The Printed Letter Bookshop

by Katherine Reay

  I almost laugh. She sounds like Maddie—like a true bookseller.

  “But there may not be time.” I don’t say it with venom and she doesn’t take it that way.

  She pulls her chair over. “True. Or we may have just enough. Bottom line is I forgave you a couple weeks ago, Janet, and I’m sorry I didn’t say it. I wasn’t sure how. This . . .” She circles her hand between the three of us. “This is not something I’ve had before, or at least not in a really long time. I’m sorry too.”

  “Then don’t sell the shop. We can make this work.” I have all the energy and the hope in the world now.

  Madeline shakes her head. “I’ve been sending out résumés to law firms. I need to go back to what I know and what will pay the bills. I haven’t been a good ‘life manager,’ as my dad would say, and I’m out of options.”

  “You were handed a pretty big job to manage.” Claire pushes out of her chair and walks into the storage room. Without saying anything more, she starts tossing out empty boxes.

  Madeline takes them one by one and flattens them with a box cutter.

  The electricity shifts and the tension breaks. I feel it shatter and rain around me. Silence turns to talking, giggles turn to chortles, and chortles make Claire choke on her own breath, which only starts the cycle over again.

  Within an hour the storage room is cleared and Madeline hangs my first piece of art using a small paneling nail and a binder clip. She calls her simply The Woman.

  Claire claps, fingers to palm, like any good art snob. “What’s next?”

  Madeline looks at her watch. “It’s almost time to unlock the door.”

  But I take a different tack. I know exactly what’s next for me—but it’ll take some time and a whole lot of courage. “I have to apologize. To Seth.”

  Again both women’s jaws drop.

  Chapter 17

  Madeline

  The Ides of March. The day of settling accounts. I remembered it from college, first as the Roman deadline for settling one’s debts, then as the date given to Julius Caesar’s assassination. A settling of debts as well, I supposed.

  Either way, it certainly lived up to its reputation this morning. Nothing could have shocked me more than what Janet laid out before the shop opened. I felt it like an electric shock that flashed, then lingered as we cleared out her new “studio.” Maybe it was her talk, maybe it was the change in her, maybe it was because she had actually apologized for something, for everything, but whatever it was, the energy in our little office shifted and it now glowed.

  I had noticed something different about her since the vandalism, but I hadn’t wanted to see. I pushed it away, convincing myself she felt guilty, not sorry; that she wanted to keep her job, not offer true help; that she was a good actress, not a good person. I misjudged her. Which shouldn’t have surprised me; I’ve misjudged a lot over the years.

  But what shocked me more was our brief conversation right before I ran to grab our sandwiches from Winsome Deli.

  “Why don’t I run an art studio out of the spare room and you run a law office out of that closet?” Janet pointed to the storage closet I had cleared to handle Greg’s cases. “We’ll work the front, of course, but Claire can handle the shop’s backroom work.”

  “That’s only for the few cases Greg Frankel sends me.”

  “It’s not real law?”

  “It’s definitely real law, but it’s not—” And that’s where I stopped. The words what I’m trained to do were about to launch next and they were wrong.

  She tilted her head as if examining deep inside me rather than seeing the surface of me. It gave me the strangest feeling of transparency. I almost looked down to make sure I was still material.

  “You’re a good lawyer. Here. Doing this.”

  On that note, I grabbed the sheet on which we’d scribbled our lunch orders and fled out the back of the shop.

  You’re a good lawyer. Here. Doing this. The statement soaked into me and filled every cell. It wasn’t what I had imagined for myself. It wasn’t part of the dream, the vision, or the plan. Yet stuck in that dark, windowless room, I’d experienced some of my best law moments—some of my best any kind of moments—in almost a decade.

  True, there was no view, no suede chairs fashioned at different heights, no expense accounts—no accounts at all—but the work was some of the most creative and meaningful I’d ever done. Fifteen, no, over twenty people had walked through that back room and been helped by me for a price they could pay—some working in the shop to pay in kind or bringing baked goods because we became friends.

  Greg was right to laugh last week. I was as shocked by my enjoyment as he was shocked by my eagerness for more. “You’ve surprised me, Cullen, and I love surprises.”

  My elation at his comment surprised me as well. Admiration, maybe grudgingly given, from an unexpected source—a source I’d come to admire and respect over these past months—was a beautiful thing. Maybe one never grows out of delight in approval. And now I sat, grinning that I had surprised Darth Vader when really I had surprised myself.

  Sandwiches devoured and the shop relatively quiet, I gazed around our office and marveled. It wasn’t all good, not yet, but it was getting better. With each sale of furniture, sacrificed for this place, something had cracked inside me. I thought, at first, it was the end—my security wrenched away piece by piece. But rather than break me, the cracks opened spaces that had never existed before.

  I decided to trust. That’s what Mom had said. That was, among other things, what had changed her life—not in things, not in her abilities or what she could do or hold, but in people. For her, one person in particular. For me, perhaps I needed a few more.

  I walked the floor, trailing my finger along the books, offering to assist customers as I roamed. Mrs. Neuland had lost another pair of her plus-five readers, so I ordered her a new pair and a spare to keep in the shop for her next visit. Janet was in her “studio,” so I chatted with David Drummond and helped him find a new book. And two middle schoolers walked away with a childhood favorite of mine, Number the Stars.

  Claire reconciled the books and reported that since we reopened after the vandalism, sales and traffic were up, and the woman who habitually returned books she found cheaper online had actually kept four purchases in the past two weeks. Not only that—Claire had heard about a new book club starting and offered them 10 percent off their selections. Within hours the word had spread and two more clubs called to place orders.

  A line from Janet’s morning recitation came to mind. I didn’t tell the others Aunt Maddie had transcribed it in my letter too. At the time I figured it was a mistake or that it meant something for her and not for me. But now I wasn’t so sure . . .

  She looks well to the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.

  It was Janet and Claire who had households. They were the ones with families who relied upon them. But me?

  I stalled at the front window, ablaze with color. I did have a household. My concerns involved a family of sorts—Aunt Maddie’s legacy had come with more than a shop, a house, a car, a storage unit in Waukegan, and debt. It came with family and a community, who had, in some ways, become my own. And I had worked hard to keep them—to keep us—together. Without understanding it or meaning to, I had looked well to the ways of my household—yet I’d failed.

  I left work early to drive to Chicago and wander the beachfront before meeting Drew for dinner. It was a brutal walk, but the biting wind felt appropriate, a challenge—if I could withstand that, I could endure anything.

  “Sorry I’m late.” He dropped into the seat across from me.

  I lifted my head and found that in my fifteen minutes of waiting, Girl & the Goat had completely filled. Upon entering there were at least a few other tables still available, but now every table was taken and a crowd filled the small waiting area.

  “Thanks for getting here early. If we relied on my schedule, we’d never get into the good restaur
ants. I can’t imagine keeping up this pace another decade.” He tapped the menu against the table and called the waiter over. “I’ll start with a glass of Mount Veeder Cabernet. Madeline?”

  I glanced down, but all the words swam before me. “The same.”

  Alone again, Drew leaned forward. “How’s the store going?”

  “It’s hard to say. Great and terrible both fit. Along with the breakfront, coffee tables, and that statue I told you about, I sold my car a couple days ago . . . And that’s the end of it. Despite the fact the shop’s operating expenses are now in the black, the bank will take it, and Aunt Maddie’s house. Without one or both selling, I’m done for.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. You should come back to the firm.”

  “I’ve sent out résumés, but not there. I can’t do that.”

  “Are you okay?” He reached for my hand.

  I shook my head as my future played out before me. I’d sent out a dozen resumes, but I didn’t want to return to a law firm at all. I wanted Aunt Maddie’s legacy, Aunt Maddie’s community, and all that came with it—good and bad.

  “I need to go. I’m not where I’m supposed to be, even if it’s only for right now.”

  “I figured that a while ago.” Drew pulled away. “I also figured we’re never going to be friends, are we?”

  I blinked. I was not expecting that. “Is that what you’ve wanted?”

  “I hoped. Maybe I hoped for more, but I was fairly sure on that one early on. You’re different. You’re lighter and happier, except tonight.” He tried to smile, but it fell flat. “And never with me.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not sure who I am most days right now.”

  “Quit worrying about who you are. What do you want to do?”

  “Keep that silly bookshop. Run a law practice out of a storage closet. A few neighbors have come in for advice and somehow it got out that I’m a lawyer, a good one, who charges only a hundred dollars an hour.”

  No offense, but you’re trained to do a lot more.

  The criticism I had floated to Chris bit at me. Drew was right. He and I couldn’t be friends, let alone more than that. Right or wrong, he was somehow mixed up in the way I judged myself and the scales I used to judge others. It wasn’t his fault, but it was true. He was part of a life, of a me, I no longer wanted.

  “Then chase that. It’s a whole lot better than applying for jobs you don’t want.” He sat back and sighed. “Look, I work over ninety hours a week, the same as when we were associates. The ‘big dream’ doesn’t come with time off. In fact, I’ll be on my computer again tonight. But I thrive on it. I’m not sure you ever did. Why would you sign up for more?”

  I watched him and it felt as if I saw him for the first time. He did love the work, and always had. What I saw as a challenge to meet, a ladder to climb, he saw as a puzzle to solve. The law was his bay window to explore within, to create art within. That’s what Duncan, Schwartz and Baring saw in him—and they’d been right to reward it.

  “Why did you break up with me?”

  My non sequitur widened his eyes for a beat. “Everything was a competition. I love the law. I loved you. One had nothing to do with the other, but it wasn’t like that for you, and it was obvious.”

  “But you said ‘I need more.’ You implied it was me, that I wasn’t enough.”

  “If you remember, I said I needed more of you, but you couldn’t hear me.” He held eye contact. “With you moving on, I thought . . .”

  “What?”

  “Maybe we could try again. Maybe our worlds were enough apart. But we can’t. I can’t. Something about me, the firm, who knows what . . .”

  He was right, and I had no desire to convince him otherwise—there were no butterflies, no eagerness to get closer, no fear I might hurt him—no desire to trust him with the most vulnerable parts of me. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He smiled, and it wasn’t the tight smile I’d seen over the past several weeks or the flat one from moments earlier. This one reached his eyes. It crinkled their corners and it reminded me of . . . It reminded me of Chris. “But call Kayla off, please. She hates me. Undeserved, I think.”

  “It is, and I’ll let her know.” I laid down my napkin. “This is rude, but I need to go. Do you mind?”

  “There it is.”

  I tilted my head in question.

  “That enigmatic smile of yours. It’s a new expression you’ve developed, and something tells me you have better plans now.” He nodded toward the door. “See you later, Cullen.”

  “Thank you and good luck, Setaro.”

  I fled the restaurant feeling lighter than when I’d entered it. The Ides of March—a good day to settle accounts.

  And there was one left.

  I could’ve won an Olympic medal for the two miles of speed walking back to my apartment. I didn’t want to Uber. I wanted nothing hemming me in. I wanted to feel space. I wanted to see green. There was none in this part of the city, but I knew where to find it.

  Aunt Maddie and her book list. Every title led me here . . . How had she known? And had she meant for me to read them in order? If she had, if she’d thought that far ahead and listed them with purpose, she could not have chosen better. Each story gently propelled me to question my own. To say I’d experienced an awakening as real and significant as my current read would be an understatement. Natalia Fenollera’s Miss Prim had nothing on me. I could feel it. I could taste it. I was ready.

  I took the elevator up to my apartment and stood exactly where Chris had stood. I tried to see it anew, but all I sensed was that no part of me lived there anymore. I had stayed at Aunt Maddie’s house two or three, sometimes four nights a week for the past six weeks. I claimed it was because I needed to sort the house, but I had finished that over a month ago. The truth was I liked it there. I liked me there.

  I liked bundling up and sitting on the porch as the sun set. I liked curling into the wicker chair with a bunch of blankets and reading the books from Aunt Maddie’s list. I liked walking to the end of the drive to pick up the paper I’d never canceled. I liked looking at those flower boxes and wondering what I might plant there or in the small patch to the left of her garage. And I liked wondering where I got the desire to plant anything, anywhere, at all.

  I grabbed a suitcase from my closet—no overnight bag this time—and threw in as much as it could hold. I grabbed two laundry baskets and filled them too. I cleaned the kitchen, the bathroom, left it all spotless, and then headed to Aunt Maddie’s Volvo parked in the underground garage.

  Within four hours, I physically and emotionally left a place I’d called home for eight years.

  Traffic was light, and I was on his doorstep before I’d fully worked out what I needed to stay. But I pressed ahead and rang the doorbell. I stood beneath the porch’s one light. Too bright. I stepped back. Too dark. I stepped to the side. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. What time—

  “Madeline?”

  “Hi . . . You’re home.”

  “It’s one a.m. Why aren’t you home?”

  “It—it is? Were you asleep? Of course you were. I woke you up. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I backed away.

  “Madeline.”

  I stopped. There was a striking quality to his voice, not unkind, but it didn’t leave any wiggle room. He stood under the porch light dressed in a plain gray T-shirt and striped pajama pants. His feet were bare and his face stubbly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” He ran his hand over his face as if realizing what he must look like. The grimace led me to think he was embarrassed.

  I thought he looked wonderful. But I was here for a purpose . . .

  “For implying that you were any less for what you did. For not seeing you for who you are. For not being super grateful for all you did for my aunt and all you’ve done for me . . . For not seeing you.”

  “You said that already.”

  “It deserved repeating.” I stepped
back again. “I’m sorry . . . That deserved repeating too.”

  “Do you want to come in?”

  I waved him back into his house. “It’s one a.m. You should sleep.”

  “Stay.” He pointed to a swing at the end of his porch. “Go sit there, and don’t leave.”

  He disappeared and I sat. The night felt still, and late, and the wait stretched too long. I grew embarrassed and I gathered my nerves to leave.

  Chris intercepted me at the door draped in blankets. “I told you to stay.” He stretched a mug my direction and crossed back to the swing. “I asked you to stay.”

  I took it, sniffed it, and sank onto the swinging bench next to him. “You made me hot chocolate.”

  He placed his mug on a side table, wrapped a blanket around me, and tucked it beneath my chin, leaving one arm out for the cocoa. After sitting down, he set the swing rocking with his now wool-slippered foot.

  “Start all this from the beginning.”

  I laughed. “Where to begin.”

  I meant it rhetorically, but one glance at Chris and I knew he was serious. So I began at the beginning, the summer of 2000, and I told him everything—from my point of view, which, as I have learned, was highly subjective.

  Cocoa gone, but wrapped warm and tight, I finished my story and found myself curled into him. He didn’t have his arm around me; it lay across the swing’s back, but he hadn’t pushed me away either.

  I pushed myself away. “I . . . I think I’m tired. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  He shrugged. “You did nothing wrong.”

  Facing each other now, I asked a question of my own. “Why aren’t you practicing medicine right now? I’m not judging. I’m asking. Like me, I bet you have a story.”

  “Don’t we all?” He offered the same rhetorical tone I had offered a solid hour or two before. And like him, I held my gaze steady.

  “My last assignment was working triage and emergency surgery in Kandahar, Afghanistan, and it was hard, beyond hard.”

  “You’re military?”