I step back. “And nothing ever goes wrong in the movies.”
Madeline joins us. I can tell she wants to smile but is trying to read the scene’s tone. I look back to the screen. “You said I like cats. You can’t say that.” I tap the offending sentence.
Claire huffs and uses a tissue to de-smudge her screen. “You do like cats, just not that one in the alley. And you buy all those cat cards for the shop.”
“Because they sell! But you can’t say that. I’ll come off like the crazy cat ladies in Grey Gardens.”
“I’ll remove it . . .” Claire flutters over the keyboard. “But he liked it.” She clicks on a man’s face. “He asked to meet. Tomorrow night.” She takes a deep breath. “That’s what we need to tell you.”
“We? What?” Madeline’s jaw drops faster than mine can. Her hands fly up. “I didn’t know about that part.”
“Ethan 22 wants to go out tomorrow, and I already clicked yes.”
“Let me see this.” I spin the computer to me and scroll through the entire situation. “What are these checks in the side column?”
Claire leans close. “That’s for notes that only you can see. The men can’t see what you write there. The checks are the ones Madeline approved.”
I glare at Madeline. She raises her hands in surrender again. “I was trying to protect you. You should have seen some of the options. Here . . . I’ll show you who Claire wanted.”
Claire gasps and walks away. She wants us to think she’s angry, but a few customers walk in and she’s the most responsible this afternoon, or the least shredded. I notice Lisa Generis among them. While I never talk to her, I’m happy my presence hasn’t kept her from the shop. She blew up when Seth and I divorced, or maybe I started it. It’s hard to remember sometimes how things went down. I drop my eyes to the computer screen.
Madeline scrolls through men like a kid sorting Halloween candy. “Look . . . Oh . . . Read that one . . . Look here . . .” It’s in these moments, when she forgets herself and tries to play grown-up, that I like her best.
“She put a lot of time into this, didn’t she?”
Madeline grins. “It’s a robust profile. They get the most hits. And here . . .” She points to the sidebar on the left. “Here are the details for tomorrow night’s date.”
“I haven’t agreed.”
“You did.” She taps a bright-green check. “See?”
I smile at the smudged screen. Claire deserves it.
“You completely violated my privacy.” I cross my arms. Part of me wants to only play at mad, and yet I do feel true anger, laced with fear, rise within me.
“We did,” Madeline concedes. “And we impersonated you. You have legal grounds to press charges. Do you want me to tell you your options?”
She offers up the question with a straight face, and it dissipates all that’s brewing within me. Then a tiny smile breaks out and I find myself smiling back.
“I’ll get back to you on that. But I do say turnabout is fair play.”
“What?” Madeline stiffens.
“Let’s register you.”
“I’m not over fifty.” She points to the website’s banner. “Besides, I’m seeing someone?” Her statement lifts in question or curiosity.
“Since when?”
“Since about two weeks ago . . .” She looks at the screen again, and I sense she’s more comfortable looking at it than at me, but she doesn’t stop talking. “We dated before, actually, about two years ago. We were both associates, and now . . . He’s Duncan, Schwartz and Baring’s new partner.”
“You’re dating the guy who stole your partnership?”
“I . . . I guess I am.”
I can’t explain it, but in this moment, I see myself in her. I see my daughter in her. And I feel sorry for us all. It’s such a strange feeling, but I know with everything in me she’s not happy and she’s struggling to hide it.
We smell Claire’s gardenia perfume before we hear her or feel her presence across the counter.
“So . . .”
I glance past her. More customers have entered the shop, but Lisa is gone. “I’ll go, but I have nothing to wear.”
“We can fix that.” Claire grins. “I may not have many friends, but I know every shop owner in town.”
Madeline looks to me.
“Claire claims everyone has lived here so long they’ve forgotten how to make new friends, but she’s also the one who set up the quarterly coffees with all the local businesses. It’s been an incredible boost that’s helped everyone.”
“That’s brilliant.”
Claire glows brighter at Madeline’s compliment. “And very helpful right now.” She passes us into the office and comes out with her coat and Madeline’s. “Janet, I know your size, so you stay here and handle the shop. Madeline, you come with me.”
I laugh as I see where she’s headed.
Madeline does not. “Why am I coming?”
“Because you look like that almost every day.” I twirl my finger up and down her crisp blouse and pencil skirt. “You’ve got one pair of jeans, which we’re sick of seeing, and even if you sell the shop tomorrow, you can’t keep dressing like that. It’s horrid.”
Madeline frowns.
“It’s not horrid.” Claire steps between us. “But it’s not terribly welcoming for a small bookshop.”
Claire pulls her away. Madeline is still frowning. I’m still chuckling.
It only takes thirty minutes to bring them back again. In that time I sold a copy of Killers of the Flower Moon, two copies of Crazy Rich Asians, and an English garden adult coloring book—I think the gray winter is getting to Beverly Parker.
Claire looks around the store upon entering and, noting it’s empty, flips the Closed sign out.
I smile. “How is it that you’re already back?”
She lifts four stuffed shopping bags. Madeline steps from behind her, equally laden.
“Because we brought everything here,” Claire says. “All the stores let me take stuff so we can have a fashion show here. Then we’ll go return what we don’t want and purchase what we want to keep.”
So that’s what we do, and it’s amazing fun. By the end I own a new navy silk blouse to pair with jeans and my good boots, and Madeline’s got a whole new wardrobe.
“I can’t buy all this.” She pokes at her pile like it’s a living thing. We voted she keep four sweaters, two blouses, two pairs of jeans, three fun necklaces, and a great black wool knit dress.
“It’s not that much. That whole pile probably costs less than two of your stuffy blouses and less than that skirt.”
She has the grace to blush, but there is doubt in her eyes. I’m not sure what’s driving that and sense if I ask, she won’t tell me—so I don’t.
After we make the rounds to purchase or return the haul together, we part ways at our cars in the alley. I note the cat perched nearby, and I drop the remains of my morning muffin from its brown paper bag.
I drive home, and, oddly, the quiet house doesn’t depress me tonight.
Chapter 10
Madeline
Four days until Valentine’s Day.
Part of me sided with Janet and dubbed it a stupid-manufactured-pseudo-romantic day. But the other part of me wanted to be swept off my feet, go to a good party, see someone across a crowded room, and . . .
Most of me wanted Drew to step up to the plate. I’d laughed at Claire, so sure Janet shouldn’t have to wait for Ethan 22 to ask her out, yet I was doing the same thing, waiting for Drew to make a move.
But it was undeniable—there was something lovely and right and pretty perfect when a guy orchestrated that first move, pursued you, and made you feel special.
Or maybe this was all Janet’s fault . . . She’d sent me a Spotify playlist full of Van Morrison, Pink Martini, and a few other bands that made everything feel, as Claire would say, old-school romantic. And now I was standing outside in the freezing weather planting red flowers in the store’s windo
w boxes because . . . because I couldn’t help myself.
“It’s a little early for that.”
I recognized his voice at the first word. We had met only a handful of times, yet I knew his voice. That was not a good sign. Sonia. Sonia. Sonia. A firm mantra of his fiancée’s name was bound to save me from whatever this was.
I replied without lifting my head. “Probably, but Valentine’s Day is in four days, and they’ll look pretty and roma— They were on sale. I checked the weather and it’s supposed to reach the forties, maybe touch fifty this week. Won’t they last a little?”
“Maybe the week.” Chris stepped beside me. His hand brushed mine as he helped hold the flower within its small hole. I used my other hand, encased in my new gardening gloves, to dig deep in the store’s window box and shift the soil.
“I haven’t seen you lately.” I focused on the flower.
“I’ve been busy, as odd as that sounds, considering it’s winter and everything’s frozen.”
I glanced up. He wasn’t looking at me. I followed his gaze. The streets were white with street salt—Chicagoland salts well in winter.
He turned back and stepped closer as I repositioned the drooping flower.
“Let me help.” He nudged me away.
“You don’t have gloves.”
“Do you have a sink in the store?” He dug his hands into the soil.
“Of course.”
“I’ll wash my hands after. I’ll live.”
I stepped aside.
He made the hole I’d created deeper before he looked up again. “You need to go a couple inches deeper. If you get all the roots under, they’ll stay warmer. Maybe you can get a week before the freeze kills them.”
I pushed potting soil into the hole. The flower no longer drooped.
“How do you like it here?” he asked, his face inches from mine.
“I like it.” I gazed into the window. I could barely see past Janet’s pink and red window extravaganza, but what I could see made me smile. The store was busy this morning. I didn’t know all the customers’ names yet, but I recognized many. The elderly man who bought romances for his housebound wife, laughing at the heaving bodices on the covers as he paid for them. The high school kids who came in and bought gifts for each other’s birthdays when together, or books for themselves when they were alone. A few, probably Aunt Maddie’s former tutees, occasionally staying an hour or two longer to help shelve or check out customers.
“It suits you.” Chris swatted the furry pom on top of my hat with the back of his hand.
I grimaced. “They made me buy it.” I unzipped my coat. “This too.” I revealed a purple chunky wool sweater. I complained about it to Claire and Janet—despite what they said, it had cost a fortune—but I also loved it. It was soft and flattering and fun. And I actually smiled now while dressing each morning.
“The pom and the store suit you.” Chris’s tone dropped. I felt myself tipping forward to catch every syllable.
“It’s different from everything I’ve known, anything I ever anticipated for myself. And working with those two is different too.”
“Good different?”
“Yeah . . . But the store is still struggling, and that’s a concern.”
He followed my gaze into the store as he straightened away from the window box. “I didn’t catch it. I’ve wanted to tell you that. Not that I necessarily would have, but I wonder sometimes if I should have.”
Before I asked what he meant, he continued. “When I arrived I was pretty low. I came to visit Luke, got sick, and that’s when I met Maddie. They were great friends. Then when I decided to stay, she kinda took me on as a charity project. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. Your aunt knew how to love well . . . Anyway, looking back, I realize she was sick then. That was January a year ago, and when she finally got diagnosed in July, the game was up. I believed her when she said she had a sensitive stomach, was sore from lifting book boxes, had never had much of an appetite . . . I didn’t pay enough attention.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Maybe.” He wanted to argue. Instead he swallowed, his Adam’s apple lifting and falling with the motion. “Thank you.”
We moved back to the flowers. He made a hole. I lifted in the red poppy.
“I didn’t know you were a doctor.”
“I’m not much of one lately.” He shrugged.
“Elena Hernandez would disagree.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s fine. In fact, she was here yesterday to help us out. She said it was dehydration, and they sent her home after two IV bags of saline. She also said that within minutes of the mail arriving, her landlord was up in her apartment fixing the toilet. So she paid the rent and all is well.”
“That’s fantastic.” He shoulder-bumped me and it felt like a hug.
I couldn’t help but think of the night before when I’d said almost the same words to Drew. His response had been different. “That’s all she got? It took him four months. You should have pushed for equal terms on a release of rent.”
I felt myself lean into Chris. I liked his response much better. Drew’s was probably in the best interest of my client, but it was clinical. This felt emotional. Working with Elena had felt that way too. She was pleased. I had no sense that she wanted better terms or a fight. She wanted a working toilet.
I pulled back. Sonia. I yanked the last flower from its plastic container.
Chris scooped another hole with his fingers. “You’re inspiring, you know that? You’re doing work you love and work you’re trained for, in a place totally new.”
“Not like you, huh? Thinking it’s time to join the real world again?”
The words escaped me before I could stop them. I didn’t mean them and certainly not in the tone I said them. I was nervous. I was always nervous when he was near. Every time he walked into the store I felt my throat close. Yet I’d ordered every book Alex Powell and Daniel Silva wrote, to make sure he had a reason to keep stopping by.
And Janet had said Sonia wanted Chris to practice medicine again, and I figured if he did, when he did, she would set a date. It sounded logical—manipulative—but logical. That made me nervous too. He would get married. It felt like I was promoting the one thing I was dreading.
The second the words registered, which was a half second after they left my mouth, I felt their unintended cruelty. “I—”
Chris cut off my apology, pulling his hands from the soil and brushing them against each other to rid them of the loose dirt. “I didn’t think I had left the real world . . . I gotta go. You can manage that last one.”
He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and, with straight arms, shoulders practically touching his ears, he walked away.
The last flower tipped over.
* * *
Janet
I’m a voyeur. I admit it. Yes, I do my job—I help Betsy find a new diet book, Mrs. Jennings a book on old English silver, the Winsome Women’s Club next month’s mystery selection, and Ted Billings something he hasn’t yet read about Cold War spycraft—but I’m also completely attuned to the red poppies being planted outside and the two star-crossed lovers planting them.
That’s what I call them now—in my head. Neither has recognized it yet, though I suspect Madeline has an inkling. I give her credit, she’s reining it in. There was a tiny lean a moment ago. A drift that she righted at the last moment . . .
Chris? He has no clue. The poor man thinks he’s coming around offering help and friendship. He’s also reading at a lightning pace. He thinks it’s good literature driving him into the shop, but he lights up like Seth did when we first met, every time he walks in the door—and he’s not looking for me as he cranes his neck above all the customers and scans the shop. What a heady feeling that was . . . I remember it well. Seth shone whenever I came near, and the adoration made me glow too.
The memory brings one of Maddie’s book list titles to mind. There was a line th
at still haunts me although that book was number three on the list and I’m at number ten now. An ever increasing craving for an ever diminishing pleasure . . . It haunts me because I understand it. When did feeling that glow, chasing that adoration, become more than loving that man?
I’m still watching them when Chris beats a hasty retreat. Madeline, what have you done? I take a step toward the door when a woman enters my field of vision. I almost step around her when I realize she’s talking to me. I shift my focus. I recognize her but I can’t place her.
“I’m looking for Maddie Carter.”
“She’s . . . Do you mean the owner?” Flustered, I point out the window. Madeline sees me, dusts off her hands, looks in the direction Chris walked, and comes into the store.
“Do you need me?”
I gesture to the woman.
“I’m Madeline. Can I help you?”
The woman rushes forward, all energetic enthusiasm. “I’m Carlotta Antonelli. I’m giving the book talk and demonstration next month.”
“The chef? The Pressure Cooker Made Easy? Wonderful . . . I didn’t expect to meet you before the event.”
“I was up at Boswell Book Company in Milwaukee for a lunch demonstration today and was driving back downtown and thought I’d stop by. They did something really interesting up there, and I thought we could do it here too.”
Claire pulls up beside me.
“They procured all the ingredients, and the owner and her assistant brought in the pressure cookers. We cooked two dishes. It’s a lot of food, but it made for a more exciting demonstration and, I think, more sales.”
Claire raises her hand like a schoolgirl. “It’s a great idea. I’ll bring my pressure cooker.”
“Me too. Happy to,” I chirp.
Madeline waves her hand between us all. “I’m the owner. I’ll bring mine.”
“You have one?” I ask.
She looks lost, and I almost bet money she has no idea what a pressure cooker is.
“Didn’t Aunt Maddie own one?” She nods between Claire and me in hopes we’ll throw her a bone.
We don’t, and I again marvel at the dynamic between us. In less than two months, we get each other, we enjoy each other, and we’re not above leaving one of us hanging on a ledge for a moment.
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