by Ainsley Shay
“You’re too smart, my little Iris.” He rubbed his chin. “I haven’t quite figured that part out, yet. I was hoping you could help with that.” His smile was gone, and as he looked around the shop. He suddenly looked tired and lost. Sighing, he fell into one of the old leather club chairs in the middle of the store.
I nodded. I decided not to tell him about the break-in. He was already worried about me, and I didn’t want to give him anything else to trouble over.
I walked over and sat on the worn couch across from him. I knew this was hard for him. “Let’s start slow, and we’ll do a little at a time.”
The bell on the door announced our first customer of the day. “Good morning,” Mr. Yves said as he stood. I peeked around the lamp on the side table. Mr. Yves blocked my view of seeing who it was. “How may I help you on this wet morning, young man?”
“Good morning, sir.”
I knew that voice. I ducked and slid lower into the couch.
“Actually, I’m here to see Iris, sir.”
Ah, he did have manners.
“Miss Thorn,” Mr. Yves called, drawing me out of my hiding place. “There’s a young man here to see you.”
There was no way I was getting this. I said nothing as I made my way toward Chandler at the front of the store. He was drenched. Beads of water dripped from his hair. His well-defined chest revealed itself through his wet shirt. He stared at me with mesmerizing, light eyes I hadn’t paid much attention to before.
“Here, I saw yours crash and burn, and thought you might like to have a replacement.”
I took the cup he held out to me. The heat from it felt wonderful against my palm. “Thank you.”
He pointed to the cup. “Two sugar cubes, a squirt of vanilla, and cream, right?”
I nodded. The question of how he knew how I liked my coffee crossed my mind, but not my lips. It had to be Dana’s doing.
“So much time... but here you are, again.” His words were barely audible and sounded more like an expelled breath than actual spoken words.
“What?” I asked.
The corners of his mouth twitched, and he smiled. The smile was one that could be categorized as the private joke kind-of-smile, the kind that would leave an un-privy person, like myself, feeling left out.
He pursed his lips as if to prevent whatever he was thinking to be spoken aloud. Chandler cocked his head and studied me. “I—” He stopped. “Nothing.” He suddenly turned, pulled open the door, and walked out into the rain. I watched him cross the street with his head down and his hands in his pockets, uncaring about the storm twisting around him. Maybe he wasn’t so predictable after all. But he was, I decided, definitely peculiar.
“Who was that?” asked Mr. Yves.
“Um... Chandler. He ran into me this morning, literally.” Unsure of what to think, I continued to watch him. “I’ve never seen him before this morning, and I kind of hope not to see him again.” A lie, maybe, but something told me—perhaps that sixth sense—our paths would cross again.
3
The wind had died down, but the rain continued to fall. The wet weather brought in few customers, but it turned out to be a good day for Mr. Yves and me to begin organizing the store. It also served as a distraction from the immobilizing thoughts of my father that spit flashes of searing pain into my chest. Painting and books had always been the vehicle I used to escape from my reality, either in the story, or just being surrounded by them; I was thankful they played their part today.
Through the storefront’s window, just beyond the curtain of rain, I saw a faceless figure leaning against the lamppost on the other side of the cobblestone drive. Heat roiled in my stomach right before chills snaked up my arms to the base of my neck. I thought about the man at the funeral.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Yves asked.
“Um—nothing.” I turned away from the window and plastered on a fake smile I knew he would see right through. He didn’t say anything—just gave me the ‘uh-huh’ look.
I waved my arms around and asked, “So, what do you think?” Simply by standing some of the books upright on the shelves, the store looked more inviting.
“I think it’s going good,” Mr. Yves said as he looked around the shop. “And, I think we definitely have our work cut out for us.” He offered a half laugh, for which I gave him a smile in return. I saw the exhaustion that took hold of him as I watched him make his way through the piles and retreat to the back room. It reminded me of the emotional exhaustion that had taken over my body for the last several days.
It was almost five o’clock, closing time, and it had been a long day. Somehow, the thought of going to the quiet apartment was dreadful, but somewhere in that dread was a hint of appeal. The door jingled, and I looked up from behind the counter to see Peter come in. “Hey, Iris. I wasn’t expecting you here.” He stopped in front of me. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
“Thanks.”
“How long are you in town for?”
“Just until next week. I have to sort through some things, then I’ll head back to school.” I hadn’t thought about what I would have to do to “sort through things,” but I knew the task waited for me. Just the thought of going home, to the house I grew up in, the house he died in, to “sort” through our things sickened me.
“Well, it’s good to see you.” He nodded and walked toward a pile of books in the center of the store that seemed to have brought him here despite the rain. Drops of water dripped off his jacket, leaving a trail of wet spots in his wake.
“Yeah,” was all I said, not knowing if he heard me. I was ready to leave, and Peter was one of our customers who took his time and easily got lost in the surrounding mountains of books.
He turned and looked at me. “I know that look, don’t worry, I’ll be in and out.”
“Peter, you are never just in and out,” I said. I had known Peter since... well, forever and I was pretty sure he loved books almost as much as I did. So, I bit back a rude comment and gave him a little leeway.
“I’m just gonna look at something quick, and I’ll be gone before you know it.” Ignoring any rebukes I was about to lob at him, he said, “Man, did you guys do something in here? It looks different.”
I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore him until he began to lower himself into a chair near the pile of books. “Peter, don’t you dare sit down.” I put my hands on my hips, just daring him to sit. Surely, I must have looked like Ms. Blanch, our geometry teacher in the tenth grade, but I didn’t care. When we were out of earshot from the old hag, we called her something different that incorporated a few different consonants and vowels in her name. I was too late, his ass was already comfortable, and his head was already in another place.
“Ah, Peter. How are you?” said Mr. Yves as he came out of the storeroom.
“Fine, sir. I won’t be long,” Peter said, defending his late visit before he was accused.
“Very well. Don’t keep Iris here all night.” My eyes collapsed to slits. Mr. Yves wasn’t looking at me, but I’m sure he knew my reaction.
He walked to the counter and gave me a hug. No matter what, I couldn’t stay mad at the old man. “I’m on my way out. I hope I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Good, tomorrow we’ll continue our quest.” He put on his coat and adjusted his beret. “Be sure to call me if you need anything.” I nodded. He opened his umbrella and headed out into the rain.
“Peter, you have five minutes, not a second longer,” I warned, but again, he was already too distracted to respond. I walked around to the front of the counter to organize the handmade bookmarks in the glass case and straighten past issues of magazines on the stand. The bell on the door jingled.
“Did you forget something?” I asked without turning around.
“I don’t think so,” a voice very unlike Mr. Yves answered.
When I turned around I almost dropped the magazine. Everything disappeared around me. Everything and everyone excep
t the guy who just walked into the store. My lungs stopped working, and the last breath I had taken was stranded somewhere in my throat. I wasn’t sure, but my heart might have stopped, too. I struggled for words as I watched him run his fingers through his hair, pushing back the dark wet strands from his face. Not a “Welcome” or “How can I help you?” passed through my lips as I stared at him as if he were the only other human I had ever seen in my life.
“I’m sorry. Were you expecting someone else?” His words sounded like they had been dipped in the smoothest dark chocolate.
I’m not sure of the exact moment my lungs and voice began working again, but I was grateful. “Um...” My brain took a little longer to start up again. “No,” I finally said in a breathy voice.
He looked down at the puddle pooling around his boots, and then back up to me. His dark hooded eyes held regret, but I also saw a sliver of intrigue in them. A day’s worth of stubble lined high cheekbones and a squared chin. I knew I was staring, but I didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. I watched as the features on his face shifted, hesitated for the briefest moment: his eyes narrowed, and his full lips parted ever so slightly as if he was going to say something, then changed his mind. Instead, he smiled.
I felt my mouth open a bit while I jotted a mental note: shades of gray could, indeed, be unique and beautiful.
“I apologize for getting your floor all wet,” he said in a proper tone and with, now, a rueful expression.
I closed my mouth before opening it again to say, “Ah... no problem. It’s hard to um… avoid, with that much rain coming down,” I stammered. He could have brought the Great Flood with him, and I wouldn’t have cared, or possibly even noticed.
His smile widened as if he knew the effect he had over me. The magazine I was holding slid between my thumb and fingers and fell to the floor. He quickly closed the distance between us, picked it up, and handed it to me.
“Thank you.” I took the magazine from him and pointed to the coat rack behind him. “You can hang your jacket there.”
Without his eyes ever leaving mine, he slid the zipper down the length of his chest and stomach and shrugged out of the jacket. Defined muscles projected through the fabric of his dark T-shirt. I noticed a tattoo that started just above his elbow and snaked toward his inner forearm. It looked tribal, but there was something unique intertwined in the lines, something personal, and I wondered what it was. He hung his jacket on the coat rack.
I replaced the magazine. When I turned around he was standing next to me. Shaking the very welcomed and explicit images out of my head, I asked, “Did you really need a book that desperately, to venture out in this monsoon?”
He chuckled. “I guess so.”
“Take your time, and let me know if you need anything.” He strode past me, tucking his hands into his pockets, and walked deeper into the store. I had no idea why this stranger had such a strong and bizarre effect on me. It wasn’t like I’d never seen a hot guy before. But, this was different; he was different.
I forgot Peter was in the store until he walked past me to leave. “So, I see how it is. Some of us are rushed while others get to take their time.” He said it under his breath, but I was pretty sure the newcomer heard his gripe.
“Behave, Peter,” I hissed.
His tone lightened, he said, “Yeah, you too.” A devilish grin spread across his face as he bounced his eyebrows, and bobbed his head toward the new customer.
I gave Peter the squinty-eye, pursed-lip, shut up look, which caused his smile to morph into a bark of laughter. “I’ll be around before you leave town.” Peter threw his arm up in a wave and left the store.
It was just the dark-haired mystery man and me alone in the bookstore. I watched him as inconspicuously as I could. He browsed the piles and haphazard shelves, moving carefully around furniture and through the stacks of books on the floor and tables. He looked to be in his early twenties, but his demeanor seemed older.
I acted like I was busy when he walked toward me. “Excuse me,” he said. I looked up and again was caught by the strange lure of him. “Your store’s a little unorthodox, and I don’t know where to begin to find what I’m looking for.” I sensed he wasn’t so much embarrassed as he was shy that he had to ask for help. Also, I got the feeling he didn’t have to do that very often.
“Yeah, well, Mr. Yves is not your typical bookstore owner.” I walked around the counter to stand next to him; books, my comfort zone, I sighed, thankful I could talk books to anyone, even to this God-like creature.
His dark hair was wet with rain. Being so close to him, I could smell the scents of rain, and hints of amber, possibly; something else that was rare, yet familiar. “If you’re looking for something in particular, you might need some direction at first. Although, Mr. Yves and I are trying to organize a bit.”
He looked around the store and his gaze stopped on me. He took a few moments to study me before speaking again. I resisted the urge to rub away the heated chills from my arms.
“Okay, then. Clearly, I’m looking for a book—actually, a journal.”
We were so close that I thought I felt the whisper of his breath on my face. But, it was probably just my imagination stuck in overdrive. I wondered if he knew the effect he had on me—how could he not? No guy had ever brought out these kinds of feelings from me before. Not even Justin, and he was drop dead gorgeous. But, Justin looked like Kermit the Frog compared to this guy.
Then a moment of insight came over me. It slowly dawned on me, for the first time since Justin had broken up with me, my heart didn’t ache at the thought of him. I kept the smile that wanted to slither across my mouth at bay.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have journals here—” I shrugged, “not blank ones.”
He twisted his hands in front of him, not nervously, but expectantly. “I’m looking for ones written by Adelina deBlays.”
“Adelina deBlays,” I repeated to confirm I heard him right.
“Do you know her?” he asked. He sounded hopeful which was a little disturbing.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think anyone knows her. She’s just known. Like others around here, I’ve only seen her in town a few times, but that’s it.”
“I see.”
“How is it that you know her?” I wanted to snatch the words right out of the air. Quickly, I said, “Oh, God, I’m sorry, that was rude; it’s none of my business.”
He smiled. “Not rude, curious.”
I let out a small breath of relief that I hadn’t offended him.
“Ms. deBlays owns the house I just rented, and I was curious to learn more about her.”
My first thought was, why does he care? Secondly, but more importantly, he just moved to town. Then I thought, why in the hell would he move here, and why in the world would he move into that house?
“It was rumored that Adelina was crazy and kept herself locked away in her house with her statues. Probably, not true.” I shrugged. “She only came to town when the old lady who worked for her sometimes, Mrs. Snyder, couldn’t. Adelina wasn’t married, had no kids—none that anyone knew of anyway—and kept the post office busy with all the packages she had delivered. What more do you want to know?”
“You seem to know a lot about her. How long have you lived here?”
“All my life—well, most of my life. I went away to school four months ago and just came back to...” I trailed off as the thought of my father, and the reason I was back in town, slammed into me. I quickly turned away, not wanting him to see the tears welling in my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you all right?”
I wiped under my eyelid like I was fixing my eyeliner, to stop the tear in its tracks. Then, I turned back toward him, my light eyes finding his very dark ones staring at me. I swallowed to dislodge the ball of grief in my throat. “Hopefully I will be one day.”
He held my gaze. “I hope that day comes soon for you.” Sincerity laced his words.
“Me, too.” I tried to offer a smile, e
ven if was just a hint of one, but could only nod. “I haven’t been in the shop since I left for school, but if no one bought them, then they should be over there.” I led him to the pile of books in the back corner of the store.
“I’m glad you know where you’re going. I wasn’t even close,” he said as we wove our way through stacks of books and furniture. The pile was stacked about twenty high. “How do you know where anything is in here?” The fact that he was impressed by my mad book-locating skills released a feeling of giddiness inside me. “Please take no offense, and I’m not trying to be disrespectful, but do you have a system in this place?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. It was an actual laugh, and God it felt good. “You’re not being disrespectful, and it’s a very legitimate question, and to answer it—yes, there is a system.” I lowered my voice and continued, “But it’s a secret, and only Mr. Yves and I know what it is.”
He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “You’re joking.”
Laughing again, I said, “Yes, about the secret part, but not the part about Mr. Yves and me being the only ones who know where everything is. There are a few of our regulars who can make their way around pretty good.”
“Like Peter?”
So, this stranger was paying attention when he came into the store, and that meant, he most likely heard Peter’s embarrassing comments. “Yes, like Peter,” I sheepishly admitted. I waved my arm around the store. “Mr. Yves swears to me that all of these books are happy being in such disarray.” The stranger stared at me with those intense eyes. Again, I found it hard to look away from him. “Once, I asked him how he knew this, and he said each book tells its own story, contriving words in such a perfect order that it’s impossible for any other book to tell the same story. Each of these stories has a piece of their own time, and a presence of their own; they are ones that have been forgotten as the world continues to be overtaken by bestselling paperbacks and eBooks.” I knew I was babbling, but he looked like he was trying to understand, so I went on. “So therefore, each book cannot possibly be categorized into genres or sections.” I shrugged. “The longer I work here, the more I believe it.”