The Bookseller

by Cynthia Swanson

  In this world, the real world, things are different for her, both personally and professionally. I don’t know where or how she got the funds to move forward with the business. I don’t believe she would have gone to her parents, but Frieda is clever and resourceful enough to have come up with something. Perhaps she did find an investor, just as she did in my made-up world. Nonetheless, I doubt that the affable and smitten Jim Brooks—or any actual person who resembles him—has a place in the life Frieda has here.

  And I realize, quite suddenly, why that is.

  Frieda doesn’t want Jim Brooks, or anyone like him. That sort of person was never the partner she longed for.

  What Frieda wanted was a true companion. Just as my mother said. No—more than that. More than what my mother thinks Frieda and I have, in the imaginary world.

  But I made a different choice. What did my choice do to her? Not just to our business—that was one thing, a small thing, really.

  The real question is, what did my choice do to her heart?

  I shake my head. I can’t believe I failed to see it until today.

  “Freeds,” I say softly. “Freeds. I’m so . . . I’m sorry.”

  She looks up. “Well,” she says, putting her cigarette to her lips. She breathes in, then turns her head to the side and exhales. “Life takes its own peculiar twists and turns, does it not?”

  I lean forward, the fingers of both hands clutching my handbag, rhythmically closing and opening the gold-toned clasp. “I hope you . . . maybe someday you can . . .” I trail off, because I don’t know what to say.

  Frieda watches me silently. “Perhaps you’re right,” she says finally. “Perhaps I can.” Her eyes gaze into mine. “Maybe seeing you is what I needed. Maybe it will help me . . . go on from here.”

  I smile timidly. “I hope so, Freeds. I truly hope so.”

  She stands up, takes one last drag on her cigarette, and stubs it out. “I need to return that call,” she says, her voice even. She comes around the desk and puts her hand lightly on my shoulder, then removes it immediately. “Please know, Kitty, that I really am very sorry about your parents.” Our eyes meet—and hers, usually so dancing and light-filled, look dreary and dark.

  I turn away, blinking.

  Frieda takes a breath. I force myself to swivel my head, to look at her again. “And I’m sorry I didn’t come to your parents’ funeral,” she goes on. “You were right. I should have been there.”

  I rise. My knees feel wobbly. “Thank you,” I say. “It means a lot to me, hearing you say that.”

  She nods. “Well. Take care of yourself, and that husband, and the children.”

  “I will. You take care of yourself, too. Maybe . . .” I hesitate. “Maybe we can see each other again . . . sometime.”

  “Maybe.” Her eyes turn again toward the window, then back to me. She wraps her arms around herself, tucking her hands under her sleeves. “My secretary will see you out. Good-bye, Kitty.”

  Frieda swallows hard, and I can tell that she not only wants but needs me to leave.

  I nod at her one last time before crossing the carpet and walking out the door.

  Chapter 34

  Outside, the snow is melting on the sidewalk. Cars whiz past on Eighteenth Street; a bus rumbles to the curb, then pulls away without dispensing any passengers. The sun gleams in the west, and I shade my eyes as I step through the revolving door of Frieda’s building.

  And there, standing on the sidewalk in front of me, are my parents.

  “Mother,” I breathe. “Daddy.”

  They smile at me, and I want to go to them, hold them—but I know that my parents are not actually there. They are present only inside my head.

  “I’m imagining you,” I say. “I’m making this up. Right?”

  “Kitty.” My mother comes forward and puts her hand on my shoulder. I marvel at the way my mind has conjured her touch, exactly as if she were truly standing there with her fingers pressed to the fabric of my coat.

  The imagination, it turns out, is a remarkably clever and hardworking creature.

  “We just want to say good-bye, honey,” my dad says. “That’s all. Just good-bye.” He steps next to my mother, inches from me. “And that we love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I whisper. I’m vaguely aware of a man in a dark topcoat and hat passing on my right, then turning back to look at me quizzically. To him, I must appear nothing more than a crazy lady on the sidewalk, a mildly insane person who is speaking to thin air.

  “So I won’t see you anymore?” I ask my parents. “I won’t . . . I’m not going back there anymore?” I turn away, biting my lip. “Back to the other world, I mean. I’m not going back there again, am I?”

  Even as I ask these questions, I already know the answers—because I am the one who is directing what my parents would say. If they were actually here speaking to me, that is.

  “Kitty.” My mother puts her fingers on my forehead. “Take it out of here,” she says. “Put it here instead.” I watch as she taps my heart.

  “I understand,” I say, nodding. “I’ll miss you.”

  My father shakes his head. “You won’t need to,” he says. “You’ll always have us—just in a different form. Not in the way you thought you would.”

  “You’ll help me . . . watch over my babies . . . won’t you?” I swallow hard. “I can’t take care of my children . . . Michael . . . without you.”

  My mother laughs her beautiful laugh. “You can, Kitty. Don’t doubt yourself. Don’t doubt Lars. And especially”—her smile is generous—“don’t doubt Michael.”

  I blink back tears, and then I close my eyes.

  When I open them again, my parents have vanished.

  Chapter 35

  I sit in the station wagon outside Mitch and Missy’s school, my gloved hands on the wheel. I am thinking about the other world, about being Kitty. I remember my mother’s hand, how I could feel her touch. How I could hear her voice. I will always, I think, be able to hear my parents’ voices in my head.

  I glance at my watch. Two forty-five. Mitch and Missy will come out that door soon, the one to my right, the double set with the snowman drawings taped to the windows. They will emerge with satchels flying behind them, jackets unbuttoned, mittens loose on their strings. Their blond curls will shimmer in the afternoon sunlight as they skim across the sidewalk, coming toward me as I wait.

  By ten minutes after three, I will have returned to the house on Springfield Street with Mitch and Missy in tow. Michael will still be counting coins. Michael has probably counted and re-counted coins all afternoon. Michael may very well do little else besides eat, sleep, and count coins for as many days as we allow him to.

  Alma will give everyone a snack: milk, an apple, a cookie. I will make a fresh pot of coffee and sit with the children while they eat, while Mitch and Missy tell us about their days. While Michael rhythmically counts nickels, pennies, quarters.

  Afterward, we will leave him to his counting, and Mitch and Missy will begin their homework. They will have reading to do; their reading has improved tremendously this year, and I know that if I took the time to listen to them read aloud more often, it would get even better. After each of them has read to me for fifteen minutes, I will have them work on handwriting. Alma will put a cut-up chicken in the oven and start washing and snapping green beans.

  At four thirty, I will allow the children one hour of The Mickey Mouse Club. Michael will bring the coin jar with him to the living room and will sit on the floor counting coins, occasionally glancing at the television when the other two laugh at something one of the Mouseketeers has said or done. This activity will get us to five thirty, when Lars will walk in the door and dinner will be placed on the table.

  Michael will spill his milk, because Michael always spills his milk. And I will clean it up, because I don’t think it’s fair to expect Alma to do that.

  In the evening, we will attempt a family game of Parcheesi. Either Lars or I will have to be
on Michael’s team, because he won’t be able to sit still long enough to move his pieces properly. He will wander away, back to the coins. He will be tired after his long day, which I know from experience means he is more likely to retreat into babyish habits that he ought long ago to have given up. I will have to keep a watchful eye on him, to make sure he doesn’t put any coins in his mouth.

  At seven fifteen, Missy will take a bath, and when she is done, the boys will be bathed. It will be Lars’s night with Missy, so after her hair is brushed—a job he leaves to me—he will tuck her in and tell her a story.

  I will supervise the boys as they don their matching pajamas and climb into their matching beds. Michael will ask if he can sleep with the coins, and I will tell him no. He will scream, and Lars will have to come in and comfort him. We will compromise by letting him have the empty coin jar in his bed all night, the coins dumped into a bowl that I take into our bedroom and place on a high shelf in the closet. That way, I know Michael won’t be able to get to them without waking Lars or me up.

  Once the children are settled in bed, Lars and I will come downstairs, and he’ll fix us a drink. We will catch each other up on our days. I will tell him about going to see Frieda, and he will be surprised that I did it, but not surprised at the things she said. Lars will hold me and comfort me as I choke up.

  I will not tell him all the details; Frieda’s sentiments are not mine to share with anyone, even Lars.

  After we finish our drinks, we will move on to separate tasks—Lars to his office to catch up on paperwork; I to the bedroom to tidy up, then perhaps back to the living room to read. I will seek excuses to walk down the hallway. I will stare at the photograph of my parents and me. I will go out of my way throughout the evening to pass by and glance at it once, twice, again and again. When Lars catches me at this, he will put his arms around me from the back and hold me tight, looking at the picture over my shoulder.

  At ten o’clock in the evening, we will retire. We will climb quietly into bed, and we will make love affectionately, openly—but slowly, as always, to protect his heart. Afterward, I will rest beside him as he gently rubs my back.

  And then I will sleep.

  I know all of this. I am as sure of it as I’ve ever been of anything.

  I am as sure of it as I am of everything in the world where I was Kitty.

  The other world, I know now, has faded. I am here. I am where I belong.

  I open the car door, blow warm air into my hands, and rub my cheeks. And then I walk up the sidewalk to the school, pausing a few feet from the doorway. I am waiting to embrace my children.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to Claire Wachtel, my amazing editor at Harper, for her sharp insight, enthusiasm, and great stories. Hannah Wood deftly and gracefully kept the process on track. Miranda Ottewell’s keen eye caught the smallest details and made the manuscript all the better for it. Susanna Einstein is an incredible agent who loved this book from the first time she read it. For her professionalism and friendship, I am grateful. To the staff at Einstein Thompson Agency, thank you for your passion and dedication.

  To Shana Kelly, who pointed me in the right direction, and in the process became not only a mentor but also a friend, I offer thanks. To everyone at Lighthouse Writers Workshop, thank you for providing inspiration, thought-provoking workshops and conferences, and an outstanding writers’ community. Gary Schanbacher and Rose Fredrick contributed literary discourse, coffee, and handouts. Susan Wright, Mary Elliott, and Jocelyn Scheirer read early drafts and gave me both suggestions and cheerleading; I am fortunate to call them sister and virtual sisters. I am blessed to have Mary Hauser and Sandra Theunick in my life; to both of them, I am grateful. To my “friends who live in my computer”—thank you and M4L. The Book Club That Changed the World has done more than that—its members have changed my life, always for the better and always with my gratitude.

  The staff of the Western History Department at the Denver Public Library provided maps, old newspapers and phone books, and friendly assistance. Phil Goodstein’s volumes on the history of South Denver supplied considerable background and historical data. Joyce Meskis, owner of the Tattered Cover Bookstore, and Sonya Ellingboe, former owner of the Book House, provided marvelous details about working in and owning a small bookshop in the 1960s. Many clinical volumes about autism offered context on the condition, but Michael Blastland’s heartfelt memoir The Only Boy in the World: A Father Explores the Mysteries of Autism helped me truly appreciate the challenges faced by parents of an autistic child. The First Universalist Church of Denver Women’s Book Club shared their memories to help me visualize life as a young woman in the early 1960s; to them, I am grateful.

  A note on historical accuracy: although many newspapers in the 1950s published “lonely hearts” advertisements in their classifieds sections, the Denver Post was not one of them. I hope readers will grant me poetic license in creating a fictional personals section in the 1954 Denver Post.

  This book would not have come to fruition if not for the encouragement and devotion of four remarkable people. Thank you, Charlie, Dennis, and Jane, for being my inspiration and the loves of my life. And to Sammy, for absolutely everything; I am so, so glad we met.

  About the Author

  CYNTHIA SWANSON is a writer and a designer of the midcentury modern style. She has published short fiction in 13th Moon, Kalliope, Sojourner, and other periodicals; her story in 13th Moon was a Pushcart Prize nominee. She lives in Denver, Colorado, with her husband and three children. The Bookseller is her first novel.

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  Credits

  COVER DESIGN BY JARROD TAYLOR

  COVER PHOTOGRAPHS: © LYN RANDLE / GETTY IMAGES (BOOK); © IAN NIXON / GETTY IMAGES (PAPER)

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE BOOKSELLER. Copyright © 2015 by Cynthia Swanson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  “Leavin’ on Your Mind.”

  Words and Music by Wayne P. Walker and Webb Pierce.

  Copyright © 1962 Universal–Cedarwood Publishing.

  Copyright Renewed.

  All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

  Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

  ISBN: 978-0-06-233300-1 (Hardcover)

  EPub Edition March 2015 ISBN 9780062333025

  15 16 17 18 19 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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