The Printed Letter Bookshop

by Katherine Reay

  “It’s all changing, isn’t it?” Janet stepped beside her in the dark.

  Claire didn’t answer, and silence settled between them. It soon morphed into a wave louder than anything they’d experienced in that small bookshop. Louder than book launch parties, author signings, evening book clubs, employee silly sing-alongs, or the nights when the three of them had sat on the floor and laughed at all the oddities the bookshop’s four walls witnessed on a daily basis, customers with their personalities, peculiarities, and all the books that spoke into those secret places.

  The silence stole the last of Claire’s breath. The Printed Letter had never been silent. The small shop had been filled with everything from exuberant laughter to sobby rages, but never silence. She couldn’t speak it, but she agreed with Janet. It felt like the moment of release when she stopped pressing the tender spot on her knee on cold days. That moment when the comfort and the light compression lifted, and it was left aching, swollen, and always worse than before.

  Some days, when the sun was bright, it was hard to tell if the Printed Letter’s lights were on or off. The front bays let in so much light that the books often glowed like rainbows tossed about the shop. That was not the case today. It was all gray. It was all dark.

  Janet flipped the switch. Nothing happened. “Go put out the Closed sign and I’ll call the electrician. Maybe he’s not busy this morning.”

  Claire wove her way around the gifts table, past the stationery display, Cooking, Politics, and Travel. So much life and literature packed into such a small space. A sanctuary. A haven. A bookshop.

  And Janet was right. It was all changing.

  Chapter 6

  Claire

  The store felt like a Christmas wonderland. Janet certainly had a gift for design and color, and the season burst from every corner. White lights, not colored, provided a glittering backdrop. Rich books with reds, greens, and white created the seasonal forefront in one window, while softer shades brought warmth to the other. The train made a soft whirling sound as it wove through the books and across the table she’d set near the window. Three hours to the store’s annual Holiday Bazaar.

  Claire reviewed her selections again. They needed to be perfect. The best books to give—to your sister, to your aunt, to your aging father and your surly neighbor down the street, to the party hostess, to the avid gardener, to your teenage daughter, to your aspiring young chef . . . Thirty-seven suggestions and over forty copies of each, stacked and ready for purchase.

  She wiped her hand across an empty table. It sat waiting for the trays of meats, cheeses, and appetizers. The wine store had already delivered the night’s choices: ten good Cabernets, five Pinots, six Chardonnays, and seven Proseccos. They would never go through it all, but it would be worse to run out of any choice, and once a trend started, the whole party could opt for one selection. She slid a macaroon from the box. The bakery on the corner had already made its delivery as well.

  It felt good. It looked good. Every detail checked off. And no one had called to say the shop was up for sale. In fact, no one had called at all. Maybe, despite her fears, it could work out. The Printed Letter would remain the Printed Letter. Claire absorbed the look and tenor of the room, certain of one thing: she couldn’t bear for this to slip away.

  She cast back to before moving to Winsome. In Ohio they’d lived in a tight neighborhood—front doors unlocked; kids roaming between houses; friends ringing doorbells to borrow eggs, bacon, or a whole chicken; dropping by to decompress after work or to get a new idea or the ingredients for dinner. Weekends were spent enjoying barbecues and backyard games, with waved hellos at church and impromptu brunches following. She’d been at the center of it all. Yet in Winsome, she hadn’t met her neighbors, only their dog through the fence. They had stopped by once and left cookies and a note by the front door, but she’d delayed returning the courtesy—and to do so now felt too late, too rude. But Maddie had seen her, welcomed her, and given her a place, right as she’d felt herself slipping into invisibility. She’d returned after reading The Secret Garden, eager for more, and walked away with not only a new book but a job and new friends.

  Maddie’s shop was worth a fight. Strong profits tonight, and the brother might not sell.

  “I saw that.” Janet poked her in the side.

  “It’s my last one.”

  “How many have you had?”

  “Only three.”

  Janet laughed. “Eat one more and I’ll slap you.”

  Claire covered her mouth to speak around the cookie. “Why does everything end in violence with you?” Her voice was teasing and light, but Janet’s face fell.

  “I was kidding. Is that what you think of me? Angry all the time?”

  Claire shook her head.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” Janet narrowed her eyes. “Every little thing creates such havoc in me. It’s like my reserves drained away and I can’t fill them up.”

  Claire handed her a macaroon. “It’ll get better.”

  They both chewed. The business of setting up was done and customers were few. Claire hoped most were waiting for the party.

  Tippy Wilander approached. “I need to return this book.”

  Claire accepted the book and checked the spine. It was unbroken. “Did you decide not to read it?” She had personally recommended All the Light We Cannot See, but as this was the third return on her suggestions this month, perhaps she wasn’t acquiring Maddie’s gift of pairing people with books after all.

  “My grandson found it cheaper online.”

  Claire walked to the register with Tippy three steps behind. “You’ll find many books cheaper online, but we provide good recommendations and service, and the ability to come in, browse, and shop locally.”

  “True.” Tippy tapped the book with one arthritic finger.

  Claire rang up the return. “Here you go. We hope to see you tonight at our annual Holiday Bazaar. We’ll be recommending books for everyone on your list this year.”

  “Maddie was so good at that. Are you offering a discount?”

  “Absolutely. Tonight we’re offering the party’s usual 20 percent.”

  The older woman shoved her receipt deep into her handbag. “I’ll be here then. I’ll bring my grandson too.”

  “Please do.”

  Claire noted that as Tippy approached the front door, Janet opened it and sent her off with a cheery “See you tonight.”

  Door shut with a decisive click behind her, Janet and Claire locked eyes and stifled their laughter. Chuckling over Tippy’s latest return with five other customers in the store would not do.

  To resist temptation, and another macaroon, Claire waved to Janet. “I’m going to get a coffee. Would you like one?”

  “Please.” She sounded as exasperated as Claire felt.

  But the coffee shop was no relief. Claire still found the atmosphere intimidating. It was always crowded and full of old ties, bonds between friends and patrons built over years, not months. She wondered if this was how Brittany felt each day at the high school—that you had to prove yourself, offer yourself up, and hope someone found you interesting enough to invite you in.

  She joined the long line waiting to order and noticed Seth. She swiveled slightly to shift from his line of sight. She liked Seth but, irrational as it was, every conversation with him felt like a betrayal of Janet—as did keeping their chat outside the store window a couple weeks past a secret.

  “I thought that was you.” Seth closed the distance between them. “I saw Janet made more Christmas updates to the shop windows. It must bring in business; it’s over the top.”

  “It is, isn’t it? She’s very gifted.” Claire cringed. The one subject she didn’t want to touch.

  “She is.” Seth smiled and stepped closer. He waited next to her, holding his own coffee. “I also saw the sign that the Holiday Bazaar is tonight. That was always Maddie’s favorite event of the year.”

  “I started working in January this year, so thi
s will be my first.”

  “The store was always packed. Maddie’s two favorites, people and books, crammed into one evening. After Pete passed, I used to help her get the books out the door, carry them to the cars, and box up the orders to ship out the next day. I think I had almost as much fun as she did.”

  “From the accounts I knew it was a big night, but I hadn’t really thought about the logistics.”

  “Have you got extra help?”

  “I . . . We’ll get it. Thank you.” The barista waved her forward. “Oh . . . Two medium lattes. One with almond milk, one with coconut.”

  “Janet?” Seth nodded to the order. “Is she over the moon today?”

  “She’s excited about tonight, but I wouldn’t say—”

  “I meant Rosie.”

  “Rosie?” Claire felt a chill . . . She had a feeling she knew exactly who Rosie was. “Chase’s wife had her baby.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Last night. Two weeks early, but seven pounds six ounces, full head of hair, and plenty of fight. She’s gorgeous . . . That’s why I’m not downtown today. I’m driving to Indianapolis to see them.” Seth caught Claire’s expression and frowned. “Isn’t Janet excited?”

  “She doesn’t know.”

  “Chase didn’t call her?”

  Claire shrugged. She was unsure, yet certain too . . . Janet would have shouted the news from the rooftops, and Claire could’ve eaten all the macaroons in the box and Janet wouldn’t have threatened a slap.

  Silence hovered between them. It grew into a living and awkward thing, only broken by the barista handing Claire her two lattes.

  “I need to get back to the shop, but . . . Congratulations. I’m so happy for you. Someone should tell Janet. Please . . . This baby is everything to her.”

  Seth pulled out his phone. “Do you want to see a picture? Chase sent them and Laura also posted a few on Instagram.”

  “Please. No.” Claire stepped back. “Janet hasn’t seen a picture yet. I can’t see one before her. I can’t know this before her.”

  “But surely on Instagram?”

  “Her kids have blocked her from their accounts.” Claire blurted the words. “I—I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Seth took a moment to absorb it. “I’ll email them to her.”

  “Don’t do that.” Claire stepped forward. It felt too close, but necessary. “If you send her a picture, it means you’re aware Chase didn’t. It’ll feel like salt grinding into her and, despite everything, I doubt that’s your intention.”

  Seth’s jaw flexed, and she wondered. Then his face softened. “That’s not my intention. There’s been enough of that for a lifetime.” He slid his phone back into his coat pocket and gestured to the door. “I should go, and I expect you’ll want to get those back before they get cold.”

  Outside the coffee shop door, he paused. “It was good to see you, Claire . . . And thank you.”

  He turned to the left, she to the right.

  As she pushed open the shop’s back alley door, a whirlwind struck her.

  “I’m a grandmother!” Janet raced into the office and swallowed her in a hug, pressing the lattes between them.

  “You are?” Claire set them on her desk and wiped off the foam that had escaped the lids and dotted her coat.

  Janet bounced on the balls of her feet. “Chase sent this flurry of texts. See . . .” She tilted her phone to Claire. “Laura went into labor yesterday and I guess it was horrible and terribly long and they were so exhausted they’re only now getting the word out. Rosemary Margaret Harrison. Or maybe she went into labor this morning. I’m not quite sure what he means right here.” She pointed to a text with no caps or punctuation. “The poor boy clearly hasn’t slept, but look . . . Look . . .” She scrolled through several pictures, each of a squishy red face wrapped tight in a hospital-issue pink-and-blue striped blanket.

  “She’s perfect,” Claire offered.

  “They’re calling her Rosie.”

  “That’s perfect too.”

  “Isn’t it? I’m a grandmother! Isn’t this the best day ever? And tonight? Tonight we’re going to do this thing. I can feel it; it’s all changing, but for good, Claire. Don’t you feel it?”

  Janet strode toward the front before she could answer, which was probably a good thing. Because if pressed, Claire, looking out into the now empty shop, would have told her the truth.

  That while she wanted change, good, positive, beautiful change, she didn’t feel it trended that direction—at all.

  * * *

  Janet

  Claire rings up sales as I guide guests around the tables and shove books into eager hands as fast as I can. We chat through thirty-plus recommendations in an hour and a half, and shoppers are eager to finish off their Christmas lists. The wine still flows and the food is holding out—all except Claire’s beloved macaroons. They were gone before we began.

  In a day of great moments, this feels fantastic. Maddie would have loved witnessing the community she’d created. It’s a packed house tonight—part party, part shopping spree, and part tribute to Maddie. Unlike her funeral service, this evening does her justice.

  Most of the shoppers are our regulars, and a personal touch lands the sale every time. Your husband will love this or Didn’t you start a garden last spring? or Isn’t this diet exactly what you mentioned last month? I used to connect to people through Seth, and the two years alone have thrown me off, but tonight, unable to hide behind Maddie’s love or cover, I sense I can connect through something new, through books. I can’t give myself too much credit though. I busy myself with customers with whom I share no past; former friends I still avoid. Lisa Generis, my closest friend for almost twenty years, stops me by the wine table with a question and I panic—and lie.

  “Claire is more the expert on the kids’ section. Let me grab her for you.”

  I then spend the next half hour helping the high school volunteers ring orders—deep behind the counter and unreachable.

  It’s from this vantage point that I notice her. Maddie’s niece. I refuse to let her presence bother me. She’s taller than I remember, thinner too. Not fit thin, work thin. There’s a difference. She looks tired, sustained by coffee and granola bars, a beige tired. Unlike at the funeral, her long brown hair is down and skimming her shoulders in a soft curl. She wanders around the shop, through the customers, talking to no one and touching the spines of books as if asking them to share their secrets. I suddenly feel possessive of the books, the shop, of Maddie herself.

  I catch Claire’s eye and throw my glance toward the niece. The shop begins to clear, but she lingers and I grow anxious. Time to find out what’s up.

  “You’re the niece Maddie always talked about. I saw you at the funeral. You’re called Maddie too, right?”

  “Madeline.”

  Her tone implies that Maddie isn’t good enough for her. I open my mouth to say who knows what when Claire steps between us.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. We hoped someone from Maddie’s family might drop by.”

  Claire flutters at the end of her sentence. She wants answers, but is too polite to ask the questions.

  I’m not. “We need clarity about the shop. Who owns the Printed Letter now?”

  Claire glares at me. Madeline levels a gaze. I meant to throw a gauntlet and she knows it. I feel her sizing me up—just as I do the same to her.

  “I do.”

  She offers nothing more and, oddly, I almost like her for it.

  We three stand silent for a few beats. Claire speaks first. “We should talk. Give me five minutes to ring out Libby and Camille, and then we’ll shut the shop.”

  Madeline and I are left staring at each other. But there’s work to do so I walk away.

  As Claire gently pushes octogenarian Libby through the door and tells Camille her orders will arrive soon, we turn to find Madeline assessing the shop. She stands arms crossed, and to me she looks like the vicar in that old novel Maddie read every year.
He comes to the estate he’s going to inherit on entail or something and starts examining every chair, every book, every dish, everything with a greedy eye. The daughters of the family laugh at him, but I don’t find Madeline quite so funny.

  Claire looks to me to lead the way. I shake my head. With a tiny Winnie-the-Pooh sigh, she concedes and approaches Madeline with an outstretched arm. I cluster three folding chairs together for our talk.

  “Maddie left you the shop? All of it?” I blurt out. I meant to let Claire start, but as the Burns quote goes . . . The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft a-gley . . .

  “Yes.” Madeline again offers a short, aggressive reply.

  Rather than add any softening details, she watches us. She’s a lawyer; she’s probably trying to figure out what we want and what grounds we may have to claim it. She makes some interior determination because she nods, to herself, not to us. “She left me the store, her house, her car, her debt. Everything.”

  Now I can’t speak. How could Maddie do that? I didn’t expect anything for myself, but to leave it all to this little ingrate in her designer boots, pencil skirt, and million-dollar attitude? Couldn’t Maddie have been more discerning? And her debt? What does that mean?

  “And what are your plans? For the shop? You live and work downtown, right?” Claire’s voice grates. It’s curious and kind, as if we’re sitting down for tea and this young ingénue is making her debut, not planning our demise.

  “I . . . My plans have changed. Maddie’s lawyer gave me a financial statement, and the store isn’t faring as well as I’d hoped. It’s not salable at the moment, at least not for a profit, and I don’t . . . I can’t afford to lose money on it. I have some time on my hands, so I thought I’d join you here and bring the store back up. In the spring I’ll reassess and most likely list it for sale.”

  “As in three-months-from-now spring?” I almost lift off my seat.

  “Yes.”

  “Let me get this straight—you’re going to revive the shop during the quietest consumer quarter and position it for profitable sale in a matter of weeks? And you’ve run a bookshop before, so you know how it’s to be done? And you’re going to do all this from your downtown law firm?”