The Printed Letter Bookshop

by Katherine Reay

  It was my turn to roll my eyes.

  Chris caught it and sent me a ghost of a smile.

  A waiter took our orders, and we batted conversation around the table like a badminton shuttlecock. A hit started us off, but it landed soft and fizzled out, to start again with a new serve. It only got rolling when Sonia and Drew cut Chris and me out completely.

  We both heard Sonia offer up Chris’s occupation, past and present, but he still didn’t engage.

  “Reading and gardening is about all he does, but he’ll go back to medicine soon.” Sonia laid a hand on his arm. “Right?”

  “Perhaps.” Chris’s ravioli fascinated him.

  As it should have . . . He’d ordered my favorite, a pork belly and ricotta ravioli, forcing me to order the Bolognese so as not to copy him.

  He offered Sonia nothing more, so she returned to greener conversational pastures.

  I stepped into the silence. “Do you find it fulfilling? Working in landscaping?”

  Chris found something in my voice. By his narrowed gaze, I assumed it tasted condescending and bitter.

  I opened my mouth to refute his assumption, but stopped. Rather than annoy me, it created a flutter in my gut. His not liking me physically hurt.

  I tried a new tack. “Like me, you’re trained to do more.”

  As soon as it was out of my mouth, I regretted it. I had meant “something else.” I meant to show commonality between our situations, and us, but nothing was coming out right. And what was worse, Sonia heard me.

  “That’s what I’ve been saying.” She pulled Chris by the arm again. “See, hon, I’m not the only one who feels that way.”

  Chris didn’t reply to me nor did he look at her.

  I scooped up the last of my pasta and tried to dig myself out of the hole another way. “I owe you an apology for the coffee shop a couple weeks ago. I was beyond rude. It was a bad day.”

  It took him a second to shift gears. He’d been someplace else. “No worries. When I saw you I hadn’t heard about the vandalism. I’m sorry about all that.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” I offered my first true smile of the evening. It felt like he’d waved a white flag between us.

  “It wasn’t Janet’s either.”

  My smile and his flag evaporated.

  “Debatable.” I shoved in a massive bite to stop myself from saying more.

  The last two weeks at the shop had been chilly and painful, and not because of the broken heating system. Janet had shown up the next day, and the one after that, and the one after that. I never reminded her I’d fired her because I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t be that person. She was hurting. Claire was hurting. And, on some level, I was broken and couldn’t put my pieces back together. Even Greg Frankel sensed it, and rather than going in for the kill when I told him about Aunt Maddie’s shop, he consoled me.

  “Maddie would tell you to give up the shop in a heartbeat if she ever thought it caused you concern or pain. It was only to bring you and anyone else who entered those doors joy. Let it go. You did well, Cullen.”

  I sat for an hour at Aunt Maddie’s kitchen table after that call and sobbed.

  Not that Chris would believe that, or anything good about me, for one second. He probably envisioned me stalking Janet each day, trying to shove her out the door.

  I hadn’t. Instead we had worked side by side, in silence, both licking our wounds and trying to figure out what to do next. And, to be completely honest, I couldn’t have made it to that point without her. Living in Winsome for so long, Janet was the one who knew whom to call and how to get a good deal from the contractors for repairs. She had two bids by the next morning to fix the structural damage and she then negotiated an amazing price and had been honest with them too—she told both companies we could only pay once the shop sold. Her statement didn’t faze them; it devastated me. But as hard as that was to hear, it was also true. I was out of furniture—and options. Both contractors agreed, and while the chosen one took a week to make the shop safe, I used the time to hire a Realtor. By last week, the Printed Letter was open for business and on the market for sale, along with Aunt Maddie’s house.

  “She feels terrible,” Chris whispered. “You must know that, because she shows up every day and you haven’t kicked her out. And yes, she left the door open, but vandals did the damage. They are responsible for their choices, not her.”

  “I get that, and the law is on your side. She’s clear in that regard. But from my perspective, despite all her help, I’m finding it hard to forgive her. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “Who said forgiveness was supposed to be easy?”

  He followed his perfectly delivered—and I assumed, by his tone, rhetorical—question with one for Drew.

  The lift in one corner of his mouth created a tiny comma inside his check. It told me it was deliberate. He had turned to Drew to leave me no quarter to question or protest his challenge—only time to ponder it.

  And after I did that, I still sat cut from the conversation, marveling. The man should’ve been a lawyer, not a yardman or a doctor or whatever he was. I finished my dinner in silence.

  “Are you walking east or Ubering?” Drew asked Sonia as we gathered our coats.

  She stretched to look out the window. She had a long neck, an Audrey Hepburn neck. I liked her less.

  “It’s not that cold tonight. Shall we all walk?”

  Outside, Drew and Sonia stepped ahead of Chris and me, full of conversation and laughter. Chris and I remained silent.

  At the Sienna, Chris took a step back rather than a step forward. “Sonia, I’m going to head to the Metra. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

  “Snow coming in?” Her voice bit.

  He looked to the sky. “It’s supposed to stay above freezing. Now that it’s March, I doubt I’ll plow much more this spring. I’m working on some garden designs and have an early meeting.”

  “Fine. Call me later.” She gave a collective wave good-bye.

  Chris faced us. “Thanks for joining us tonight. It was nice to meet you, Drew.” He motioned to me while backing away. “Madeline.”

  “Wait.” The word was out before a plan was formed. I looked between him and Drew. “I’m heading back tonight too. Let me grab a bag and I’ll drive you north.”

  Drew lifted a brow. I had surprised him.

  “I’m meeting with the Realtor at eight and the bank at ten . . . You have no idea how much I have going on.”

  He chuckled. “I like how your definition of a lot has changed.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was being sincere or sarcastic. “I guess it has.” I twisted to Chris. “Are you waiting or going?”

  Our eyes met. I sent him a challenge this time—of what I wasn’t sure—but he locked eyes on me and I knew he was in.

  “Waiting.”

  “Good. Come up. I’ll only be five minutes. Drew?”

  “Nah . . . I’ll head home. I’ve got a big day tomorrow too.” He kissed my cheek. “I’ll see you soon. Later, Chris.”

  Chris followed me into my building.

  Again, no words.

  It took me five minutes to pack a bag. He spent the time standing in my dark living room looking across the few blocks to the darker lake.

  “I’m ready if you are.” I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.

  “Hmm . . .”

  I turned to find him still examining my apartment. I stalled and tried to see it from his perspective. It had become bare over the past two months, not that it was ever crowded. The breakfront was the first to go. Two eighteenth-century end tables had been next. I hadn’t had the nerve to go back to Sid McKenna Interiors to sell those, so I sold them, and a lovely set of chairs, to a high-end consignment store—sold it all cheap and only kept 50 percent. It was not a smart move, but pride got in my way.

  Until I couldn’t afford pride. When I sold a small dresser and a pair of sconces, I tried another shop. But when I sold the Henry Moore—last week—I took
it back to McKenna. He graciously took it on commission, sold it high immediately, and gave me 80 percent. Sid McKenna was my hero.

  That’s where I got the money to pay my mortgage, Aunt Maddie’s mortgages on both her house and the shop, and the interest on her additional loans. I also paid the premiums on new insurance policies, complete with contents coverage, one for the shop and one for her house. Not only was it unwise not to carry it—I jumped every time someone tripped in the shop while I was searching out the best policy—but the real estate agent commented that no one would list either property without it.

  The money also paid Claire’s salary, and Janet’s. Chris was right—I had fired her, but she came back every day and she worked hard. I told Claire to cut her a check too. There was nothing left for the contractor. I simply had to hope he was sincere when he said he could wait. A lawsuit was the last thing I needed.

  In that moment I saw my apartment with new eyes. It was sterile. Despite having nothing of any value left to sell, had it always felt that way? I shrugged and swung the door closed behind us.

  “I used to love that place.” My verb pulled at me. When had my feelings changed? If Chris noticed my confusion, he didn’t comment. In fact, he said nothing at all.

  We got in my car and headed east. Turning left off East Chicago Avenue and heading north on Lake Shore Drive always made me think of an old movie Aunt Maddie and I had watched that summer. She loved When Harry Met Sally and enjoyed pointing to all the Chicago spots of old in it, especially the scene in which Harry and Sally drive the wrong way to head to New York from the University of Chicago. Aunt Maddie yelled at the screen, as I’m sure she’d done countless times before, with laughter in her voice, “You’re headed to Wisconsin. Turn around.”

  I felt laughter bubble with the memory and, on the inhale, I caught Chris’s cologne or aftershave, or whatever it was. He filled my car with a mixture of citrus, soap, and something richer . . . I wanted to say bergamot. It smelled amazing, and I caught myself leaning closer to catch more of it. I righted myself and tried to redirect his questioning look with the memory. “My aunt used to yell at that movie— What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Chris was so close I could feel his tension. It occurred the second I mentioned my aunt.

  “Not nothing. Can we just lay it out? You don’t like me and it’s painfully obvious.”

  “Painfully?”

  “Well . . . it’s uncomfortable, and I’m not evil.”

  “I barely know you, Madeline.”

  A line from my current read from Aunt Maddie’s book list came to mind. Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition.

  I loved that line. I’d laughed out loud when I stumbled across it and read it at least five times to commit it to memory. It was so true. It applied to work and it applied to life. So much did not call for rational opposition.

  I clamped my lips shut. Chris had leveled a charge at me—horrid human—and he didn’t deserve my confidence or my defense.

  I let the silence grow.

  He squirmed.

  I remained quiet.

  He grew fidgety and spread his fingers wide across his knees, compressed them into fists, then went through the motion again, and again.

  Finally he broke. “Your aunt was an amazing woman. And at the end Janet moved in with her so she wouldn’t be alone. There were nurses there and hospice came, but Janet never left her side. To have someone you love near you matters.”

  “So this is about Janet. You’re mad because I’m hurting her.”

  “It’s about them both.”

  We drove a few beats more before I added, “You were there too, weren’t you?”

  He focused straight ahead. “I would stop by to explain in layman’s terms what was happening. Doctors and nurses can forget that, how scared people get and how little they understand. But not Maddie . . .”

  He filled the car with a deep, resonant chuckle. It wasn’t derisive or tinged with sorrow; it was joyful.

  “She wasn’t scared at all. I think she listened to me to make me feel better, like I needed something to do. She’d reach over and touch my hand and say I was really good at all that, but not to worry so much, that I wasn’t responsible for carrying the weight of the world . . . She liked my name.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I didn’t interrupt. He was lost in the memory.

  “Like I said before, she talked about you a lot.” I kept my eyes on the road, but I felt him staring at me. “Downtown to Winsome isn’t that far, but you never came . . . Once when I got ticked and threatened to call you myself, she said I couldn’t blame you for your best quality.”

  Best quality.

  I turned onto Sheridan Road and let the words sink in, wondering. “Loyalty. She meant loyalty.”

  “How do you figure that?” His voice swam in sarcasm.

  And while that should have bothered me, it didn’t. I was swamped by Aunt Maddie’s grace. She had understood on a deeper level what my own mother had failed to see. Somehow Aunt Maddie had known all along.

  I gave Chris my explanation, not because he deserved it, but because it hit me so powerfully I needed to articulate it.

  “I was being loyal to my dad, her brother. No one ever explained what had gone wrong between them, at least not until recently. I simply knew it was big and ugly and changed everything. But she knew. I suspect she knew what I thought had happened, and she let it alone to be good to my dad, to not lessen him in my eyes. She took the hit so he didn’t have to.” I peeked at Chris again. “I can’t say I’d go back and behave differently, because I don’t know how I could. I was a kid when it started and . . . Can we just say . . . Never mind . . . Thank you.”

  “Why are you thanking me?” His sarcasm morphed to curiosity.

  “Because what I thought was true all along was true. She was kind and wonderful and she understood me and she forgave me and she never forgot me.” I felt tears pool but refused to let them drop.

  Only brief directions to his house broke the silence as we drove north. I pulled into his driveway. His home was similar to Aunt Maddie’s—small and cottage-like with a front porch.

  “Thanks for the ride.” He climbed out and held the door. I thought he might say more.

  When he didn’t, I whispered a “You’re welcome” as the door shut, then reversed out of the driveway.

  He didn’t walk inside. Instead he stood on the porch, lit by a single bulb, and waited as I drove away.

  I glanced back through the rearview mirror and mentally let him go. I smiled, feeling lighter than I had in months, maybe years—it didn’t matter anymore that he didn’t like me.

  Aunt Maddie had loved me.

  * * *

  Janet

  Toughest two weeks of my life.

  I laugh to myself. Seriously? Did I really just think that? I’m standing here in line at the Daily Brew telling myself that working unasked and uninvited at the Printed Letter has constituted the toughest two weeks I’ve ever lived.

  Clearly, I’m getting soft.

  But that isn’t all of it. To be fair, in those two weeks I also contacted former friends, asked favors, and imposed on old ties that had long been broken. Only they didn’t feel long broken. Both contractors, Lewis and Anthony, had been polite, kind, even warm. And generous—to do the work without pay, until the shop sold? That generosity, I suspect, was not based on our past friendship but rather sprang from a love and respect for Maddie and for the Printed Letter. Yet I was the one who brokered the deal.

  After Lewis finished the work, we reopened to a flood of customers. Word had gotten out that the shop was going on the market, and the entire town came in to either buy books or protest Madeline’s decision. She looks close to tears most days. Only Elena and the cleaning crew can make her laugh in the evenings. I try to stay up front to take some of the load from her, but dealing with the questions, the concerns, the loss, each and every day, from that
many customers is hard.

  But the toughest two weeks of my life? Please . . .

  I glance at my phone to bring up Apple Pay and see my granddaughter’s smiling face. Two and a half months old and smiling—and I haven’t held her yet. Forget the past two weeks—that’s the hardest thing in my life right now.

  I pay, grab my three lattes, and return to the shop. I hand one to Claire and place one on Madeline’s desk. She’s in the storage closet. She spends a lot of her time there now. It’s got a desk and three chairs in it, and Maddie’s attorney friend, Greg Frankel, sends Madeline cases—so many she’s practically running a tiny law firm. The day she put the shop on the market, she didn’t come out of the room at all.

  Her clients are wonderful, though. Elena brings us sopaipilla, Ana Paula helps us clean the store, and Bernard is a wonder with all the odd jobs no one has addressed since Pete passed away a decade ago.

  Madeline emerges with a broad smile. “Not to worry, Mrs. Lutz, I’ve had tremendous success with a single letter. If we have to take it further we will, but I doubt it will be necessary.”

  An older woman follows her out, grips both her hands in thanks, and shuffles out our front door.

  “Landlord again?”

  Madeline nods to Claire. “What’s with these people? She has no heat.” She then notices the Daily Brew cup on her desk and looks to me. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I say nothing more. I still don’t have the words for her, so I walk out of the office and into the shop.

  March means spring, and that means a new window display. I’ve worked out the design over the last several days—I’ve worked through several designs. They’ve felt magical—my art coming to life in my head, along with all these thoughts, feelings, and promptings I’ve never experienced before. Part of me wants to hold this tight and savor it. It’s like an awakening, and I want it to unfold slowly and take my time, but another part knows it’s to share. I’ve learned the cost of secrets in any and all forms.

  This feeling, awakening, whatever I call it, this chase for light, started the day after we found the vandalism. February 16th. I showed up for work because I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk Madeline changing the locks or shutting me out. It would have been the end of me. It sounds so dark and dramatic now, but two weeks ago it felt very real. It prompted a late-night call to Chris.