The Printed Letter Bookshop

by Katherine Reay

  And there is no turning back. I vandalized the Printed Letter on February 14th. I sit, certain those words and their staccato delivery will live with me forever.

  “I hear you have information about the Printed Letter case.” An older officer stands before us. He is dressed in blue with a badge and no gun. I’m thankful. I can’t handle a gun right now.

  “Yes, sir.” Brittany stands.

  “Come with me.” The officer turns to go.

  “Can we— Can we come with her?” I swallow and hope my next sentence won’t crack like that one.

  “How old are you?” He lifts his head to assess Brittany.

  “Seventeen.”

  “You must come.” He throws the words to us and continues down the hallway.

  He leads us to a small anteroom. It has a window that looks out on the parking lot, and it is nothing like the cinder block interrogation rooms I see on TV. It is carpeted and holds a laminated table and four blue fabric chairs.

  “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re here.” The officer sits on one side. Brittany and I sit on the other as Brian pulls the fourth chair from the officer’s side of the table to again flank his daughter. Useless as it is, we are certainly trying to protect her.

  Brittany tells the story as she had told it to me, and as she told it to Brian. No details vary. No details go missing. A group got together, no studying; they drove around; yes, some were drinking; she saw the open door, and she drew their attention to it; yes, she went inside, participated in pulling out some books, but tried to stop them when things got more destructive; yes, someone found Sharpies and drew on the bookshelves; yes, two boys wielded a bat the driver had in his trunk; they drove off; she walked home.

  “It was a cold night. You left your friends and walked home around one a.m.?”

  “I told them I was leaving earlier, while they were still inside. I thought, since they knew my mom worked there, that they were making it worse to get to me, and if I left they’d stop. So I crossed the street and stood in Home Slice’s doorway to watch. I couldn’t leave them there. I needed to make sure they didn’t do something really bad.”

  I straighten. This is new.

  “What did you think might happen?” The officer doesn’t lift his head from his notes.

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “What happened after you crossed the street to watch?”

  “They were inside about twenty minutes more, then they drove away and I walked back to the store.” Brittany looks at me for the first time. “It was so much worse than I thought. I thought I was preventing the worst, but they did it anyway. I’m so sorry.”

  The officer glances up with a look of surprise, not realizing the apology is directed to me.

  She faces him again. “Then I walked home. I remember tapping my phone to turn on the light to go up the stairs. It was 1:24.”

  “And, again, who was with you?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You can’t?” His voice remains steady.

  “I won’t say.” Brittany stiffens as if prepping for battle. I recognize her stance and her expression and realize my own mom had been right. You are who you are at two, at seventeen, and maybe even at forty-six. You can just forget or get lost for a time.

  Brittany continues. “School can be a tough place, and if I give names . . .” Her voice drifts off. I am not sure if it is because she doesn’t know the consequences or, worse, she does. “Besides, it won’t change anything. My punishment will be the same, right? I was there. I did it. I started the whole thing.”

  The officer watches her for so long she gives up the fight and slumps in her seat—maybe that was all she needed it for, that last question and that last stand.

  “Okay.” The officer flips his notebook shut. “This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to get photographed and fingerprinted, then—”

  “Is she going to jail?” Brian blurts out the question.

  “Then . . .” Eyes on Brian, he repeats the word as a ghost of a smile plays on his lips. “She’s going home with you.” He then addresses Brittany alone. “You’re a minor, and you’ll most likely be charged with a municipal ordinance violation, and a court date will be set.”

  “But no jail?” Brian needs clarity.

  “I highly doubt she’ll see the inside of a jail. With no previous record and at her age, this is a misdemeanor. I can’t tell you what the sentencing will be, and you will need a lawyer to advise you, but . . . being seventeen makes this a whole different ball game.”

  He stands. We stand.

  “You two may come out here while we take care of processing, then you all may go.”

  The officer leads Brittany from the room. Brian steps back for me to follow first, and as I pass he covers my hand with his and squeezes.

  Chapter 20

  Madeline

  Claire looked frazzled, acted jumpy and on edge, and was easily startled.

  “Did someone get you this morning?” I finally asked.

  “What?”

  “You’re not yourself and your desk is a mess.” I pointed to the chaos. There wasn’t a single right angle, and papers littered the surface. “Did someone get you this morning?”

  “Get me?”

  “April Fool’s Day. Did your kids play a prank on you?”

  “That’s today?” At my nod, she wilted. “That’s not funny. I didn’t realize . . . I need to talk to you.”

  She glanced toward the office door. There were only a few customers scattered throughout the shop and Janet was handling them all. Janet handled a lot lately, despite putting in hours upon hours in the back storage room. We couldn’t call it that anymore for it was truly an art studio now.

  We helped her construct shelving units from IKEA to hold her supplies; Chris sanded and refinished the old drafting table so it was completely smooth; and she covered the walls in sketches and drafts, while her larger pieces stood propped against the wall next to the bathroom. It was an inspiring space. I often found myself wandering into it simply to see what was new.

  Claire stood and closed the door between the office and the shop. We never did that. I sank into my chair but didn’t relax.

  “Brittany is planning to come in after school today to talk to you.” Claire stalled and I waited. “Two weeks ago she confessed that she and a group of classmates were responsible for the vandalism.”

  “The vandalism here?”

  “Yes.” Claire offered nothing more. It felt like she was giving me a moment to rant and rave. When I did neither, she continued. “We went to the police ten days ago, on March 20th.”

  My eyes widened at that. Working in law, I had seen plenty of parents try to hide their kids’ actions, ultimately making the legal, moral, and emotional ramifications far worse.

  Claire twisted her hands together. “She made a full confession and wanted to come to you right away too, but Brian and I wanted to wait until we could offer something.”

  A change came over me. I felt it. The friend, the bookshop owner, the youngest of our tribe of three, became first and foremost a lawyer once again—and I held my tongue.

  “We’d like to offer you payment for all the damages and repairs. I know you’ve asked the bank for an extension, but the numbers won’t work for them. And when the shop does sell, you shouldn’t still have to pay. We’ll deal with Brittany repaying us somehow, in some way. Unless you plan to sue, and I don’t know how that works.”

  “When is her court date and what is the charge?”

  Claire had not expected these to be my first questions. She cast about for an answer. “Um . . . June 12th and it’s called a municipal ordinance violation.”

  “I see. Can I get back to you on your offer? I need to consider this.”

  This surprised her as well. We both knew the bank wasn’t going to extend time or credit. I had only asked to stall foreclosure while they processed the paperwork, in hopes my condo might sell and save the shop.

  Claire st
ood to leave, then turned back at the doorway. “Do you mind if she comes in? She needs to talk to you and apologize. Brian and I feel that’s very important. She does too.”

  “I agree. May I speak to her in private? She’s a minor, but I figure this is not between a lawyer and a client or, worse, adversaries, but, shall we say, something between friends?”

  “I like that—us being friends.”

  I laughed then and felt the tension in the room lessen. “We’ll be fine, Claire. Thanks for telling me.”

  She visibly calmed for the rest of the day. She remained quiet but was far less jumpy. I didn’t ask if she had told Janet, but I suspected she hadn’t for two reasons. One, Janet was incapable of keeping a secret. And two, I doubt Janet would’ve pulled an April Fool prank about harm to the shop had she known Claire carried the burden for just that scenario.

  At four o’clock, Claire lifted her phone. “Brittany texted. She’s on her way.”

  “Brittany?” Janet called out from the customer desk. “I love that girl. I haven’t seen her in weeks.”

  Claire’s face paled.

  I rolled my chair to hers and whispered, “Bring her back here and shut the door. Tell Janet whatever you want.”

  She left me to meet her daughter at the front door. Soon I heard the chime, the footsteps, and the small knock on the doorjamb.

  Brittany was not what I expected. I’d seen her working in the shop once before but hadn’t caught her name. I thought she was simply another high schooler Janet had wrangled into helping out before Christmas.

  While Claire was lovely, in a nondescript brown-bobbed-conservative-mom way, her daughter was a blond, blue-eyed, bright, almost kinetic kind of girl. It was clear she was nervous; it was clear she’d been through the wringer. But it was also clear that all those bright qualities would bloom again soon.

  “Come in. I’m Madeline.” I stood and stretched out my hand. “You must be Brittany.”

  Claire shut the door behind her daughter. Brittany maintained steady eye contact with me, and I respected her for that. To stand square in front of an older adult, one you’ve wronged, and a lawyer besides, was tough at any age—at seventeen, almost impossible.

  “Please sit.”

  “May I stand?”

  “Of course.” I couldn’t resist a smile. At Duncan, Schwartz and Baring, I always stood too.

  “My mom said that she told you this morning. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come apologize in person . . . There were things that— I’m so sorry.” She took a deep breath that shuddered on the exhale. It felt as if whatever she’d prepared fled her and she was trying to summon it back. “I . . . I shouldn’t have done it. I absolutely know that and I can’t explain why I did, why I was here that night. I’ve gone back over it again and again, and . . .”

  “Things went wrong long before that, didn’t they?”

  Her nod was almost imperceptible. “How did you know?”

  “They always do. There’s an old saying about boiling a frog in water. You start slow, with cool water, and the frog won’t jump out. You start with little lies, little compromises, and little angers that you let grow, and soon your judgment is compromised. You don’t see danger coming, so you don’t jump out of the way.”

  “No one has said it like that, but that’s how it felt.”

  “Your parents are concerned with the boiling water right now. They’ll get to the source of the heat later. Or, at seventeen, you might want to spend some time digging out that one on your own.”

  She sighed a Will I ever be done with this? kind of sigh while I almost keeled over. Where did I get such wisdom?

  Wisdom I hadn’t applied to myself. But wasn’t that what I’d been doing these past few months? Taking myself back to the beginning—as I saw it—and trying to work through, understand, and surrender all those hard places that had bruised me along the way? I wasn’t so different from Brittany. She was actually sixteen years ahead of my curve.

  “Do you know what your parents have offered me?”

  “To pay you for the damages. We haven’t figured out how I’ll pay them back, but I will. I know it’s a lot.”

  “It is.” I nodded. “And how do you feel about the charges?”

  “Lucky. It’s a misdemeanor, and the police said it won’t go on my permanent record. The officer said judges often give community service as punishment.”

  “True. Do you know what the charges could be if you were eighteen?” At her head shake, I laid it out. “The amount of damage would make it a Class 2 felony, and it could carry two to five years in jail and a twenty-five-thousand-dollar fine. That’s not to say it would, only that it could.”

  “I’ll be eighteen next month.”

  “Then it’s good we’re not having this conversation a couple months from now.”

  She smiled, then banked it in remorse. “But just because the penalty isn’t all that doesn’t mean I’m not sorry. I hope—I hope you’ll forgive me someday.”

  “Brittany, I’m glad you’re seventeen too. You have a lot to be thankful for here, and it’s okay to smile.” I stepped toward her. “And I forgive you now. The fact that you are here and willing to talk to me alone speaks volumes, especially as I know you couldn’t have done all that damage alone. However you and your parents proceed is between you three. As far as I’m concerned, you and I are good. Thank you for coming in today.”

  I offered my hand. Hers was hot, as if the boiling water had not been merely a metaphor.

  “Thank you.” She opened the door and returned to the shop.

  Moments later the chime rang and rapid heel clicks preceded a now rosy-toned Claire. “Was it okay? Did she apologize well?”

  “She apologized great.”

  “Will you accept the money?”

  She wanted this settled, and I couldn’t blame her. “Give me time?”

  “Of course.” Claire stepped backward. “Sorry. I shouldn’t push you. This is all new for you. I’ve been thinking about this, and we’ve talked about nothing else for two weeks, but of course you just found out. You need time. I—”

  “Claire.” I raised a hand. “How could you hide this from us, Janet and me, for two weeks? We’re here together every day.”

  “I— You must feel so betrayed.”

  “Betrayed? Not at all. I meant you shouldn’t have carried this alone. You’ve dug into all the finances of this place with me, you’ve streamlined everything in this shop. In many ways you’ve given more to what my aunt left to me than I have. This place is clearly important to you, and . . . I thought we were friends. How could you not let us help you?”

  “I was embarrassed. I had one job and I failed.”

  “What was that?”

  She raised her one brow. Clearly I had missed the obvious. “Mom.”

  “I disagree, but I’m not a mom so I can’t weigh in too heavily on that one. But consider this: the girl who left here moments ago did an incredibly courageous thing, and she did it well.”

  Tears filled Claire’s eyes. They did not spill over. “Thank you.”

  “Who is Brittany’s lawyer?”

  “We haven’t gotten there yet. I know we should, but she’s not contesting anything, and Brian— It’s hard to think about asking any of our friends. Once we do, it’ll be all over town.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “You will?”

  “She needs a lawyer and, although she’s not contesting the charge, a good lawyer can make a world of difference when it comes to sentencing, and a good lawyer can make sure it stays off her record. Some counties aren’t as thorough at expunging those charges as they should be. And . . .” I smiled. “A good lawyer who is also the victim can probably do more than all that.”

  “You’d do that for her? For us?”

  “I will have to charge you the full one hundred an hour.” I delivered the line with a straight face.

  “A deal at four times the price.” And there was Claire’s first genuine smile.<
br />
  It matched my own.

  * * *

  Janet

  “What are you up to?”

  The shop has long since closed, but Madeline and I are still here. Claire went home, but as the two of us have nowhere to go, we plop onto the stools side by side.

  It took a while, but I adore this girl. She’s a couple years older than Alyssa, and there is some of that I’m-so-sure-of-myself that her whole generation carries, but there’s no push and pull like there was for so many years with my own daughter or that existed when Madeline first started working at the Printed Letter.

  Maybe it’s because I never struck the balance between mom and friend with Alyssa. But with Madeline, I get to be friend. As my boss, technically she’s the one with the power—and after the Valentine’s Day Shop Massacre, I give it to her. But more than that, I see in her all the qualities Maddie raved about for so long.

  Madeline and I often find ourselves sitting behind the counter, as if monitoring the bookshop, despite its locked doors and the Closed sign on display. We laugh, we chat, and we share far too many Skittles.

  Rather than answer my question, she tosses me a pack of Tic Tacs and begins to straighten the bijoux around me. “I bought you those. Didn’t you say they were your favorites?”

  I shake the container. “Are they real or is this an April Fool’s prank?”

  “Real.”

  I pop one in my mouth and open up my computer. “Thank you. In return, I started a profile on Match, also real.”

  “Claire passed on that site. Said it wasn’t right for you.”

  “Not for me. I closed all my accounts. That date was a disaster.”

  “It was?” She faces me. She studies me. She is such a lawyer. “You little liar. You said it was great, but I knew it. I knew you were lying. You were all . . .” She scrunches her face like she’s eating something disgusting.

  “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. And what if that type of guy was my only option?”

  “Was connotes it’s not your only option anymore.” She lifts a brow.

  “I’m opting for celibacy.” I press my lips shut.