The Printed Letter Bookshop

by Katherine Reay

  She doesn’t believe me, but she smiles and leaves it there. She won’t press me. I’ve noticed that about her. We may think of each other as friends, but she doesn’t press like a girlfriend usually does. I often wonder if it’s because she’s wired like that or because I’m basically her mother’s age. I suspect it’s the former. I’ve noted she’s careful around friends, the few new ones she’s made working in the shop, and even Kayla, who has come up from the city to visit. She treats them gingerly, as if afraid they’ll decamp. Or maybe she keeps them at a distance so she can decamp first—I haven’t figured that one out yet.

  Either way, I appreciate her discretion right now, and when I’m ready to share my heart’s desire, she’ll probably be the first—no, the second to know.

  “This profile is for you.”

  “No way.” Madeline bumps me from the computer.

  I’ve worked on the profile for a couple days, so it takes her a minute to digest it all. Her eyes bug wide.

  “You can’t say this stuff about me. I don’t like long walks. I can’t stand the opera and—”

  “You walked the beach that evening.”

  “I needed to think. And you can’t—”

  A knock at the door silences her.

  “My date is here. Clean up the profile yourself then.” I toss out the challenge as I head to the front and unlock the door.

  Chris enters, eyes trained on me. I almost laugh. Kids these days!

  Instead I offer a calm “Give me a sec. I’ve been trying to set up a profile for Madeline on Match, but she’s resisting. In fact, she’s behaving very badly.”

  Madeline blushes. Chris turns beet red. I walk back to Madeline’s side and flip open the laptop she slammed shut. “Chris, come look at this. What do you think?”

  “I’m no use. I’ve never been on those sites.”

  Madeline’s blush deepens, and now I feel horrid, certain I’ve crossed that line. It’s such a thin one, how does one not trip over it? Every moment of every day? I’ve humiliated her. Chris doesn’t see it; he’s too busy managing his own embarrassment, but I do. In trying to fan a spark and have some fun, I’ve embarrassed her—the last thing I meant to do. If I’ve learned anything in the past six weeks, it’s that simply not looking to the past is not the same as living in the present. I need not dwell there, but I do need to learn from it. And here, again, I have trampled another’s feelings to satisfy myself. My stomach clenches and I suddenly feel very, very old.

  “Chris, do you mind if we skip dinner tonight?”

  “It’s Wednesday.” He looks shocked. He sounds shocked.

  “I . . . I’m not up for it.” I shut the laptop and gently tug it from Madeline. She stands mute next to me. “I thought I was, but let’s skip this week. I’m sorry.” I circle the counter, turn him by the shoulder, and press my palm against his back. I want him out of here as fast as possible. I need to apologize to Madeline. I can apologize to him later.

  It’s funny, but it feels like since I offered up my first apology a couple weeks ago, I’ve done nothing but apologize since. I’m sorry; the cat is scared of me, not you. I’ve yelled at it a few times, but I’ve quit . . . I’m sorry, that wasn’t a kind thing to say . . . I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late today . . . I’m sorry I cut you off . . .

  I’ve said that last one several times, a few here in the shop when I cut off someone who was speaking too long and another couple times to slow cars on the highway. The latter never hear me, of course, but it still needs saying. I keep needing to say it. I wonder when that will stop, and if I want it to—and when I will get the courage to give the only apology that truly matters.

  Chris resists my push, but I keep at it. Finally at the door, he turns and speaks over my head. “Janet and I get burgers on Wednesday nights. She’s bailing. Do you want to grab dinner?”

  He then lowers his eyes to mine. I can best describe the look as a “glower.” I found that word in one of the books Maddie suggested for me. It’s a look of sullen dislike, discontent, or anger, and it fits. I can’t blame him. My plan has gone horribly wrong and my solution is equally clumsy. I almost want to yell—I’m new at this being a nice human stuff, but I’m trying! Can’t I get a do-over? But I keep my mouth shut, doubting they’ll appreciate my sense of humor.

  “No . . . I . . .” Madeline trails out words. She so clearly wants to go and is so clearly going to refuse.

  I double down on all my mistakes. “Please. Go. I’ve screwed everything up tonight. I’m sorry I got involved in any of this. I should have gone straight home at six o’clock and called the day done. Madeline, get your coat and go get a burger. I’ll lock up. Chris, stop glowering at me. I’ll head home, drink tea, and watch a movie, after I take down my horrid efforts at that profile I was setting up. Madeline didn’t know about it, so let’s all forget the last ten minutes ever happened and you go to dinner and have a nice time.”

  “I—”

  One syllable from Madeline and I moan because she’s going to double down on her mistake too. But Chris cuts her off with a “Please” and she stops.

  The glower is gone and his eyes are on her, with an endearing warbly smile accompanying them. I want to hug him. I don’t.

  “Sure.”

  I spin to face her. Eyes locked on Chris, she’s caught the look too and is sporting her own matching smile and her own answering blush.

  I return to the counter with my mouth clamped shut, willing myself not to say another word.

  Madeline passes me, shrugging on her coat as she heads to the front door. “You’ll be sure to lock up?” She throws out the question before thinking, then her lips part in an adorable little guppy motion.

  “No matter what happens, I will be sure to lock up.” I wave. “Now you two kids go have fun.”

  Both send me a sharp look in reply. Nevertheless, they walk out the door, together.

  And now Chris is the one with a hand on someone’s back, gently leading her away.

  * * *

  Claire

  Brittany is working on homework at the kitchen island when I walk in the back door. She used to do that in Delaware, in Missouri, and in Ohio, but never in Illinois.

  “Was it okay? After I left, how did it go?”

  I pull her into a hug. “It went fine. You did a wonderful job and I’m proud of you, sweetheart. You’ve taken on all the responsibility and you’re doing great.”

  She grips me tight. That is new too. I haven’t gotten a hug, a real hug, in Illinois either.

  “Do you mind if I go up and finish my homework? The light is better up there.”

  “Not at all. Thanks for waiting for me.”

  “No problem.” She tosses the words over her shoulder as if it is the most natural action in the world, and maybe it will become so again.

  I pull the ingredients for dinner out of the refrigerator, the spices from the cupboard, and lay them on the counter. Spicy curry shrimp. My favorite dish because tonight feels like a celebration.

  As I sauté the shrimp, I hear the garage door open, then the back door. Brian lays down his briefcase and faces me before greeting me. “How’d it go?”

  “Hello.”

  “Hello. How’d it go?”

  “It went well. She spoke to Brittany alone so I don’t know what was said, but Brittany came out looking much better than she went in.”

  “You didn’t ask? What about paying her?”

  “I didn’t. She treated Brittany like an adult and, I gather, Brittany behaved like one. I offered our payment plan beforehand and again after Brittany talked to her, and both times she said she’d think about it.”

  “I knew it. She’s going to sue us. She’s a lawyer. Big law does not leave money on the table, and she has a case. No judge, jury, or anyone could deny her that.”

  “She will not sue us and she’s not ‘big law.’ She’s back-of-a-bookshop-stuck-in-a-storage-closet law, and I think she’s considering not accepting anything rather than going for more.
And . . .” I wait until I have his full attention. “She offered to represent Brittany in court.”

  “She did?” Brian’s face falls, his eyes fill. His entire body slumps as he reaches one hand out to the counter. “She’s going to be okay, isn’t she? Our baby is going to be okay.”

  “She already is. She’s a new kid.” I rewind that in my head. “She’s back to being the old kid.”

  And that’s how I feel too. Something within me, that had given up or gotten displaced, is back and alive. And rather than an end, and a slow-fizzling-out one at that, I am at the beginning.

  I turn back to the shrimp.

  Strong arms circle my waist. “I owe you an apology, and more. I wanted the easy way out; I wanted the wrong way out. If not for you, we wouldn’t be here. And every time I say I’ll never take you for granted again, I do. I love you more than you know, but less than you deserve.”

  “This is a problem.” I flip off the burner as that new beginning sparks to life. “You can make up for it though.”

  “My pleasure.”

  At first touch, I wonder how long it has been since Brian kissed me, really kissed me beyond the quick brush of coming and going, or a peck before we turn out the lights too exhausted to say or do more. There is something so decadent about kissing; kissing for itself, not as foreplay or a gateway to anything else. Kissing like it is the first time, the last time, and the only connection we’ll ever have—that kind of kissing. Soon the thought drifts away. All thoughts drift away.

  My husband is still kissing me.

  Chapter 21

  Janet

  “This is extraordinary.” Madeline walks into my studio. We call it that now, just as we call her storage closet The Firm.

  “It’s not too raw?” I step back to see the painting in its fullness. It’s the largest piece I’ve attempted and the most ambitious. It almost looks like a city map crunched together. Buildings lie on top of each other in different gradations of color and shadow rather than spread out properly on streets. I attempted to convey an image across time rather than one across distance. But that’s only on the surface.

  If one looks closely one sees they aren’t buildings at all. Some are, but others are people, events, recognizable milestones in a life, some good, some bad, some glorious, some devastating. This painting isn’t to sell. It’s for me, and the devastating, right now, far outweighs the glorious.

  But I started at the end and am working my way back. In many ways, the painting is linear, and on the far right, it opens in broad streaks to the blank canvas. I may fill it in someday, but I need the blank space right now. It represents my new beginning. My new spring. That’s what I’m chasing.

  “It’s raw.” Madeline perches on the room’s single stool. “But not overly dark; it’s exactly how I feel today.”

  “That’s not good. What’s up?” I lay down my brush. She’s been carrying around the letter Maddie left her today. At least I think that’s what it is. In the past two weeks, I noted hers tucked in a book on her desk, resting beside her hand while she looked checked out and dreamy, sticking out of her handbag, or held loosely between her fingers as it is right now. I’ve also noted scribbles on it, probably notes on the books she’s read.

  I do the same. I’ve scribbled a little word picture next to each book. They’ve changed me and I still have five left to read. I wonder how many she has left and what they’ve meant to her. It’s too private to discuss though. Maybe someday . . .

  Madeline shakes her head and stands to leave. “Keep painting. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I wanted—to see what you were up to.”

  I get this girl. A connection is what she was going to say. She wanted a connection with someone, at that moment, but she pulled back before committing. The word floats between us; we feel it. But we both have our armor, and time, expectation, and fear have made that armor very strong, so she doesn’t ask and I don’t push.

  “I’m here when you’re ready to talk,” I say.

  She flaps the folded letter in her hand, and I doubt it is Maddie’s letter after all. It’s crisp white rather than ivory and she looks as if she doesn’t want to touch it, but also can’t let it go. She taps it against her thigh. “Thank you for that.”

  I return to my painting to give her privacy to leave. Instead, I feel her drop onto the stool again. She sits in silence.

  It feels like eternity, but it’s probably only five minutes before she speaks again.

  “What inspired it?”

  “I’ve come to believe that until I really examine my life I won’t be able to accept it, and either apologize or be grateful for everything in it . . . And I’m trying to work through that—especially how to apologize to Seth.”

  “Divorce takes two people, Janet.” Madeline’s voice is flat. The lawyer sits with me now.

  “Yes, but in our case it was the wrong two people.” I wave a paintbrush at her. “I get what you’re saying, but I carried a New York–size chip on my shoulder the day we moved out of the city, and I made him pay. Never overtly, and for the most part I wasn’t aware of it, but I’m aware of it now.” I twist back to the painting. “So I’ve been digging in, trying to understand and confess it, apologize for it, then let it go. Without all that, I can’t move forward.”

  “Making art is a vulnerable thing, isn’t it?”

  “Sometimes it feels like I’m bleeding onto the canvas and if I don’t paint I’ll die. I need this . . . And that’s another thing. I say I need it so much, and I do, yet I put my brushes down almost thirty years ago. Who was I punishing? Seth? Or me?”

  “Probably both . . . Have you talked to him yet?”

  I bite my lip. I recall how shocked Claire and Madeline looked when I admitted to them that I’d never told Seth I was sorry.

  “I don’t understand,” Claire had said. “You had an affair, you wanted him back, but you never told him you were sorry? Never asked him to forgive you?”

  “I felt cornered,” I told them. “I’d felt like that for years. At the time I thought everything I’d done and given up had been for him, and I resented it. I understand now that I made those choices, each and every one. But it was easier to play the victim, and much easier to attack.”

  Articulating it to them that morning made it clear to me. Since then, I’ve thought it through a thousand times and backed away a thousand times. It is time.

  “Seth takes the 7:25 train into the city every day. I’m going to meet him at the station tomorrow morning.” I face Madeline. “I’m telling you that to be accountable. If I walk in here tomorrow not having done it, don’t be nice to me.”

  She quirks a sideways smile. “Me? Not nice?”

  “You can manage it.”

  She waves her letter at the painting. “You can’t say all that in public.”

  “There is no private anymore. I can’t go to his apartment. He’s never once asked me there or shared the address. I know it, but only from the divorce papers. And I can’t say this over the phone. It needs to be face-to-face, so it’ll have to be public.” I grimace as all my inglorious public moments play before me. “I’ll be super quiet.”

  Madeline pushes off the stool. “Are you staying late tonight?”

  “I told Claire I’d take over Thursday evenings. Home is quiet.” I look around. “Here gets quiet too, but it doesn’t feel like it. All this has sound as well as color. As usual, I’ll stay a couple hours after closing to read and paint, then I’ll lock up.”

  “How many books left on your list?”

  “Five out of nineteen. We should talk about them someday.”

  She looks at me, and I wonder if I’ve crossed a line. As though I’ve asked to read her diary.

  She finally nods and I finally breathe. “I’d like that. I have only three left. Three of seventeen. Each has been a revelation . . . And you don’t need to say that anymore.”

  I raise a brow. I’ve almost appropriated Claire’s signature move.

  “About locking up. I k
now you’ll do it. I trust you.”

  Madeline wanders back into the office. And despite the short distance, it is a wander. She walks slowly, shifting from side to side as if her mind is miles away. She worries me.

  For the past two weeks she’s been walking on air, humming, working, making business cards for her one-woman law firm. She’s moved full steam ahead—toward what, I’m not sure, but with it has also come an openness I appreciate. She’s more trusting now. Maybe it only extends to our circle of three, but Madeline has let us in. Maybe it extends further . . .

  Chris has pretty much been the same since our talk last month too. Now he drops by for lunch, sitting with the three of us but only looking at her. He switches out the flowers in the store’s window boxes every few days as new varieties come into bloom. They burst with color. And I had to give up my Wednesday dinner date yesterday because Madeline had some charity event downtown and Chris joined her, looking dashing in a tuxedo.

  But today, all that light and life are gone.

  “Whatever it is . . . it’ll all work out,” I call after her.

  “Mick Jagger would disagree.”

  I can’t decide if I’m more impressed with her wisdom or her music. Either way, she’s right. You can’t always get what you want.

  * * *

  Madeline

  “What are you doing out here?”

  I leaned back and noticed the change in light. It felt like I’d just sat down and opened the envelope, but the evening light told me otherwise. It shot pink and orange across the sky to the west. The east had already darkened. The air still held that scent of earth and spring from this morning’s rain, and the redbud trees at the edge of Aunt Maddie’s front yard were covered in flowers. The beauty only made the loss hurt more.

  Chris leapt up the stairs and plopped next to me on the top one. He leaned over and kissed my cheek. He’d done that for the first time a couple nights ago after we’d brought blankets down to the beach and sat huddled in the sand, watching the moon rise. When he drove me home and came inside for a defrosted dinner from our pressure cooking demonstration, he kissed me on the cheek. I kept my face still and straight—noting that he lingered along my jawline—and hoped.