“I’m taking next week off,” Alicia announced part way through the meal. “My family’s coming to town.” She looked at her watch. “Should be here already.”
My thoughts immediately shifted to my small apartment, and though I’d never visited Alicia at her home, I doubted that she had any more room for visitors than I did. “How many?” I asked.
“My mother and father, my kid brother, my sister and her husband and their two kids.”
“Wow!” Rosa exclaimed, apparently sharing my reaction.
Alicia laughed. “I don’t have to put them up, fortunately. They’ve already booked rooms at the Lennox, a few blocks from my apartment. Dad can afford it. Even so, I’ll have to do some entertaining. Show them around, you know. And now that we’re into the slow season, I might as well use up some of that vacation time I’ve got coming.”
“I hope you like entertaining family,” Rosa commented. “That’s sure not my bag. With the kids at camp and Joe off to a convention, I’m going to spend the weekend relaxing.” She turned to me and asked, “You aren’t entertaining this weekend are you, Paula?”
“Hardly. I’m going to take some work home.”
Alicia shook her head. “I enjoy my work, but a person has to have a breather once in a while.”
“Oh, I’ll do the work this evening. This afternoon I’m going to the Hoffman Exhibit.”
“Hoffman Exhibit?” Rosa asked.
“That’s the couple who are having a joint exhibit. She does ceramics, and he’s a painter—acrylics mostly.”
Alicia smiled. “I can see a book in the making. Are you really going there just for pleasure?”
I returned the smile. “Well there’s nothing wrong with combining business and pleasure, especially since I’m going on company time.”
The exhibit turned out to be entirely pleasure, since I never did get to the point of talking to the Hoffmans. The reason I didn’t was a soft, pleasant male voice behind me as I was looking closely at an intricate ceramic piece. “That one fascinated me, too.”
I turned to see the source. He was movie-star handsome. In fact, I was convinced I’d seen him somewhere on film, or was it in a TV commercial? The face was familiar, but I was certain I had never met him before. That meeting I would have remembered. Neatly trimmed black hair, dark, deep-set eyes, a square jaw—and yes, a dimpled chin. Above average height, though not quite six foot tall. Broad shoulders and just generally an athletic build. Somewhere around my age, maybe a bit older. Since I was momentarily tongue tied, I settled for a smile. The return smile was devastating.
It was difficult for me to keep my mind on the exhibit, as we naturally fell in together and sauntered through the three rooms housing the art. I tried to not do all of the talking, but he had rapidly deferred to what he considered my expertise once we had exchanged occupational information. For my part, I was more than a little surprised to find a structural engineer so well acquainted with modern art, though early on he confessed a preference for the French Impressionists.
Coffee in the cafeteria across the street seemed a natural follow up. In fact, the entire weekend seemed to flow naturally from that first encounter. David Sumner had come to New York for a job interview which he felt had gone well. A weekend stretched out before him, and he made it very plain my company was more than welcome. I replied in kind, still a bit dazed to find someone so attractive drawn to me. Part of the explanation—an explanation that itself was a mystery—was that David was essentially very shy, and perhaps my own shyness had been an attractant. As I observed him during that weekend, I wondered how he had found the courage to speak to me first—a thought that amused me no end—since I would never have been able to lead the way.
A visit to another exhibit, then a long leisurely dinner followed the coffee. I wasn’t sure whether I was pleased or disappointed when he dropped me off at my apartment. We shook hands, and he asked if I’d care to go out for breakfast. I agreed, trying my best to hide my eagerness. I could have sworn he looked back as the taxi pulled away from in front of the brownstone.
Saturday was such a beautiful day that lunch became a take-out at the Park. We shared our interests and enthusiasms. We agreed that animal zoos were too unnatural, but agreed even more that the human zoo of Coney Island was deserving of a visit, especially since David had never been there. He wasn’t disappointed. Nor was I. I was fascinated—and of course amused and delighted—at seeing how many female heads turned to inspect my companion. The day flew by. I gave not one thought to the work I’d brought home.
That evening I wasn’t pleased at the good night-handshake, and was more than disappointed at both David and myself. It would have been so simple to invite him up to the apartment; but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do it. In an age when women are allowed to be aggressive, I couldn’t make the transition. And it was obvious that David was too shy to take the initiative. Again, it made me wonder how he had worked up the courage to speak to me in the first place.
By Sunday I knew I was hopelessly, madly, totally in love. We walked hand in hand through the park. Surely, I told myself, he must feel the same. If not, he just had to sense the aura radiating from me. That Sunday was the most ecstatic day of my life—and the shortest. As it drew rapidly to a close and the cab stopped in front of the brownstone, I told myself I wouldn’t hesitate this time.
But then, as he opened the taxi door for me and I stepped out, the words wouldn’t come. I looked into those dark brown eyes, tried to talk, then reached up, pulled his head down to mine, kissed him, then ran up the steps. Looking back I could see him standing, bewildered. And by the dim light of the street lamps I could have sworn his face had reddened.
If that had been the shortest day, it was followed by the longest night. I asked myself what I knew about him. I really knew nothing. He had mentioned neither home nor family. But, then, neither had I. We had both been too wrapped up in the pleasure of each other’s company to inquire.
As a matter of fact, I didn’t even know if he was leaving the next day, or where his current job was except that it was somewhere on the West Coast. I didn’t have his address or his phone number. Had this weekend been all a dream? If I slept at all, it couldn’t have been for more than minutes. When morning finally arrived, I showered, dressed listlessly, was about to leave after a breakfast of black coffee when the phone rang. My “hello” was clear, then the sound of David’s voice left me speechless.
“Paula. I have to see you.”
I nodded, and finally managed an “OK.” I had an important appointment that morning, but had he asked me to cancel it, I would have.
He went on, “I can get away at lunch time. Where can I meet you?”
By then I was thinking more clearly and perhaps speaking more clearly as well. “Brintley’s.” I even managed to give him directions.
It wasn’t until I was halfway to work that I wondered how he had found my phone number. I hadn’t given it to him, and it was unlisted. My “important” appointment that morning seemed singularly unimportant, and it took intense concentration on my part to hear out the noted art historian. And I didn’t receive the commitment to the early Renaissance art book my publisher had been trolling for.
Lunchtime arrived, finally, and I slipped into a booth where I could see the street from the restaurant window. That was when I remembered that Rosa would probably also be dropping by. She did at that very moment and moved into the seat opposite me as she said, “Hi.”
Fortunately, she quickly became so engrossed in telling me about her marvelous relaxed weekend that she didn’t notice my ungraciousness while I watched each taxi that pulled up to the curb. I barely touched the food in front of me. And then I saw the familiar broad shoulders emerge from the back seat of a cab. I could literally feel my heart beat, and it was beating fast. The next moment, it almost stopped.
David turned and helped Alicia Hoening step out to the curb. As he was paying the driver, I could see her face light up with a smile th
at I realized was another of the weapons in her arsenal of conquest. Pent up in all the rage and disappointment was my awareness that, for any man, Alicia was indeed irresistible. For a moment, all I could think of was some way out of Brintley’s. Had there been a separate exit, I would have been long gone.
As it was, I sat frozen, while Rosa waved to Alicia. Alicia’s first words were, “Hey, Rosa! I want you to meet my kid brother. I don’t have to introduce him to Paula. He knows her already. He told me this morning that he has something important to tell her.”
That was when it struck me. “Alicia!” I exclaimed. “You set this up, didn’t you? You sent David to the Hartman Exhibit, and you’re the one who gave him my phone number.”
Alicia laughed, and at the moment seemed truly beautiful. “David’s always been shy around women. I thought it was time to give him a little push. And it seemed to me you needed a push too. Anyway, that’s why he wanted me to come along today. He said it would make it easier for him to say what he wants to say to you.”
David’s face reddened. “I wasn’t too sure how you’d react to my having been planted, so I wanted Sis along to take some of the flak. But there is something important I want to tell you… to ask you.”
Yes, what he asked me was important. I hadn’t expected it. Perhaps—just perhaps—in my wildest moments that weekend, I’d been hoping for it though.
____________________
THE BOOKSTORE
The size of Jensen’s Bookstore impressed me almost as much as the extent and quality of his stock. Who would have thought Independence, Minnesota would have a gem like this? I was fascinated. Paul was impressed too. He went off exploring for his favorites—mysteries and anything and everything having to do with fly-fishing, while I stopped at the counter to chat with Mr. Jensen.
I liked him immediately. His general demeanor reminded me of my father—courteous, a bit old fashioned, and definitely knowledgeable about books. “Is there anything I can help you with, ma’am?”
I smiled at an expression you seldom hear in New York City. “Actually, I’m curious as to how you stay in business. I’ve seen a lot of independent bookstores close down these past few years.”
He smiled back. “I’ve never had it so good.”
“But how can you compete with the big boys, especially the online bookstores?”
“People find it hard to believe, but Amazon.com is my best customer. I specialize in out-of-print books, as you’ll see when you’ve browsed around. And the future is looking even brighter.”
“What about e-books? Aren’t you going to be hurt by them?”
“Anything that gets people to reading is all to the good, as far as I’m concerned. If I were twenty years younger, I’d buy a bunch of those new devices and rent them out so people could use them. There’s a market there, I’m sure. And printed books aren’t going to go out of fashion. You aren’t old enough to remember, but when TV first came out everyone—including me—was saying it would be the death of radio.”
He shook his head. “Today, after more than fifty years of TV, radio is bigger than ever.”
I was shaking my head, too, mainly because I was finding it hard to believe we’d stumbled across a successful independent bookstore in such a remote part of the U.S.
“There is one problem, though,” he continued. “I’m getting along in years—to the point where I’m going to have to sell out, much as I don’t like the idea. My arthritis is keeping me from reaching the bottom shelves, and—like it or not—my eyesight’s going. I want to save what’s left for all the reading I’ve been intending to do, but haven’t had time to because I’ve had my hands full with all of this.” He swept a hand in an arc that encompassed the store.
We were still chatting when Paul emerged from the back recesses with a big grin on his face, two mysteries, and a third book he was waving at us. “Hey, Marge, look at this. Davis Hornby’s ‘First Principles of Fly Fishing.’ He wrote the book back in the thirties, and it’s a classic.”
That’s when we discovered Mr. Jensen was a fly-fishing enthusiast, too, so I quickly went off on my own expedition as the air filled with talk of fly rods, tying techniques, fighting fish and all the other lore only aficionados could find of interest.
My exploration of the shelves gave a big boost to my first impression. Within moments I began to find books I’d agented years ago. That wasn’t surprising, since I’d been in the business for almost twenty years, but it was always satisfying to see the finished products out being marketed. As I walked down the rows, I began to ruminate over what had brought Paul and me to Independence in the first place.
I guess you might call it a mid-life crisis, or—more exactly—mid-lives crises. Paul is a CPA in a thriving company. The problem is the company thrived too well, was swallowed by a bigger shark, and Paul’s position in New York City evaporated.
Oh, he wasn’t out of a job. In fact, he was offered, along with most of the company’s other employees, a ten percent increase in salary along with a generous bonus. But to reap that reward, he would have to move to the new company’s office in Seattle. Nine out of ten of the local employees were jumping at the chance to make the move. Paul shared my reluctance to move, but he couldn’t face the thought of looking for a job with another company. That’s what brought us to loggerheads.
“Paul,” I said, “I just can’t leave the East Coast. Seattle may be at the cutting edge when it comes to software, but a book agent there would be a fish out of water. I’ve built up twenty years of contacts in New York, and that’s what pays off—those lunch hours with someone you know, not time spent stuffed away in an office manning the phones and sending out e-mail.”
“Sure, but you could still find work there. Maybe it wouldn’t be the same as here, but you could build up your business over time. There are plenty of agents living in the Seattle area. Besides, you’re a lot younger than I am, you know. At fifty-two, for me to start looking for a decent accounting job here would be ridiculous. With all our expenses,” he indicated our apartment with a movement of his head, “we’d have to start retrenching, dig deep into our savings and maybe move to something a lot less comfortable and convenient.”
I was convinced he was exaggerating. Paul is one of the nicest men I’ve ever come across, and we’ve had a dozen good years together, but a more conservative person I’ve never met. With his background in accounting, he could easily find a top-paying job right in the area, but he’s worked for his company for twenty-five years now, and even though it will be the same only in spirit, he would rather hang in there with his old company than to take a chance on other possibilities.
But maybe our argument went deeper then that. Paul had asked me to marry him several times, and I’d been tempted. I didn’t phrase it in so many words, but maybe it was the trite notion nagging at me that I wasn’t ready for a commitment. In a way, I suppose I’d been anticipating what was now happening—a crisis that was going to mark paid to our relationship and which would have been even worse had we been married.
Anyway, we argued back in forth. Finally, I was the one who compromised. I agreed to at least go to the Seattle area and look around. We even decided to make a vacation out of it—a good, long month. We also planned on doing something we’d never had time for before, and that was to see the country from ground level rather than from thirty-thousand feet. I rather looked forward to the leisurely trip, with stops at some of the places I’d often read about but never visited, and Paul was already looking up likely trout streams and state fishing laws.
Although we were both convinced in our hearts this wouldn’t work out—that in the end, he would move to Seattle and I would stay in New York—it had still been a pleasant trip. Pleasant as far as Independence, anyway.
I didn’t mind the stops for fishing, since I could always find a comfortable place to sit and read while Paul skimmed his flies across the water, caught innumerable fish and as quickly returned them to the creeks. Neither of us much cared fo
r eating fish, and neither of us would have volunteered for the cleaning job even if we had liked it.
What happened in Independence was a car breakdown and a three-day wait before we could get back on the road. That was the bad part. The good part was Jensen’s Bookstore, which we found only a few blocks from our motel.
As I roamed among the tables and bookshelves, I had a sudden crazy idea. I dismissed it, but it persisted in floating back into my consciousness. Wouldn’t it be nice, I thought, if Paul and I bought the store. Within moments I had it all worked out. Paul had a degree in management. And, while I hadn’t been directly involved in the marketing of books, I knew an enormous amount about the ins and outs of that part of the business. Books had been my livelihood since I graduated from college.
Now, even though I consider myself adventurous, I’m not foolhardy. I went through all the minuses in the idea. I had never retailed so much as a single book. And although I’d been born and raised in a small town in upstate New York, that was still a far cry from rural Minnesota. Neither Paul nor I knew anyone in Independence. How would we relate to customers? And, of course, there was the one insurmountable problem—Paul, himself. No way would I be able to convince him to make such a risky move. Even so, I decided to try.
I broached the subject in the most indirect fashion I could think of while we were eating a surprisingly tasty dinner in one of the town’s pleasant restaurants. “Independence is sure a nice town.” Paul gave a noncommittal nod while shaving the last bits of meat off of a barbecued rib.
“Jensen seems to have a good business going in his store.” I buttered a crusty half-roll of bread while I glanced over at him.
He agreed, as he scraped off the last speck of the tender meat. “It takes a long time to build up a business like that. Calls for a lot of customer loyalty.”
Dear Diary, I'm In Love Page 28