Claire was frustrated with my response, just as she was when I caught her feeding the alley cat yesterday. “Why not? You object to my being kind to a kitten? I’m not bringing him into the store.”
Now I got the same look with “Why not? You can’t object to him too. He’s a writer. Janet’s a creative type.”
I tapped the screen.
Claire wiped at the smudge and sighed. “Again, it’s not a touch screen.”
I ignored her. “Look at his word choice. He’s got precise, rigorous, and comprehensive all in one sentence. That’s a red flag if I’ve ever seen one. She needs more freedom and more support. What does he write?”
“Medical research.” Claire straightened. “Fine. How do you know so much?”
“It’s the way my generation dates.”
She shook her head no.
“Oh, you mean about Janet? Easy. Look at her.” My answer brought a flash of uncertainty to Claire’s eyes, so I backpedaled. “I’ve been studying clients for years. It was part of my job. And since we started this, I’ve paid more attention to her too.”
Claire nodded, as if satisfied, and wiped at the now invisible smudge again. She then scrolled down through the available men. “We need to pick one soon so they can have a first date this week, then if they hit it off they can have another next week. No one wants a first date on Valentine’s Day.”
“You’re planning their dates too? There might be a limit to meddling.”
“Please, I’m a mom. We know no limits.”
“Fair enough.” I laughed and batted her hand from the keyboard to read a profile scrolling by. “This one . . . He’s an accountant. That might be a negative, but he coaches a rec center baseball team. That’s good. Numbers, but also flexibility . . . Boys, chaos, and teamwork. He loves reading fiction too. His mind is malleable then . . . Pick him.” I tapped at the screen.
I glanced up to find Claire staring at me.
“I’m serious . . . Pick him.”
“Stop being so bossy. And stop touching the screen.”
I almost apologized, for the third time already today, until she smiled. I sometimes forgot, despite the age difference, we were peers at the store—and becoming friends.
She wiped off the new smudge, then clicked the green button. “Now we wait.”
“Wait? Why?” I reached out, then pulled back from touching the screen again.
“For him to reach out and ask for a date.”
“What? That’s how this site works? You’re kidding.”
Claire stretched her back. “This is what you’d call old-school. The man reaches out first and sets up the date; then we, I mean she, accepts.”
“Why can’t she message him?” It was my turn to stretch.
“Not here. Members are grouped locally so your first real communication is face-to-face. The man asks the woman on a date and there you go . . . It’s an over-fifty site. I guess they—”
“They?” I raised a brow.
“I’m forty-six.” Claire smirked. “So, yes, they . . . And they aren’t as comfortable online. This site has really taken off because of its emphasis on IRL dates.”
“IRL . . . And how do you know all this?” I mimicked her earlier tone.
“Brittany taught me that one. As for the site, you’d be surprised how many divorces happen in one’s forties. You look up one day, after focusing on your careers and your kids, and you don’t recognize the person across the table, or so I hear.” She lifted her shoulders in a mini-shrug. “But I can tell you this, sometimes you don’t recognize yourself.”
“I wouldn’t be. Surprised, that is. Our firm had five lawyers devoted exclusively to divorce cases. It’s not easy work.”
“Neither is marriage.”
I opened my mouth to comment when Janet waved her hand from the front of the store. “Madeline . . . A customer to see you.”
She discreetly pointed to a woman hovering near the door. She looked older than Janet and wore a faded full-length down coat. Feathers poked through small holes near the hem.
“May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Madeline Cullen.”
“I’m Madeline.”
She took a deep breath and gripped her scarf tighter around her neck. Whatever this woman needed, it was not a book.
“Mr. Frankel said to come see you. He said you’d help me.”
“He did?” I kept my voice questioning, curious, but in my mind it arced up with sarcasm.
When Greg came to pick up his book boxes before Christmas, he’d wagged a finger at me and boomed, “I’ve got plans for you.” Then he chuckled, carried out his boxes, and refused to say more. I was now getting an inkling of Greg Frankel’s plans.
“I’m being evicted.” The woman reached into a worn cloth bag, which reminded me of Mary Poppins’s carpet bag. She pulled out an assortment of things to find her letter. A wallet, a book, glasses cases. A wad of receipts, Kleenex, a rosary. She dug deeper and brought out several papers folded together.
“Here. My landlord will evict me on the seventeenth. I did not pay my rent last month and I told him I will not this month. I have asked him to fix my toilet for four months and because he will not, I will not pay. My neighbor said she did that and her window was fixed within days. She says it is my right. But today he taped this to my door.”
I scanned the letter. It was typical, and threatening. “Does this neighbor live in the same building?”
“Across the street. Does that matter?”
“It shouldn’t, but I expect you have different landlords.” Two women snaked around us. We were blocking the center aisle. “Come with me.” I led her to the office.
Claire stood and excused herself as I cast around for a spare chair.
“Have a seat . . .” The only spare chair in the office was piled with books. I quickly cleared it. I read her name from the top of the letter. “Elena Hernandez?” At her nod, I continued. “Let’s go over this whole situation.”
An hour and a half later I printed off an intimidating letter to her landlord, written on newly developed letterhead Janet created on the fly between customers. The letter was full of my best legalese, including a promise to take matters to court.
Elena sat with both hands wrapped within her scarf the entire time. She released one only to accept the letter from me. After she read it, eyes wide, I pulled it back, folded it in thirds, and slid it into an envelope.
“I will not have to leave?”
“He’s in the wrong and being predatory. I doubt he’ll have the nerve to push any further. I’ll mail this today, and if he doesn’t fix your toilet immediately, I want to know.”
“Thank you.” She pressed her lips together and stood. “How much do I owe you?”
“I . . .” had no answer for that one.
“Mr. Frankel said lawyers as good as you can charge as much as one hundred dollars an hour.”
I swallowed. “This didn’t take very long, nor was it too difficult.”
“I need to pay.”
She pulled out a series of ones, tens, and a few twenties. She stretched to hand me the entire amount.
“That’s too much. Let’s say thirty dollars.”
Her body shuddered visibly with relief. She pulled back everything but a twenty and a ten.
As soon as she walked out of the office I grabbed my phone.
“Greg Frankel.”
“You’re sending me clients?”
“Elena came to see you? Good. I wondered if she’d have the nerve. She lives up there, and I thought it’d be nice for you to work within your community.”
“You did, did you? Good to know I’m worth a hundred an hour.”
“Did you charge her the full price?”
I almost laughed at the concern in his voice.
“For ninety minutes and a letter, I accepted thirty.”
“Well done, Cullen. I really appreciate that. Those are good people up there. Maddie used to send some my way, but to be
honest, I’m swamped and not getting any younger.” He paused. “If I hear of anything else, you game?”
Without thought I answered yes.
“Good to know. And I have a few books I want to order. I’ll email you the list.”
He hung up the phone without another word and I sank back into my chair. It bounced.
In over six weeks, I hadn’t noticed it could do that.
* * *
Claire
Claire glanced back into the office. Madeline and the woman had been in close conversation for almost two hours. Up front, Janet was handling customers with an enthusiasm and warmth she hadn’t seen in a long time. Claire suspected it was due to Chris. He had just left, after stopping by for another Silva book and a hug. He always left Janet brighter.
“I swear if I were twenty years younger. Mm-hmm . . . ,” she had whispered as he left the store.
“Sure you don’t want me to bring you a coffee?” He had ducked back inside.
“Why not? Thank you.” Janet turned and winked at Claire. “Now he’ll come back.”
Claire laughed but didn’t question. Rather, she returned to her computer at the sales counter to catch up on the accounting and stock lists.
Janet and Chris had become close at Maddie’s house those last weeks, and now that the house no longer held them, he visited the store. He bought books, he helped with shelving, and he assisted customers when they were super busy. And the dynamic between Janet and him was . . . charming. There wasn’t another word Claire could pin on it.
Rather than some warped May-December affair, their friendship reminded her of a much older sister finally getting to know her younger brother as an adult, as an equal. She could see mutual affection, loyalty, and the filial concern she’d read about in one of her books from Maddie’s list: The Four Loves by C. S. Lewis. He wrote about loving puppies and poppies, brothers and sisters, lovers and spouses, and God. He talked about different kinds of love and the order in which these loves needed to be placed within human minds and human hearts. It was a tough concept, and it kept Claire chewing Lewis’s words and thoughts late into the night.
Could one love a son, a daughter, a spouse too much or in a misplaced ordering? Could the love become enabling, unhelpful, and unhealthy?
Claire closed her laptop. She had stared at the same screen for ten minutes. The numbers were comforting—not improving, but no longer falling either. That was success. It was also a comfort to understand them and be able to effect change. While Maddie lived, Claire had been reticent to make changes. With Madeline, she had guided new procedures and new ideas with slow, measured steps. And the numbers brought solidity, answers, and definition when everything else brought confusion.
She thought of Brittany and their latest morning skirmish. Success in that quarter was not so easy to quantify, and the quarrel had left her unsettled. Maybe Lewis was right after all—love, and relationships, could be disordered.
The woman who had come to see Madeline walked past the counter lighter than she’d entered. On the way in, her shoulders were curled in, her hands clutched to her neck, her face pinched with fear. Now she walked with purpose. Without looking right or left, she headed to the front door.
Upon reaching it, she sank to the floor.
Claire leapt around the counter. “Janet!”
Janet turned and within a single step dropped next to the unconscious woman and gently rolled her onto her back. She’d hit the side of her head on the wood floor and was bleeding.
“What happened?” Madeline ran from the back of the store. “Call 911.”
Claire pulled out her cell phone. Janet, crouched low, reached for Madeline’s hand. “Get Chris. He’s at the coffee shop.”
“Wh—”
Janet yanked her wrist toward the door. “Now.”
Madeline ran out the door.
Claire connected to 911. “. . . We don’t know. She passed out. She looks about sixty years old. We’re at 413 Main Street. Winsome . . . Yes. She’s breathing, but she hit her head on the floor. There’s a lot of blood.” She waved to the window. “A doctor is here now.”
Chris barged through the door. Madeline, with a bewildered expression, stepped in behind him.
He crouched immediately and started pressing his hands on the woman. “What happened?” He pulled her sleeve back to feel her wrist. “Janet, undo her scarf. I can’t get a pulse here . . . Did you lift her head?”
“What?”
“Did you lift her head at all?” He reached up and placed two fingers to her neck. With his other hand, he spread open one eye.
“Should I?” Janet moved to lift the woman’s head.
“No.” Chris pressed a gentle palm against Janet’s shoulder. “I only wanted to know. There’s no dilation of the pupils. She could have a head injury . . . Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief. “Press this very gently to her head to stop the bleeding.” He surveyed the small crowd. “What’s her name?”
Madeline answered from behind him. “It’s Elena. Elena Hernandez.”
He twisted to send her a quick smile, then bent over Elena again. “Elena, you need to wake up now. Elena? Open your eyes for me.”
“That’s bad, isn’t it?” Janet inched closer.
“Not necessarily. She’s breathing, and we don’t know what happened.” He returned his fingers to Elena’s neck. “We wait.”
“We wait?” This came from Madeline.
Chris shifted back to face her. “There’s nothing more I can do. Her pulse is stable, albeit light. She’ll need more of a workup than I can do on a bookshop floor, but she’s not in danger.”
Sirens wailed close as Elena’s eyes fluttered.
Within seconds, paramedics strode through the door and everyone stepped away except Chris. He stayed close and with quiet work and confident gestures recounted all he knew and what further information he gathered as Elena gained consciousness. He then followed the paramedics out the door, only to duck back in once the ambulance drove away.
“I’m going to head over to the hospital. Luke is there today, so I’ll touch base with him too, and I can let you know if I learn anything more about Elena.” He directed his words to Madeline.
Claire observed her, and then him. The dynamic between them was . . . incandescent. She wondered if they felt it themselves.
Madeline smiled. “Thank you.”
He left, and Madeline spun on Janet and Claire. “I thought he was a yard worker. He said he was, and he plows Aunt Maddie’s driveway.”
The two women burst out laughing. It was a full three minutes before either could reply.
“He’s an ER doctor.”
“Then why isn’t he practicing?” Madeline asked. “That seems a waste.”
Claire watched as color, humor, and goodwill drained from Janet’s face. It took on all the hard lines of a mother defending her own. She stood and brushed her black pants free of dust.
“That’s exactly what Sonia says.”
* * *
Janet
After the morning’s drama, I welcome a quiet afternoon. Customers come and go, no one asks for recommendations, and no one returns anything. I did see one woman taking pictures, knowing full well she was snapping shots to remind her as she built her online shopping cart, but I couldn’t muster up the energy to ask if I could help her find something. That usually gets them to put away the phone and purchase at least one book. And it’s not a disciplinary action, as Maddie often told me. It’s a reminder that that’s why we are here and this is what we love to do: connect readers with the story they didn’t know they would adore.
I don’t have the energy to address Madeline either, but her comment still bugs me. Right as I’m beginning to like her, it’s obvious what she thinks of Chris. He’s only as good as his job, and “yardman” may have been fine—I’ll give her enough credit to believe that—but not now, not when doctor is on the table.
People do that all the time. Put ot
hers in boxes. Because I don’t create art anymore, am I not an artist? Am I less than, because I work in a bookshop? Or was I less before, because I gave up my art and didn’t work outside the home? Or am I still less because I can barely make ends meet now or before when I did sell my art? That’s what it comes down to, and to nine out of ten people, nine out of ten Madelines, I am less.
Then I catch myself . . . I sound so angry and judgmental, even in my own head. Maddie warned me, and only now do I hear it.
Is this who I’ve become?
I wander around straightening things so as to appear busy, to give me time to work this out. I enjoy this work, and I love this shop. I love the community I found here. I love that it gave me a reason to get up every morning when all I wanted to do was roll over and never get up again. I do make enough to pay my bills and I am getting by, but . . .
I stand staring into the spare room. The sun came out for the first time in days about an hour ago, and it is lit with a gorgeous cold light. This room has been calling to me lately. I find myself here again and again, as if on the edge of something more.
As I walk back into the shop, Claire slams her laptop shut.
“Doing something naughty?” I tease. When she doesn’t laugh, I stop. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” She stares at me. She is lying.
I stare back, knowing if I give her ten seconds she’ll crumble like a day-old cookie.
“We signed you up on a dating service.”
All the blood puddles in my feet. “I don’t want to date.”
“You do. You said you did . . . Here, come see. Your profile is wonderful.” She opens her laptop with one hand and pulls me closer with the other.
And there is my smiling face. It’s a good picture actually. I remember that day. Chase had said something funny when he and his new wife, Laura, were visiting, and Seth caught the tail end of my laugh. That was over four years ago. “How’d you do this?”
“I pretended to be you. People make profiles for their friends in movies all the time.”
The Printed Letter Bookshop Page 14