The Printed Letter Bookshop

by Katherine Reay

  “Janet.” Claire whispers my name.

  Neither Madeline nor I spare her a glance.

  “As I said, I’ll be here. And it’s that or I sell off the inventory at a discount and list the space separately. I googled it and—”

  “You’re getting business advice from Google?”

  She reddens and I almost feel bad.

  Claire cuts between us. “We have some ideas, and we can teach you anything you need to know.”

  Traitor. I glare at Claire, who widens her eyes back at me. I falter as I realize she is trying to protect me. We both know no one will pay me what Maddie did, and if we can get Madeline to honor it, even for a few months, it’s a help.

  I concede. “We’re happy to stay on staff until the sale.”

  Madeline slumps as if from relief, then catches herself and sits straighter. “I would appreciate that, and I’m no longer at my firm so I’ll work here with you in the store and learn what I can.”

  “What happened?” It was a burst of disbelief; I couldn’t help myself. Claire glares at me. But there’s no way Madeline gave up a six-figure salary for this. There’s more going on.

  “It was time for something new.” She shrugs and suddenly looks so young. For all her sharp edges and stiff clothing, she is young—maybe only a year or two older than Alyssa.

  “Janet, why don’t we start to clean up?” Claire plucks at my sleeve before I can reply.

  Madeline stands as well. “How can I help?”

  Claire points to the farthest corner of the store where the drinks table sits. “Can you start over there?”

  Madeline walks that way and Claire spins on me . . .

  It’s time for my lecture.

  * * *

  Madeline

  I leaned back on the couch and scanned my apartment, seeing nothing. Instead I recalled my tour of Aunt Maddie’s house hours before. My apartment and her house could not be more different—their structure, furnishings, smells, and fabrics. Yet they held similarities too. Without wandering through her house tonight, I never would have known we owned many of the same books. Not books you put on display, but books you keep on your bedside table. Books you read. Books you love.

  I also noted we veered toward the same colors: reds, oranges, and yellows with only highlights of cool. And we both had a dish for keys by the front door. Tons of people probably do, but I smiled and decided to believe it was only the two of us. And I never would have guessed my favorite green couch, on which I now sat, was the exact color of the Printed Letter’s sales counter.

  Greg Frankel woke me this morning practically ordering me north to Winsome tonight. “It was your aunt’s favorite night of the year, her literary showcase of sorts, where she helped customers find the perfect gift for practically anyone. It was also her best moneymaker, so get up there and learn something. It’s your store now.”

  I hadn’t had the courage to tell him I was selling. I hadn’t wanted to think about it myself. It felt wrong, almost dishonest, destroying her legacy like that. But it also made sense. It was the only logical solution—that came from another early-morning conversation, this one with Dad two days earlier.

  “Real estate is not a bad investment, but the management will run you too thin. Sell it and get out. Use the money to diversify your portfolio into a real estate hedge fund. How are you invested now?”

  I panicked—and lied. If I learned anything from the summer of 2000 and the crash that changed my world, it was that “portfolios” were ephemeral things that could hurt as much as help. I’d chosen to “invest” in things I could touch, feel, enjoy, then sell if needed. There was always a market for good physical objects that had already stood the test of time. None of this I shared with Dad.

  “Dad, I’ve got an interview this morning and I need to prepare. Can we talk later?”

  “Nothing to discuss. I wanted to advise a sale. Have a good interview.”

  Dad never liked to commit to future chats. I think they made him feel hemmed in. So my spendthrift ways and lack of a portfolio were still my secrets—for now.

  But now that I’d seen the store, and met Claire and Janet, I wondered how I was going to get it ready for sale. I clearly walked into enemy-occupied territory tonight.

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

  Janet was so abrupt, I could only stammer “Madeline” in reply. She then sneered at me as if I wasn’t worthy of Aunt Maddie’s nickname, and I’m not. To have heard it all those years in adoration, then derision, made it powerful. I didn’t know who Aunt Maddie was—new information conflicted with old assumptions—and all of it left me adrift. Yet the sense that she was worth knowing and understanding grew within me.

  Neither Janet nor Claire paid too much attention to me at first. The store was packed and there were as many kids as there were adults. That surprised me. High school kids behind the counter. Young children spilling from the kids’ section and clogging the aisles. They seemed as at home in the store as their parents and grandparents. It was light, lively, and everything Greg had hinted it would be. I heard Aunt Maddie’s name again and again as if she were in the shop with us all, bolstering the mood and inspiring the sales.

  Afterward I decided to dig for more answers and check out her house—my house now. The driveway was plowed, but the front walk remained pristine with new snow and glistened like the inside of a snow globe. The crunch sounded like I was crushing diamonds beneath my feet. I turned and looked both ways down Bunting Avenue. The street was resplendent with Christmas lights—all except Aunt Maddie’s house. It stood cold and dark and empty. I’d never seen it near Christmas, but I would bet Aunt Maddie celebrated it well, with lots of lights.

  I unlocked the door and pushed my way past an avalanche of catalogs. They spread across the hall under my feet. Stepping over them, I turned on the light. The small entrance hall was painted latte brown. I recalled it as off-white nineteen years ago, but the brown was better. It provided a good contrast with the white trim. It was fresh, modern.

  I glanced into the living room. That was a new color too. Gone was the gray. Instead I found cream that showcased her art well. She loved bright paintings, scenes and abstracts. Looking around, I began to wonder if I had copied her taste. There was a bold red elephant on the far wall, double matted in brown suede and red linen. I remembered Dad once commenting, That crazy woman is dragging Pete off to Africa. Selfish, if you ask me. He’s not well enough.

  Only after Uncle Pete died did Mom tell me it was his dream to go, and Aunt Maddie, unable to talk him out of it, had done everything she could to protect his health. There was no stopping his cancer though, and from what Mom relayed recently, there was no stopping Aunt Maddie’s either.

  I noted the small table to my right and the dish for keys. That’s when my list of similarities began. But while we both had something practical on the front hall table, hers was a beautiful tightly woven little basket. I dropped in the house key and ventured deeper into her home.

  The seagrass rug still covered the living room floor, but the sofa was now a soft beige with a bumpy texture that called for me to rub my hands over it. The two chairs were equally inviting, covered in a red, orange, and green floral. It was so warm and welcoming, I dropped into a chair before I could stop myself. It felt like home.

  She had family photos lining the bookshelves. One of me at college graduation and another from law school. Yet she hadn’t attended either event. Mom.

  I walked into the kitchen. It was exactly what I remembered—white cabinets with white Corian countertops. We had white marble counters in our apartment growing up, and our housekeeper always got snippy with me when I spilled. But that summer, right after she’d redecorated her kitchen, Aunt Maddie had been the opposite. “That’s why you buy this stuff. It’s impervious. Try.” She’d handed me a bottle of curry spice. “Go ahead. Rub it in.”

  I’d tapped out a small dot, then wiped it a
way.

  “You can try a marker too. Everything. I sometimes leave notes for your uncle right here on the counter.”

  I wandered on. There was a small office off the kitchen, a powder room, and a back family room. This was where we watched old movies that summer. It had had a wood floor and a wonderful multicolored woven rug. That rug was gone now, replaced with another full of browns, creams, beiges, and yellows.

  I walked up the stairs. The fifth one still creaked.

  Four bedrooms.

  Two bathrooms.

  I tripped over the final step coming back down as a face filled the front door’s glass window.

  “Are you okay?” it called to me.

  I caught myself with the banister and focused again, recognizing the guy from the park the day of the funeral. “What are you doing here?” I did not open the door.

  “I saw lights. I thought you were Janet Harrison.”

  At Janet’s name, I opened the door. “Why would Janet be here?”

  He dipped his head as if I’d asked an unreasonable question. “She was here a lot, before, and has been keeping an eye on the house.”

  “Oh . . .” There was so much I trampled on with every person I met.

  “Now that I know it’s you, I’ll go. If you’re going to be here more or anything, you might want to take the key out from underneath the planter. It’s right outside the back door.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait. Could . . . could I ask you some questions?”

  He raised a brow. I chose to believe that meant yes.

  “Janet and my aunt were close? I met her tonight and . . .” I let my question drift away, unsure how to end it. I only knew I was over my head, with no allies.

  He chuckled, and that I understood. He surmised my meeting with Janet had not gone well, and he was right.

  “She lived here Maddie’s last couple months and took care of everything from food and thank-you notes to bills and nurses’ schedules. It was a tough job—not that your aunt made it hard, but because Janet, in the end, lost her best friend. Go easy on her.”

  I almost retorted Tell her to go easy on me. Instead I pressed my lips shut.

  He stepped away.

  “You said Aunt Maddie brought you soup, but you knew her well too, better than soup and books, didn’t you?”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “We became good friends. I think she enjoyed mothering me, and I found I wasn’t too old for a mom’s care.”

  “I expect we never are.” I noticed his boots. Snow swirled around them. It had started coming down in earnest.

  He followed my gaze. “If it gets above a couple inches, I’ll plow Maddie’s drive for you.”

  “Thank you . . . How much do I owe you? I see you’ve already done it at least once.”

  His eyes hardened. “Free of charge.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d do anything for Maddie.”

  With that he was gone. I turned back into the house and leaned against the door. Only when he pulled out of the drive did I grab the key from under the planter, lock up the house, and head home myself. Traffic would only build with snow falling.

  Now I shut my laptop and looked around my own apartment. Despite all the work I’d put into it, it felt like the home of someone I expected to be rather than someone I was. Or maybe it reflected someone I’d never become. Aunt Maddie’s home had been warm, inviting, and lovely—it wasn’t the quality of the pieces within it, but how they reflected her, the her I remembered from my brief weeks visiting there, and the effect was beautiful.

  My phone rang.

  “Hey, Mom. What are you doing up so late?”

  “Nothing. I couldn’t sleep so I was up reading . . . How are you? What are you up to?” Her voice held her signature light, airy note. She was engaging in the prerequisite niceties before she hit her purpose.

  “Nothing.” I sank deeper into my couch and waited.

  “Have you been up to Winsome? To check on Maddie’s home and the store?”

  “Mom?” I dragged the word out. “Why would you think that?”

  Two could go fishing.

  “Fine. I lost my iPhone.”

  “And?”

  “Your phone was still logged in. Remember when you left it at Saks while we were shopping?”

  “That was over a year ago. Have you been keeping tabs on me?”

  “Not at all. As I said, I lost my phone this evening and yours popped up.”

  “Where’d you lose your phone?”

  “I—”

  She was a dreadful liar. She never reached for the first one, available and perhaps believable, but the best. Thinking up the best took time—and always killed her chances for something convincing.

  “Mom? Where did you lose it? . . . Did you think about any privacy concerns here?”

  “You’re such a lawyer . . . I’m deleting your phone right now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So how was Winsome?”

  Now that the subterfuge had passed, her tone filled with gentle concern.

  “Okay. Odd. I remembered so much of those weeks with her and Uncle Pete . . . And then she got mad and we left. But everything I see and hear doesn’t reconcile with what I experienced . . . I had thought she was wonderful, then horrible, and now tonight . . .”

  “She was wonderful, Madeline.”

  Mom wasn’t going to answer any of my questions, including those I couldn’t ask. Her one sentence carried a finality I’d heard before. One that at work I’d used before. The topic was closed. The final word had been said.

  I cast for a new topic. “One of the women who works at the store, Claire, gave me a flash drive of all the accounts as I left tonight. I believe she meant to help me, but after spending the last few hours reviewing the data, I suspect she meant to warn me. It’s bad, Mom. Aunt Maddie’s finances are in really bad shape.”

  “That’s a shame. Will you lose the store? Maddie loved it.”

  “Dad said it’d be stupid to sell it without showing a profit, but it hasn’t shown a profit in almost two years. It was draining her dry and her estate has other bills to pay too, and not nearly enough to cover any of it without some serious income.”

  “Do you want to sell it?”

  “I have to sell something, Mom. Fast. And what else would I do with it? Moving up to Winsome and running a bookstore isn’t exactly using my skills to their fullest potential.”

  Mom stayed silent a few beats. She’d heard Dad give the lecture enough times to know where it came from.

  I opened my mouth to apologize for being rude, when she cut me off. “Who says?”

  Two words, and it wasn’t the bookstore that came to mind, or the house—it was a set of green eyes lit with disdain. I’d just undervalued Aunt Maddie’s life and work, as clearly as I’d undervalued him.

  I’d do anything for Maddie . . . And I didn’t even know his name.

  Chapter 7

  Madeline

  I drove my car out of the garage for the second time in two days. Living and working downtown, and working such long hours, I had hardly taken it out in the last two months, much less driven it back-to-back days. I had nowhere to go within my usual life that I couldn’t walk.

  All in all, a car hadn’t been my wisest purchase, as Mom pointed out one visit, but it hadn’t been my worst either. And now—according to Greg’s asset list—I owned two cars. There was a late-model Volvo station wagon tucked in Aunt Maddie’s detached garage.

  As I followed Lake Shore Drive north to Edgewater, I noted the winter waves crashing the shore on my right and the Gold Coast buildings giving way to townhouses and parks on my left. The scene was magical—dusted with last night’s snow, dotted with lights and quiet on the Saturday morning before Christmas. It felt like everything could be made new and all might end well.

  But I couldn’t see how. While part of me reveled in seeing this bright white beauty, another part of me knew I was only
here witnessing it because I had failed. I had failed to accomplish the one thing I’d set my sights on since that day freshman year of college when I decided to drop finance as a major and pick up history instead. The day I decided to become a lawyer.

  I passed through Loyola, Rogers Park, Evanston, Wilmette, Kenilworth, and drove farther north. I wove through Lake Forest with its large and graceful homes, where Chicago’s nineteenth-century wealthy had once driven their carriages to “summer.” That always cracked me up—a season becoming a verb.

  A series of twists and turns then brought me to Winsome. Last night I’d driven straight to the store, picked my way by memory to Aunt Maddie’s house, then bolted in a flurry of white to race the snow home. Today I wanted to see more. I drove around the neighborhoods flanking the lake, the small town center, and the tiny industrial area west of the highway. That stretch was packed with home goods signs—furniture, upholstery, metal fabrication, welding. I wondered if this was where those nineteenth-century wealthy came to hire builders and find materials for their Lake Forest summer homes.

  Winsome felt the same as it had when I spent those three weeks here nineteen years ago. It was as if Chicago had forgotten about it—just north of wealth and just south of Wisconsin.

  The parking space in front of the Printed Letter Bookshop only allowed for ninety minutes. I pulled back out and used the time searching for a more permanent spot to build up my nerve. I felt completely comfortable walking into a courtroom or telling a Fortune 500 CEO she’d violated numerous statutes, but the prospect of trying to run a bookstore scared me speechless. I knew nothing about it, and I’ve never liked surprises or the unknown. Yet despite what Janet said, if you knew how to search, you could find anything on the internet. Heck, you could learn all you needed on Pinterest alone. And I’d searched until the early hours of the morning, of every morning, since Greg dropped this into my lap.