honor of calling her family.”

  My face stayed warm.

  He dropped his eyes to the file as if giving me a private moment—it only added guilt to my emotional mix.

  “It’s very straightforward. She left you everything. The will’s been filed, and you mentioned no one is likely to contest. I suspect it will clear within a couple months, partly because she left her property directly to you rather than requiring her estate to dispose of it. If she had done that, we’d be talking . . . There’s a backlog; who knows how long?”

  “She left me her house?”

  “And the bookshop.”

  “You mean the inventory, not the actual store. She and Pete rented the space.”

  “She bought it outright with Pete’s life insurance.”

  I sank back. Selling a house was straightforward. Heck, closing out the inventory could be outsourced. But the entire store? Somehow it no longer felt cut-and-dried. This was more than books and stuff; this was Aunt Maddie’s life’s passion, and her legacy.

  He slid a piece of paper, a summary of the estate’s assets, across my desk. I scanned it top to bottom. “I don’t understand why she did this.”

  “She loved you.”

  I kept my eyes trained on the page. “How did you know my aunt?”

  He slouched, getting comfortable, and his breath felt expansive; he was inviting me into a memory. “Almost twenty years ago, when she and Pete first opened their store, they provided a book cart for the Juvenile Temporary Detention Center on South Hamilton and another for the one up in Lake County. There were a few titles I thought should be there, so I reached out to Maddie and Pete. We became friends.”

  “What titles?”

  “The missing books?” My question surprised him. He smiled, eyes drifting up in memory, as he cast back. “The usual suspects: The Catcher in the Rye, The Outsiders, Lord of the Flies, Fahrenheit 451, The Brothers Karamazov . . .”

  “Those are the ‘usual suspects’ for teenagers in juvie?”

  “If you want them to learn something about life, decisions, anger, angst, survival, and human nature they are.” Greg chuckled. “That’s where we started at least. Maddie had her own ideas. Now I can’t keep the kids from Green, Rowling, and that dystopian fairy-tale author . . . What’s her name?”

  I shrugged.

  “Anyway, that’s how we started. I met Pete first, but they always were more of a pair than stand-alones.”

  He was spot-on. I remembered that about Uncle Pete and Aunt Maddie too—and after only spending a few weeks with them. They were the personification of synergy—more whole, more joyful, and more fun together.

  I always wondered about that. The day we left, only Aunt Maddie stood by, beet red and scowling. Uncle Pete was nowhere to be found.

  “He was a quiet, gentle man. I spent a few weeks with them, summer of 2000, and almost every evening he walked with me to the ice cream shop on Third Avenue while Aunt Maddie puttered around and locked up the shop.”

  Greg chuckled again. “Pete was a good and steady friend. I miss his counsel.”

  I dropped my eyes back to the page and hit a point at the bottom. “How was she still in business? Her expenses are higher than her income. She was broke.”

  “Your aunt wasn’t the shrewdest businesswoman. No head, or care, for money. She was all about people. You have your work cut out for you if you want to make a go of it.”

  “What?” My sharp tone surprised us both.

  “What what?” Greg sounded as confused as I felt.

  I shook my head, clearing away the past to focus on what lay ahead. Irreconcilable differences. I didn’t have time for them today.

  Greg shifted his gaze to survey my office. I followed his sweep and could almost hear the gears in his head turning.

  Mahogany walls to the chair rail; a wool Berber rug revealing exactly fourteen inches of flooring around the room’s perimeter; my Northwestern Law School degree prominently framed above my head, with gold edging on two mats rather than one to make it appear even larger. All associates were required to frame their diplomas and any honors at a shop on North Clybourn. The firm determined the specifications, and the new hire paid the $1,200 bill. After all, as we were reminded almost daily that first year, the signing bonus was generous. My office was big-law opulence at its finest.

  Greg said nothing as his eyes recaptured mine.

  I slid the page across the desk. “Didn’t she have a financial advisor?” On second thought, I didn’t want an answer to that, so I pushed out more questions to cover it. “Didn’t you find it odd there wasn’t one allocation, one bequest, to anyone else? Favorite charities? Organizations? Her church? I don’t know her interests or her intentions.”

  “They are all listed in here. She hoped you would help each as you saw fit.” He patted the file on his lap. “And that you’d run the bookshop.”

  “What?” Now my tone wasn’t sharp, it was incredulous.

  “That was her wish . . . Look, your aunt was a unique woman, I’ll give her that, but she was also wise. Get to know her shop and her life and you’ll figure it out. She had to have good reasons for what she did.”

  “Do you have any idea how busy—” I stopped. My whine scraped my own ears.

  His eyes darted above my head again.

  Darn that gold trim.

  “I can imagine all this takes quite a bit of upkeep. But . . .” He dropped his focus. It was laser sharp, and I sensed how formidable an adversary or ally he might be. “Maddie trusted you with her legacy. That should not be taken lightly.”

  He tucked the paper I’d handed him back into the folder, then laid it on my desk. “She built this file over years. You’ll find all the contact information you’ll need, along with lots of little notes and lists. That woman loved herself some lists.”

  I pulled it to me.

  “Careful.”

  I opened it slowly and understood. The file was packed with small notes. A few lifted with the release of pressure. I pulled off the top sheet. There were several napkins covered with Aunt Maddie’s scrolling hand.

  “There are dates on some of these. 2005?”

  “I noticed that too. I’m not sure if the file was always meant for you or those were once reminders to herself. You’ll have fun either way. It’s all Maddie in there.”

  “Who are Claire and Janet?” I picked up two thick cream-colored linen envelopes.

  “They work at the Printed Letter.”

  The envelopes were sealed. I was intrigued at what Aunt Maddie left for them in my care.

  Unbidden, a line from a long-ago book
came to mind. No one is told any story but their own. I couldn’t recall the book or the time or the context, but I understood the message. I placed the envelopes back within the folder and noted an identical one with my own name. I lifted it in question.

  Greg stood. “You were important to her, Madeline.”

  We stared at each other. On any other day, I suspected, he would have shared his opinion of me with me—and I wasn’t sure it was positive.

  “Thank you.” My words were a fifty-fifty split between Thanks for bringing the file and Thanks for holding your tongue.

  “You’re welcome.” His words sounded evenly split too.

  As he walked out, I called, “Is your contact information on one of these little notes, if I have questions?”

  “It’s across the binding on the will and at the top of my cover letter.”

  He chuckled again. I warmed again.

  Of course it was—and I should’ve known that.

  * * *

  Janet

  I leave the shop at five. It’s my first full working week since October. That’s when I took over Maddie and Claire took over the Printed Letter. I appreciate that we didn’t talk about it. I simply didn’t come in one day, and she picked up the slack—all of it. She acts like I did all the heavy lifting, but Maddie was never heavy. She never took, she gave, all the way to the end. I was and am the one kicking my heels, dragging my feet, and every other cliché about small kids who don’t get their way.

  It’s amazing what your body does when your mind is elsewhere. I pull into Maddie’s driveway with no memory of steering my car this direction. No memory of one stoplight, two stop signs, and the twists and turns of her curvy street. Someday I’ll make this drive and find kids playing in the yard and new owners staring at me with suspicion. I’ll be the strange lady with the crazy hair who had a friend here once and can’t let go.

  I could sell my house and buy hers. It’s the perfect size for me. Mine is too large and packed with the ghosts of Christmases past. And who am I kidding? Keeping my house is not the thread that will pull Chase and Alyssa back to me. If anything, it does the opposite. Chase might say to his baby someday soon, “It’s too painful to visit Grandma. She still lives where I grew up, as if everything is okay and she didn’t destroy our family.”

  I let myself in Maddie’s back door and fill the kettle as I’ve done a thousand times before, as I did yesterday and as I’ll probably do tomorrow. I stop myself from calling out to the day nurse, “I’ve got tea going. Come pick your flavor.” They were good women, the hospice nurses who came at the end—stretched too thin, often too tired, but filled with hearts of gold. Either they were naturally like that or Maddie brought it out of them, because each one who entered this house was kind and good and willing to wait. It felt as if it was a privilege, being here with Maddie, and no one wanted to see her go. Then she did go, and the nurses stopped coming, and . . . Here I still am.

  My rounds are quickly done: water the plants, run a rag across every flat surface I pass (my version of dusting), and grab the mail from the front hall—all while the water heats. This close to Christmas the mail is mostly catalogs. The postman dumps them through the slot in the door, although he knows Maddie is gone. I wonder who will officially stop the mail and how one does that for the deceased. I carry the pile back to the kitchen, pour a cup of chamomile citrus tea, and sort through it. Catalog. Catalog. Christmas card. Bill. Bill. Bill. Catalog. Christmas card. I toss the cards into the recycling bin right along with the catalogs. After all, how close to Maddie can you be if you’re sending a card this Christmas? I add the bills to the growing stack on the counter. Someone will need to take care of those soon too.

  A knock at the back door startles me, and tea spills across my lap. I leap up with a cry as the door flies open.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “What are you doing? You scared me.”

  “I saw you and thought you’d look rather than jump. You okay?”

  Chris grabs two clean towels from the second drawer by the dishwasher and tosses one to me. He uses the other to mop the table and dry the last of the mail. “I saw your car. I noticed it yesterday too. Do you come by every day?”

  The way he says every day makes him sound like a therapist.

  “Thanks for your seat at the service, by the way.” I sit back down. “It’s weird I’m still here, isn’t it?”

  He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. He is studying me. He can’t help himself. “Not at all. Clearly I’m checking too, or I wouldn’t have seen your car.”

  “I’m not sleeping well. Will you prescribe something for me?”

  A slow smile spreads across his face. We both know the answer, but enjoy the little ritual. I asked it every day that he came to visit Maddie, and he came to visit Maddie every day. I like to think we sound like a nagging older sister to her know-it-all little brother, but that’s stretching it, as he’s only four years older than Alyssa.

  “I can’t, won’t, and wouldn’t if I could. Keep up the chamomile tea and, as I’ve said, try 400 milligrams of magnesium glycinate.”

  “Fine.” I push out of the chair and head to Maddie’s liquor cabinet. “Want something stronger?”

  “Not tonight. I’m on snowplow duty.” He looks out the window. “I hoped it would hold off a few more days since I have more yards to winterize, but tonight’s the night. Are you ready?”

  “I’ve got salt for the walk, but I forgot to call the plow company.” I reach for my phone.

  “Don’t.” He lays a hand over mine. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

  “Thank you.” I press my lips together. Calling the plow company had always been Seth’s job. Last year I hadn’t called, didn’t know whom to call, and when the snow came I simply sat on my front steps and cried. Lucky for me, it never got above four inches at any one time all winter, so I never had to solve the problem. But the prognosticators say this year will be different. Snow, and lots of it, is coming our way.

  Chris withdraws his hand and his gaze from me and focuses on the window. I suspect he knows when I slip away in memory and shifts his focus to be polite. We’ve been through a lot in our short friendship, and on some level we understand each other better than most.

  “Have you thought about what Maddie told you?” I ask.

  There was a “last conversation” between the two of them. I was supposed to leave, but I’d hovered behind the door, and he knew it.

  Chris quirks a sideways smile. “I’m not sure she was right. I don’t feel ready.”

  “You may never feel ready until you begin. Apply for a position, go to work, and see how it goes.”

  “Sonia would like that.”

  I snort, a horrible piggy-truffly noise. “I’m sorry, that was rude, but you can’t do it for her and she shouldn’t want you to. That’s not how healing or love works.”

  “Listen to you.” Chris smiles, and rather than feeling pleased with how evolved and reasonable I sound, I feel like a hypocrite. He continues, “Maddie only said what Luke’s been saying for months. They’re right, I need to move forward.”

  “Luke better not be making you feel guilty,” I snap back. I’ve had enough of priests and ministers making you feel bad—a whole childhood and divorce full of them.

  Chris holds up his hand like he’s calming a jumpy puppy. “He’s not. I promise. But he does say there’s a fine line between healing and hiding and that I’m flirting with it.”

  “Wonder what he’d say to me?” The words come out in a slightly less offensive snort and I mean them rhetorically, as I have no intention of ever asking Chris’s brother, the priest, his thoughts.

  “He’d say you’re loved and then would probably ask if he could hug you. He’s as big on hugs as you are.”

  He says it so quietly and with such deliberation I want that hug. I can almost feel it.

  “I have to go.” Chris pushes off the counter. “I told Luke I’d salt the walks of some of his paris
h’s elderly.”

  “Does your boss pay you for that?”

  “This is on me. I used last month’s paycheck to buy a front plow for my truck. That way, after taking care of company work, I can get the parish houses and you plowed too. I’ll salt walks now, but they’re calling for over ten inches.”

  Chris opens the door and is backlit by a new world. In the few minutes we’ve been talking, huge fluffy flakes have dusted everything like powdered sugar and the sky reflects the pinky-purple of Chicago’s lights, over forty miles away, bouncing across the low clouds and the now white ground.

  “Thank you.” I follow him out the door and lift my head. Flakes fall on my nose and lashes. They’re so big I see them resting there. “It’s beautiful. Snow makes everything feel new.”

  Chris speaks from across the drive. He doesn’t yell. In this soft, silent world, he doesn’t need to. “Maybe if we believe it, it will be.”

  Chapter 5

  Madeline

  “How ya doin’?”

  “I’m going to throw up.” I dropped my head to my keyboard. It hit too hard, and a soft whirl of letters filled the office. I straightened and started the one-finger deletion of a million gs.

  In my periphery, Kayla lowered herself into the chair across from me. There was no flopping, flouncing, or plopping. The woman billed almost as many hours in a week as I did, yet nothing she did was hurried—it was like she floated through the crucible, and none of the heat, pressure, or grind burned her up or broke her down.

  “You’re not going to throw up, because you’ve got this—and you’re a woman.” Her voice remained steady, flat.

  “Meaning?”

  “That all blind scales are even—race, gender, you pick—in theory at least, and in that sense, Drew Setaro is formidable and on an equal footing with you. But let’s be honest enough to recognize we don’t live gender blind, or any form of blind, and with an all-male partnership, your being a woman will help.”

  “That’s sexist.”

  “You don’t say?” Her voice arched, and I was reminded again; Kayla moved smoothly through the water because she was more shark than seal. Growing up where she did, she had to be—she measured the lay of the land and never shied away from spelling out the truth, to me or to her clients.