The Printed Letter Bookshop

by Katherine Reay

  “You could go home. Join a firm in Manhattan.”

  “I’m not sure I want that, and Manhattan’s not for me.”

  My reply about work took me by surprise, but my comment about New York didn’t. Ever since middle school, I’d only ever wanted out. Coming west to Chicago for law school was the best decision I’d made. It was my city now—the home of “broad shoulders,” good neighbors, deep-dish pizza, and classic hot dogs. We weren’t too stuffy, too fancy, or prideful. We braved the wind off the lake, tolerated our corrupt politicians, helped our neighbors, and rooted every season for all our teams, regardless of the outcomes. We had a flag—one I liked so much I carried a small needlepoint replica as my keychain.

  “I’m staying here.”

  “Good. I’d miss you.”

  At the Peninsula Hotel, Kayla paused.

  I lifted my head as if expecting to see the partners toasting Drew within the Shanghai Terrace, perched on its fourth floor. “What have I done?”

  Kayla one-arm-hugged me. “Don’t question it now. It’s done, and I say it was right. They’ve never revisited an associate, and if you’re after a partnership there’s no reason to linger.” She dropped her eyes to mine. “Unless you want to take a one-eighty? You can come up with me and pull Liam aside. He’ll take you back. They’re not idiots.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t . . . I won’t do that.”

  “Then go home and think about it tomorrow.”

  She pulled open the Peninsula’s glass door, and I headed down Michigan to East Pearson and home. The word beat a steady refrain as I crossed Michigan Avenue. Tomorrow . . . Tomorrow . . .

  Tomorrow!

  I stopped in the center of the sidewalk. A man, with a groan and a glare, two-stepped around me. “Sorry.” I dodged out of the way and pressed my back against a building. The cold stone felt bracing and necessary. I tapped my phone. “Mom?”

  “I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight. I thought you’d be out celebrating.”

  “Don’t come tomorrow.”

  A beat fell between us.

  “Why?”

  The question was soft and inviting, covering two syllables at least. It invited the full story. It invited confession. I felt like a kid, as though if I crawled into her lap she could make this right. I slumped against the building and opened my mouth to talk. I then swallowed any words that might escape. I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t say it out loud.

  “Do you want to talk to your father?”

  “No.” The word barked out involuntarily. I took a deep breath. “I mean . . . He’s home? Why is he home so early?” Eight o’clock Eastern Standard Time was early for Dad.

  “He had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon and decided not to go back to the office.”

  “His ulcers are back?”

  “Most likely. He won’t talk about it.”

  I smiled. I gave my mom credit. No one could ever accuse her of nagging. She fought her battles in different and highly effective ways. Rather than hound my dad to open up, talk to her, or change his habits to alleviate said ulcers, she simply stripped the house of anything that could do him harm—many of the spices, most of the hard liquor, and all the processed snacks. We hadn’t heard about his ulcers in years.

  “When did they start up?”

  “I have my own theories on that one, but let’s discuss the ulcers later. Tell me why I shouldn’t come.” When I didn’t supply the answer, she filled in the blank. “Ah . . . I’m so sorry, dear. That must have been a shock. What are you going to do?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Thirty-three and I still didn’t want to disappoint my mom. I couldn’t face my dad. “I quit.”

  “I see . . .” She let the words trail. She would not ask if I wanted to speak to my dad again. Cullens never quit.

  We said little else. It wasn’t her style to press or to offer meaningless assurances. My decision was my own, and I would bear the consequences. If anything, she was thinking up ways to break it to my dad with a positive spin.

  She landed the same place Kayla had. “You’ve had a good salary for a long time, dear.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “You’re right.”

  “Then don’t worry about dipping into your savings to pay your mortgage—that’s what it’s there for.”

  Mom and I had secrets.

  “Ten percent each paycheck.” I mimicked Dad and hoped Mom didn’t catch the derision in my voice. I hadn’t saved one percent, much less ten each paycheck.

  “That’ll carry you through . . . I can still come; we can spend some time together.”

  I begged off and we soon hung up. Kayla’s concerns, and my mom’s assumptions, filled my head as I took the elevator to my apartment. After I opened the door, they overwhelmed me.

  I lived on the thirty-third floor, overlooking the lake, in a corner apartment with full north and east views. I lived in the clouds and caught the curving expanse of Lake Shore Drive as it dipped around Oak Street Beach, and a few old and interesting buildings before the lake captured everything to the east. I even spied bits of Navy Pier to the southeast with its Ferris wheel and tentlike rooftops. The views were breathtaking—day and night. It was my sanctuary—and I paid dearly for it.

  I let my eyes drop from the view and focus on what was directly before me. If Duncan had his power play aesthetic, Schwartz his Old Boys Club, and Baring his vintage Chicago gangster vibe, I had Multigenerational Stability. It felt safe and secure. I often wondered if I was trying to reimagine my childhood, with brighter notes to make it happier and lighter. The sturdy eighteenth-century English antiques gave it that feel, but the art—sleek, bright, modern, almost minimalist—kept it and me from getting too serious too soon.

  A friend at Sotheby’s always tipped his hand to me when something came along undervalued and interesting. The living room rug from Iraq, George III end tables, and the George V file cabinet I’d found at Sid McKenna Interiors and Antiques. Also my latest acquisition, the French breakfront I’d filled with my collection of British law books. And right in the center of it all, my favorite piece of furniture: a brilliant green velvet sofa with brush trim that made the whole place look jaunty and alive. It was my home—one I’d created and felt comfortable within. I felt in control here. There was nothing to surprise or harm me. I could breathe.

  I dropped my keys in the early twentieth-century Chinese bowl I’d placed on the hall side table. They had made a few chips over the years—it was probably not the best spot for my keys—but I wanted to use everything. Enjoy everything. So often valuable items were placed beyond reach growing up—Don’t touch that. Don’t sit there. Take your shoes off. What was the point of owning anything if it had no use? If you didn’t interact with it?

  I walked to the windows and gazed out across the lower buildings to the east and to the lake. Kayla was right. Decisions would need to be made, quickly.

  My eyes drifted north. The Hancock Building had added new lights for Christmas. Each week more red and green adorned the top. The additions cast a glow so bright it hit the small bronze statue tucked into the corner. The little Henry Moore radiated red.

  “Of course you’re in the red—you and me both now.”

  It had cost me last year’s entire bonus, plus a little more.

  * * *

  Claire

  Lisa Generis pivoted to the right and walked down the bookshop’s side aisle, trailing her finger along the spine of each and every book at shoulder level. Claire let her be. She understood. It was like walking through a European emporium and embracing the merchandise—touching the colorful silks of adventure; pricking the cool, sharp metals of self-help, DIY, and politics; tasting the sweet and spicy flavors of fiction, nonfiction narrative, and biography; catching your breath from the electric shocks of romance and the heady scents of gardening.

  She glanced over to Janet, who sat cross-legged in the children’s section like an elementary school kid. Though eight years younger, Claire cringed at Janet’s co
il; she could never get her knees to fold so tight. The left one ached while standing behind the counter on cold days. And in winter, the Printed Letter was always cold with its drafty windows, loose floorboards, and a heating system Maddie should have replaced a decade ago.

  Janet leaned forward, bending into a semi child’s pose. Her brown skirt puddled around her. The dark made a sharp, beautiful contrast to her hair and the whitewashed wood floor. Corkscrew curls flowed down her back. Fifty-four years old, and she moved with the energy and agility of a kid—had all the highs and lows of one too.

  “If you kill any of those stuffed animals, I’m taking it out of your salary,” Claire whispered to her.

  “Lucky buggers. They’re unbreakable.” Janet flicked her hair back with one hand and shoved a giraffe into a cubby with the other. It now resembled a baby duck, yellow and folded impossibly tight. She then moved on to the books, pulling out a handful of the colorful Puffin Classics for Young Readers a few inches before knocking them into alignment. They presented a strange cross between soldiers and Easter eggs.

  Claire watched her move through the shelves and on to the picture books displayed on the freestanding tables. The whole cleaning ritual took only minutes. The children’s section was always a mess.

  But not today . . .

  Claire wondered if Maddie’s welcoming nature had been a boon or a curse. On rainy cold days, the Printed Letter was often more daycare than bookshop—as some of the framed handwritten letters circling the ceiling molding attested. Kids loved the bookshop. Kids had loved Maddie.

  Today—although it was miserable out—there were no kids about. No adults either. An early snowfall kept everyone away, and the usually bustling and welcoming shop was empty except for Lisa. And it felt sad, as if the shop itself had just realized that what lay ahead could never be better than what lay behind.

  Claire twisted toward the front and took a deep breath. Lisa had migrated to the end of an aisle and stalled in Nonfiction. She knew Janet would not come forward. In fact, once Janet registered Lisa’s presence, Claire wouldn’t be able to find her at all.

  “Good morning, Lisa. May I help you find something?” she called as she circled the counter and wove between the tables. Lisa smiled as Claire drew beside her. “You’re the first customer we’ve seen today. I doubt anyone expected so much snow.”

  “It’s all supposed to melt by the end of the week. Welcome to winter.” Lisa peered around the store. “I had to stop by my office, but thought it was a better afternoon to curl by the fire with a book than be the only one working.”

  “I agree . . . And you’ve landed on some perennial bestsellers.” They stood before the Hs. Claire tapped the spines of Unbroken and Seabiscuit. “I always wondered what it’d be like to write . . . but to write like Laura Hillenbrand?”

  “I’ve read those, but . . .” Lisa crouched on the balls of her feet, bringing her eyes down to the later letters of the alphabet.

  Claire noted supple black leather boots, highly polished with only a slight scuff on one toe, and the black cashmere coat that spread across the floor behind her. She opened her mouth to say I like your boots, then warmed at how silly the comment sounded in her own head. Yet the I had already escaped. She turned it with a slight stutter. “I . . . I can try to help you find something if you tell me some of your favorites.”

  It was a bold request, and Claire wondered if she could fulfill it. Maddie had been the expert at that. She always knew the right book, for the right person, at the right moment. That was one reason for the town’s extreme loyalty—one among many. But now that she was gone . . .

  Claire shook her head to banish the thought as Lisa stood with a book in hand, and she drew her eyes from the boots to the book.

  “People were talking about this at work, and the reviews look good.” Lisa held out The Extrovert Dilemma.

  “Already? It released Tuesday. Copies shouldn’t be here though, but on the front table.” Claire scooped up the other two copies and pointed to the narrow draped table in the center aisle. And what a table it was. Janet had created a masterpiece; a patriotic extravaganza meets Cleveland Cavaliers meets culinary wonderland, with draped cloths and decorative signage that complemented the bay windows.

  Two former presidents, a celebrity chef, and an NBA All-Star had released memoirs in the same month. Those four, along with The Extrovert Dilemma, commanded the entire table, as well as an e-newsletter and a special promotion.

  Many customers bought the books based on Janet’s display alone. Yesterday, in fact, Dottie Neuland, ninety-three, who hated politics and never followed sports, had purchased both presidents’ books and started in on the NBA memoir while standing at the display table. She had grabbed the store’s only pair of plus-five readers off the display rack in order to do it. Claire had doubled the store’s reorder for the books only yesterday.

  Lisa’s eyes, then feet followed Claire to the table. The transition allowed Claire to study her more fully. All black clothing from her scarf to her coat to her dress or skirt peeking from beneath, down to her boots. She had a quieter style than Janet, but no less commanding. Claire had learned in snippets of conversation, tidbits gleaned, that she and Janet had been best friends, but words had been said, or something done, and now they never spoke. Yet Lisa still came into the store. She purchased books and always looked around, as if searching for something lost.

  “She is talented.” Lisa fingered a long, loose ribbon draping down the table skirt. “Is Janet here today?”

  “Somewhere. Shall I find her for you?”

  “No. I’ll get this.” Yet rather than hand Claire the book, Lisa surveyed the shop again.

  Claire felt the opening and searched her mind for what she knew about Lisa. Law. She could do this . . . “I can make another suggestion you might like.”

  She crossed to Fiction and pulled down The Life of Pi. “The author, Martel, has a unique voice, and this novel is based on an 1884 British legal case involving cannibalism. Though in this story, the sailor, Richard Parker, is a tiger rather than a human. It’s a fascinating read.”

  Lisa shook her head in long, slow sweeps. “I don’t care for fiction.”

  “Nonfiction only . . . At least you know what you like. So many people don’t. I bet you’d tell your story like you dress, straight-forward narrative nonfiction.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry.” Claire waved her hand to erase the question. “I didn’t mean to say that. I mean, I love your boots, and we talk like that a lot in here, how we’d tell our stories. Maddie used it with the kids she tutored to get them to think about stories and new ways to write. With adults, she said it was an exercise in self-awareness.”

  She felt a blush crawl up her neck and scratched at it with her fingers. “I’d tell my story in third person with little self-awareness, or so Janet says.” She clamped her lips shut and the heat bloomed. She’d said too much. She chastised herself—knowing about Lisa wasn’t the same as knowing Lisa. She sounded silly and had unwittingly laid herself bare—again confirming Janet’s comment on one of the first days Claire had worked at the shop.

  It’s like you live in those classics you love, in some odd third-person narration, as if you aren’t in charge of your own story. Who is, if not you, for goodness’ sake?

  A blush had crawled up her neck then too. First, because Janet hadn’t yelled “goodness” to eviscerate her; second, because Claire had no retort. She had stood silently, lips parted, humiliated. Only flashes of memory, glimpses of a brighter self long ago, made her feel Janet’s indictment wasn’t entirely true, or at least hadn’t always been true.

  Claire felt the hot wave anew and turned away to hide her neck. A blush was never a good thing, as it did not bring a second bloom of rosy, dewy youth. It brought splotches—pronounced freckles and an odd rash—that lingered for hours.

  “I can imagine Maddie doing that, and Janet saying that.” Lisa broke across Claire’s thoughts and held out The Ex
trovert Dilemma. “Maddie tutored my own kids through honors English. In fact, one majored in English, he grew to love literature so much.”

  As Claire rang the sale, Lisa picked up a box of question cards called One Hundred Starts to Great Conversations. “Add one of these. This could be fun when the kids come home for Christmas.” She held out another box wrapped in cellophane. “Forget that. Add this one.” Things Nice Women Don’t Say.

  Claire reached for the box. “Janet purchased those.”

  Lisa laughed. “I suspected that. They aren’t Maddie’s style at all, but I bet they’re hilarious.”

  Clair dropped the purchases into a bag as Lisa scanned the store again. “Thanks for dropping by today. Have a safe drive home.”

  Her words drew Lisa’s attention back to her. “Yes. Thank you. Enjoy your quiet day too.”

  As the chime on the front door rang out behind Lisa, Janet materialized. “Thanks.”

  “For not searching for you? I did that once, remember.”

  Janet kept her eyes on the door. “I’m glad she still comes to the store, but . . . Awful things were said, Claire. Horrid things, mostly by me. There’s no use going back.” Janet busied herself by wiping down the sales counter of zero dust and straightening things already straight. She shuddered, as if resetting herself. “Want to see what I did after closing last night?”

  “Sure,” Claire acquiesced. There was no point in asking questions. Janet would only provide answers on her own schedule.

  “Check this out. I added tiny lights all around the molding.”

  Beneath the hanging letters Claire found a thin strand of lights aligning perfectly with the groove in the wood.

  “That must have taken you hours.”

  “I checked on Maddie’s house, then . . . I had nothing else to do.” Janet flipped the switch.

  Claire shifted her gaze out into the store—and into darkness.

  “Seriously? Again?” Janet grabbed her phone off the counter and pressed the flashlight. “I’ll go flip the fuse.”

  Janet disappeared into the back as Claire stood in the dark. The sadness they had outrun last week made headway with the flip of the switch. She felt it seep across the room and pull the air from her lungs.