by Mel Sterling
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS A LITTLE past eleven when Lexie and Jack stood in the foyer again. Jack shouldered his satchel and put the walking stick back in the umbrella stand.
"Thank you," Lexie said awkwardly. The foolish, nervous part of her wondered if Jack expected to be offered a nightcap or at least a chair for a few minutes of pointless conversation, but she was tired, it was late, and the awkwardness she felt was irritating her. She'd seen Jack stiffen as he saw the state of her bedroom. She knew his glance had found the rumpled bed, the underwear hanging out of the hamper. Her cheeks had heated as she felt herself judged and found lacking.
The basement had, of course, been empty as well, but at least any clutter was Horace's and not her own.
"Anytime," Jack assured her. "Well, good night. You might double check all the window latches, just to be sure."
Melville yowled crankily from the kitchen doorway, standing next to his empty food dish. Lexie forced a small laugh at the sound.
"See you tomorrow, Lexie."
"Right."
He opened the front door and the chilly wind blew into the foyer, stirring Horace's coats like a ghostly audience.
"You know, Jack—"
He turned, eyebrows up, questioning.
"I suppose, if it would help you, we could put the table and chair back in Rare Books."
Jack smiled, a really good smile that lingered on his face as he looked her over one last time. "It's all right, I'm fine where I am. Won't hurt me to learn to concentrate despite distractions. Besides, the light's better near the windows." He lifted a hand in farewell, stepped light-footed and alert down the porch steps, and disappeared into the shadows the way they had come.
Lexie closed the door behind him and leaned her hot cheeks against the cool wood of the front door.
A moment later she jerked the door open again and ran out onto the porch, calling his name.
There was silence for a moment, then she heard running footsteps, coming her way. Jack appeared on the opposite side of the street. "What's wrong?"
"Let me give you a ride home. My car's in the garage. It'll be better that way."
Jack jogged across the street and stood at the foot of the porch stairs. "Thanks, but I'm good. It's only a few blocks."
"It's so late. Let me just grab my keys, and—"
"And when we get to my place, I'll worry about you coming home alone again, so I'll ride back with you, and there we'll be, back and forth until dawn."
Put like that, with the whiteness of his grin shining at her in the porch light, Lexie could see his point. It was silly. They'd blown the danger completely out of proportion, and now she was overreacting.
Back and forth till dawn…it had a certain appeal. She realized with a startled blink that she wouldn't mind spending more time with Jack. Even though he was in the store a large portion of every day, he wasn't much noise on her mental radar, that odd little awareness she'd begun developing from the very first hour she'd opened the store this week. It was important to know at all times how many people were in the suite, approximately where they were, and what, more or less, they were doing. After her first flash of annoyance with Jack, once he had settled in, she stopped finding him a distraction.
She suspected that was about to change, however. He stood below her, one foot on the wooden riser, his hand cupping the carved ball that capped the railing, his tilted grin finding its way through her armor, even sidling past the nostalgic sadness being in Horace's house always brought. She considered his relaxed but ready stance, the width of his shoulders, the no-nonsense, on-the-go clothing. He was lean and fit, long-legged, his brown hair cropped close, but not so close she couldn't see the hints of waves in its neatness. He looked orderly. Lexie appreciated people who were organized and put-together. Jack was handsome, too, in an ordinary way. His weren't head-turning good looks. They were the sort that would sneak up on you in unguarded moments—a clean profile, the way hairs accentuated long fingers, or a snug T-shirt revealed shoulder muscle worthy of a Greek statue.
Lexie knew which sort of beauty was more insidious.
She bit her lip. "OK. You're right. Just…"
"I'll be careful." He turned to go, tossing over his shoulder in a maddening tease, "Call the cops if I don't show up for work tomorrow."
She watched him vanish in the shadows of the street once more, and at last went inside and locked the door. She kicked off her shoes in the foyer, gazing around her at the familiar clutter, and the tote bag of packaged books, ready for the post office in the morning before she opened the store. It stood next to her satchel, square and tidy, a reassuring indication that Horace's bookstore was still in operation, despite Horace's absence. Inside the bag were several boxes and pouches representing a modest sales amount, but at least it was business.
Sleep was slow to come that night, even though Lexie was tired. She was still wired from the open microphone event, and the unexpected excitement of prowlers in neighborhood hedges. She lay on her side in her fuzzy flannel bed, staring out the attic window at the streetlight across the way. She felt Melville leap onto the foot of the bed and settle there, and still she stared, thinking, wondering, planning, hoping.
In the morning, Lexie's eyes felt hot and scratchy. Too late a night, too early a morning, too little sleep, and too much thought about the bookstore's future all combined to leave her feeling out of sorts and displeased with life in general. It didn't help to find the tote bag of shipping packages jumbled and spilled on the foyer floor. She gave Melville a pointed, tight-lipped glare. As the only other living creature in the house, the blame clearly fell to him. He stood staring at her, swishing his tail, ready for breakfast and his commute.
"Just for that, cat, it's crunchies instead of paté for breakfast. You eat while I run to the post office, then we'll hike to work as usual." She gathered up the packages again, noting that at least Melville hadn't gnawed on any, and repacked the bag. It seemed less full than it had last night, but she couldn't see a package shoved under anything in the foyer, or even pushed into the living room. She shrugged; no doubt she had packed it better the second time.
"Keep an eye on that guy." Ben's voice was low, and he pointed with his chin. Lexie noted a middle-aged man, dressed in jeans and a baggy black overcoat that seemed too heavy for so early in the autumn, standing very close to the shelves in Mystery.
"Why?" she murmured back.
"Shoplifter."
Lexie's mouth fell open. "I'll just go and—"
Ben caught her arm. "Horace always said to give them the opportunity to pay before you confront. We have to be careful not to slander."
"Has he done this before?"
"I don't recognize him, so I don't know. But it's what he's doing. Nobody stands that close to a shelf to read titles unless they forgot their glasses, but you do have to be that close if you want to slip a book into your coat without someone seeing you."
She blinked at Ben, who wore a small, tight smile. "Readers ought to be more honest!"
"You'd think." Ben picked up a couple of books. "I'll just go shelve near him for a while. Flush him out."
"I'll make sure he doesn't get into Rare Books," Lexie said. She stayed at the counter while Ben moved into the aisle with the customer and began moving books. He appeared purposeful, but she knew he was only crowding the man to cause him to tip his hand. She examined the coat, saw its too-heavy swing as the man moved, and realized Ben was probably right.
The knowledge that someone was shoplifting in Uncle Horace's bookstore made her feel sad, angry, and violated, all at the same time.
She couldn't just let the situation lie, no matter what Horace would have advised. She marched to the front of the store, snatched up a shopping basket, and stood in the sunlight from the front windows for a moment, taking deep breaths to steady herself, flush the fury from her system before she spoke to the shoplifter.
Jack looked up at her from his table, curious. She gave him a smile that felt wr
ong on her face. She stood still for a moment, trying to school her expression. His head tilted, and he opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head and held up a forestalling palm. His brows drew down in confusion.
Lexie thought, I can do this. I will do this.
Pasting another false smile on her face, she held the basket in front of her, walked lightly to the aisle where the shoplifter was edging away from Ben—the overcoat moving as if it were heavily loaded—and spoke softly, as if she were in a library. "I thought you might want this."
She offered the basket.
The man's head swung rapidly between Lexie and Ben, who had given up fiddling with the shelves to watch the proceedings.
"Uh," the man said. Red washed up from his neck all the way to his hairline. He took the basket from her. "Thanks."
Lexie turned on her heel and strode to the register counter, where she busied herself putting price stickers on the day's new stock, feeling her cheeks flame as a result of the confrontation. However oblique it might seem to the shoplifter, the interaction was tantamount to a physical altercation for Lexie. She felt herself biting back hasty words, longing to demand the man empty his pockets and leave the store, never to return. When Jack leaned on the counter and spoke in a quiet voice, she jumped almost a foot.
"Nicely played. Horace would be proud." He grinned a little. "I didn't mean to startle you."
Lexie kept her voice down too, not wanting to attract too much attention to the situation. The fewer customers disturbed, the better. The store wasn't full, but there were at least three other browsers. "I guess I was thinking too loud, or something. I didn't hear you come up." She put the wrong sticker on a book and had to peel it carefully from the cover. She was astonished to find her hands were trembling, and clutched the book tightly to stop them.
"This really has you shook up." Jack started to reach over the counter, as if to touch her arm, then stopped himself. Lexie blinked rapidly. She hadn't expected him to be so aware of what was going on in the store, let alone to be attuned to her personal reactions. It touched her, in a strange way, and steadied her. Jack was her customer too, and Lexie knew she ought to reinforce the professional distance between them, but for the moment that didn't seem important. She needed more to talk to someone who understood.
"It…got my goat, I guess. I didn't think…I mean, it's a bookstore, for crying out loud, not a…What's he going to get out of snitching a couple of paperbacks?" Both of them, still low-voiced, looked surreptitiously to where the shoplifter stood, and saw that the man had three paperbacks in the basket. Lexie couldn't tell if he still had loaded pockets.
"Sometimes it's more about the thrill than the need," Jack observed.
There was a note Lexie didn't expect in his voice. She turned her head to look at him, and forgot about the shoplifter. On Jack's face was an expression as bleak and lost as she had ever seen. It lasted only a moment before his more familiar expression, that of mild preoccupation, masked his features. To distract him from whatever dark topic occupied him, she said, "I see you got home safely. No criminals in hedges along the way?"
Jack's smile returned, slow, broad, and lopsided. "Not a one."
The man with the basket and the baggy overcoat approached the counter. He set the basket down carefully, and, not looking at Lexie, said, "I changed my mind about these." A moment later he was out the door.
"Well," said Lexie softly.
"Indeed," said Jack, meeting her gaze.
They shared a long moment that seemed to Lexie to consist of a peculiar warm camaraderie, a sense of a common enemy defeated. Accomplishment. Even though Jack hadn't had anything to do with the customer, Lexie felt he had supported her. Jack's gaze dropped to her smiling mouth, and for a second Lexie thought his hand was reaching out for hers, as if they were going to shake over a deal well done…then Ben loomed into sight, took the basket, and said, "I'll just reshelve these, shall I?"
The moment was broken. Jack asked, still in a low voice, "You okay?"
"Fine." She shook her head a little, to clear the encounter. "It's a learning experience. Everything is these days." She took a step backwards, returning the ambiance to professional business. She was the bookstore proprietor, Jack was her customer. She needed to remember that.
The connecting door to The Cup opened as Lexie was prying her attention from Jack's warm and mesmerizing presence. Gilly's pink hair came through first, since she was turned the other way finishing a conversation in the cafe. She had a book under her arm, one Lexie recognized from the other night.
"Just returning it," Gilly announced, setting it on the counter. "Thanks for the loan."
Ben popped out of the shelves. "What'd you think? A lot of people think that's Proust's best work."
Gilly gnawed her lip, looking down at the volume. "I…I didn't finish it, Ben. It just wasn't for me."
Ben was a little crestfallen, but recovered quickly. "Yeah, he's not for everyone, I guess. Better luck next time."
"Sure."
"Want to pick something else out? I'd be happy to help."
Lexie looked away from the two at the counter. Her gaze swept over Jack, who was half-listening to the exchange.
"I…uh, thanks, but I think I'll give the reading muscles a rest for a while. Besides, I really feel like I shouldn't treat Horace's store like a library, borrowing and never buying—I mean—" She turned to Lexie, face stricken.
"It's all right, Gilly," Lexie said. "I do it all the time, too. As far as I'm concerned, it'll always be Uncle Horace's store. I'm just…tending it for him."
Ben jumped in again. "If it's any consolation, Gilly, your track record's fabulous."
"What do you mean, my track record?"
"Pretty much every book you borrow sells right away. Within a week or so, I'll bet we get an order for this one." He rested his hand on the Proust. "It's like you have the Midas touch or something."
Gilly snorted. "Now you're making things up to impress me."
"No, seriously. Good taste, you've got it."
Lexie turned away with a stack of books. Poor Ben was striking out, trying to turn Gilly into more of a reader than she was, so he could find common interests the two of them could share. She didn't want to be a party to his eventual disappointed embarrassment. It was interesting, though, that Gilly seemed to be a bellwether for books that would soon sell. She shrugged to herself, ignored the way Jack's head turned to watch her as she moved around the store, and found a quiet place far back in the stacks, where she could busy herself and not think too much about how she had liked Jack coming to see how she was after the shoplifting incident.
Jack wasn't sure what had happened, but Lexie was cool to him the rest of the afternoon, nearly as cool as when they'd first met and she banished his chair and table from Rare Books. He thought they'd made progress, but now it seemed they were taking two steps back.
He liked her. He liked the bookstore. He even liked the store's cranky tabby mascot.
Jack wasn't exactly surprised by that—people interested him. He told their stories, big, important ones like what happened when a tsunami or a forest fire left nothing behind. He'd sometimes videoed them, revealing the grand scale of devastation, when he freelanced for networks and magazines. One man with a camera often got more opportunities and respect from victims than a herd of suits climbing out of a swank van after a tornado had been through.
What did surprise him was the freshness, the peculiar intimacy, he had found in wedging himself into this tiny ecosystem of town square, campus community and above all, the little strip of connecting businesses. Horace's Books, The Cup, and the unrelentingly feminine environment of the lingerie shop, Foundations and Frills, didn't subsume him the way the wars and disasters did, but Jack found himself fascinated by the drift of customers from either side. Husbands who lacked the patience for perusing racks of brassieres came to roost in the coffee shop or the bookstore. Wives who weren't readers abandoned their spouses in the adventure fiction aisle
and went next door for a cup of caffeinated indulgence or a little lace and finery.
Jack liked watching Lexie struggle with the process of hand-selling books, trying to find new authors to recommend to readers who didn't know where to turn next, even though Lexie herself was still learning. She seemed committed to making her uncle's business a success.
Besides, he simply liked watching Lexie.
There was something about her that drew him. Perhaps it was her competence, her diamond-hard determination, that brooked no nonsense. That hard little nugget contrasted sharply with the soft floppy curls of her short, dark hair and the sincere blue of her eyes. Observant customers were already beginning to learn that Lexie's compactly curvy package did not shelter a pushover or someone snowed by baloney. Jack wondered what she'd done before she came back to Camden to take care of her uncle in his last weeks. There was a businesswoman inside her.
Along with figuring out whatever it was Horace had feared was going wrong in his store, Jack wanted to get to know Lexie better.
He watched his fingers on the roll-up keyboard, and found himself typing while he thought of these things. There was a story here. He didn't know what it was, but he'd begin where he always began: with a diary of his observations and impressions. As he typed, something old and stale inside his chest began to loosen. What had felt as sere and passionless as dried moss on a dying tree was unfurling as if the rain had finally come.
At the top of a new file on his tablet, Jack typed: Alexia (Lexie) Worth, and began pecking away in earnest.
Hours later, he jumped when Lexie put her hand on his shoulder and said softly, "Haven't you been busy! It's time to surface now, Jack. I've got to close the store." Somewhere in the long afternoon, he had lost himself in words, documenting the minutiae of the everyday. He looked up at her in wonder and found her close enough to touch. Though he left his hands resting lightly on the keyboard, he had come within an inch of leaning his head over to rest his cheek and jaw against her hand where it lay on his shoulder. He felt as if he'd known her for years rather than a couple of weeks.