by kc dyer
The Evil Nephew made it almost to the back of the store that morning, before I noticed him. Morning shoppers are inevitably retired folks who have the freedom for a leisurely daytime browse, so when the front doorbell jingled, I hadn’t even glanced up. But as I dropped the last of the unwanted Robert Jordan paperbacks into the discard pile, a movement caught my eye. My first glimpse was of the back of his head, above the shelf in the cooking section. He was tall, with dusky skin and dark hair tied into a low ponytail. As I stared at the back of his head, he made a triumphant little noise and disappeared from view. Seconds later, as he was striding toward me carrying a large book in his hands, I got my first clear look at his face.
I have to admit, it made for compelling viewing. Of course, I had no idea at that time of his role as the Evil Nephew. As far as I was concerned, he was merely a customer of unusual youth and beauty. Dark hair, flashing eyes, and the lanky, easy gait of an athlete. As a result, as is the case with all such customers, my mind clicked straight into the HOT Reader rating system. The HOT Reader—Handsome, with Outstanding Taste—rating system was invented back when Jersey and I were working part-time for the uncles during the summer we turned fifteen. Good-looking guys walking into the bookstore were a comparative rarity even then, and Jersey was determined to make the best of any potential dating material that crossed our paths. She considered anyone who rated over a 7.5 as flirt-worthy.
In our defense, what sets this system apart from the usual, sexist one-to-ten scale is that it doesn’t matter how good looking the guy is—the rating system is based purely on the quality of his reading material. The book’s format is inconsequential—we don’t downgrade guys reading graphic novels or even comic books, as long as the source material is interesting. Jersey’s a fan of thrillers, but if the guy slapped a Dan Brown on the counter that summer?
3.5, tops.
As for me, I invariably awarded bonus points for any kind of romantic content, regardless of genre. Back when we were fifteen, Jersey and I agreed that a ten on the HOT Reader scale meant definite marriage material. I guess it says something about the pathetic state of my love life that I still haven’t ever met even one customer who has ever rated that elusive ten.
All this is to say that when a good-looking guy wearing chef’s whites under his parka placed a copy of The French Chef in America down on the cash desk, I couldn’t help feeling intrigued.
“Julia Child,” he said, and grinned at me. He smelled of cinnamon and cloves and warm bread, which was a little on the nose, considering his book selection.
“That’s—uh—not her cookbook, you know,” I mumbled. His grin was distracting, and I was doing some rapid calculations in my head at the time. I hurriedly jotted a 7.5 on the pad of paper on the desk, so I could remember to tell Jersey.
His left eyebrow rose, forming a sharp triangle. “Yep—I know. I already have her cookbook. I want to read about her life.”
I scratched out the 7.5 and replaced it with an 8.5. I’m not great at small talk at the best of times, and I hadn’t actually read this book beyond glancing at the summary when I shelved it. So, in that moment, I just stared at him like a tongue-tied idiot.
“Are you a chef?” I blurted, at last.
His smile faltered a little. “I used to be.”
I found myself suddenly in that weird netherworld where I was desperate to know his whole story, and completely unable to find the words to ask without sounding nosy.
In the end, all I could manage was: “That’ll be four fifty.”
He slid a five across the cash desk, and when I handed him back two quarters, he dropped them into the “Save the Children” collection tin on the counter. Mustering up a smile again, he said: “Have a great afternoon, Ramona,” and marched away before I could even offer him a bag for his purchase.
In the moment, I’m ashamed to admit I thought he’d read my name tag because he liked the look of me.
“Thanks!” I called out, to his back. “Same to you! See you . . .”
But the jingle of the door cut me off, and he was gone.
“. . . next time,” I finished. So much for liking the look of me.
I was so sure I’d never see him again, I hadn’t even called Jersey to discuss his rating. And that’s where things stayed until this morning.
So. Was his visit last week a setup? Not a chance encounter, but a case of him scoping the place out, prior to his Evil Uncle making a play for our bookshop? A wave of shame washes over me at the memory of giving the guy a HOT Reader rating, when his goal is clearly only to destroy my family’s little business.
As I stare with burning eyes into the dark, it seems forever before the guilt and worry ebb away long enough for me to fall into an exhausted sleep.
chapter four
IMAGE: Assorted Delectables
IG: Romy_K [NYC, March 15]
#LifeChangingPastry #AFlyerintheWind
13
By the next morning, the snow has stopped, but many of the back streets are still sporting a sheen of black ice. Tommy’s picked up a cold somewhere, and so I wrap my head in a scarf to protect myself from the wind whipping between the buildings, and head out to Claire’s Patisserie for croissants. After taking a single step into the street, I dash back inside to grab my camera. The grey overcast hemming us in for weeks has blown away overnight, and the sun is rising through low fog like a ripe red dragon’s egg, way down the end of our street.
I’ve been taking pictures as long as I can remember. My dad was a photographer before I was born, and there were always cameras around the house when I was small. He shot for AP overseas—Falkland Islands during the conflict, and Ireland too—but after I came along, he mostly freelanced. And when I made it into NYU, I majored in photography. I’ve always planned to take it further, but—well, you know. Life gets in the way. With this news about the bookshop, the chance of returning to film school is looking increasingly unlikely.
These days I mostly scratch the photo itch by posting to Instagram, almost exclusively in black and white. I live in the best place in the world for fascinating subject matter, so why not? I’ve always got my phone at hand, so it’s my go-to, but I still like to pull out my dad’s old Canon, for the special ones.
Freezing my fingers, I take shots of the sun, being careful not to look straight at my subject. Only when it vanishes behind the towers of Stuytown do I sling my camera back around my neck and head off to the patisserie.
Claire is as French as I am, but her baking skills are top-notch. I go through a mental checklist of favorites I need for the tea shop—the croissants, of course, both almond and chocolate; a dozen Danish pastries; and maybe some petit fours, if they aren’t sold out already.
About halfway down the block, the wind swirls, blowing my scarf off my head. I pause beside a light standard to readjust. As I’m tucking in the ends, a page flapping on the pole catches my eye. The flyer reads:
JOB OPPORTUNITY
ExLIBRIS EXPEDITIONS—
OPENING THE BOOK ON ADVENTURE
Help Wanted: Special Projects Planner
Apply in Person
The text of the flyer has been done on a computer, but the phone number is repeatedly handwritten on little pull-off tabs at the bottom.
I finish tucking in my scarf and dash into the patisserie, but while I’m selecting the day’s choices, my mind keeps going back to the flapping flyer. Aside from photography, the one thing I’m really good at is organizing. This is inevitable, after all my years toiling at an independent bookshop. It takes a lot of work to keep Uncle Merv together. I’ve never heard of ExLibris Expeditions, but if it involves planning, I’m their girl. I’ve been planning things my whole life.
Planning to go to film school.
Planning to get out more.
Planning to meet the perfect boyfriend.
I’m so distracted by t
his last thought, Claire has to ask me twice to pay for my purchases. I hand over the money, and step back into the wind, clutching my brown paper bag of deliciousness.
I aim straight for the light standard.
Someone has seen the flyer before me, because one of the little tabs is missing. As I yank another one off, the whole page comes loose and sails away down the street.
I tear the seam under the arm of my coat chasing after it.
When I finally corral it, the flyer has blown up against the brick wall of Jonah’s call center building. It’s completely crumpled, and I dismiss the idea of reattaching it to the pole. For one thing, I don’t have tape or staples or anything of the sort. And for another . . .
The little tab has the phone number, but the address for ExLibris Expeditions—which, what even is that?—is printed in a tiny font on the bottom of the flyer. Clutching the page, I glance upward at the hideous orange, blinking logo for Jonah’s company, Digi-Dial. Inside, deep underground, a grey office decorated with dusty, sagging flags awaits me. Making up my mind, I jam the page into my coat pocket, and fight the wind all the way back to the bookshop. Nothing—I mean nothing—can be worse than accepting a job with Call Center Jonah.
* * *
—
The rest of the day is taken up with helping customers and alphabetizing the new inventory. After closing, as I’m giving the cash desk a last tidy before heading up to my place, Uncle Merv calls me from the back.
Merv and Tommy’s apartment behind the bookstore is bigger than mine, and rightly so, seeing as it houses two men and a cat. The living room is filled with overstuffed chairs that are threadbare with age, and awash in the smell of Tommy’s homemade potpourri. I’ve spent many happy hours here over the years, but I settle into one of the chairs feeling worried at the expression on Merv’s face. I can hear Tommy in the kitchen, alternately coughing and singing along to his favorite aria from La Traviata. Smells of basil and garlic come wafting out, strong enough to almost defeat the potpourri.
Almost.
Merv clears his throat, his expression serious. “I’ve had several calls today,” he says. “From Jonah Dross.”
Shit. “Listen, I’m really sorry. He’s been bugging me for months to come work for him, and I only went over there to get him to quit bothering me about . . .”
Merv holds up a hand. “It’s not a bad idea,” he says quietly, which silences me completely. “I can certainly arrange to cut back your hours at the shop so you can go to work for Jonah, if it’s what you want.”
“Uncle Merv,” I stammer. “I’m not—not even really considering it. You’ve got to know my whole heart is here at the bookshop, with you and Tommy.”
Merv reaches forward and squeezes my hand. “I can’t afford to pay you anymore, love,” he says, and the tone of his voice causes something in my heart to break.
Neither one of us can speak for a moment, and we both sit and listen to a paroxysm of coughing coming from the kitchen.
Somehow, I recover my voice again. “I’ll find a job,” I promise my uncle. “Do not worry about me.” A feeling of panic, pure and raw, is firing adrenaline from my gut right through me. I jump to my feet.
He sighs. “Will you stay for dinner?” he asks. “I don’t think Tommy’s contagious.”
Jamming my hands into my pockets so he can’t see them shake, I plaster on a fake smile and shake my head. “There’s something I’ve got to do,” I say.
“Sure thing, honey,” he answers mildly. “Wrap up warm.”
chapter five
IMAGE: Library Lion
IG: Romy_K [NYC, March 15]
#NYPL #PatienceorFortitude #OrderfromChaos
6
There’s only one way to soothe a panic this deep. After wrapping up warmly as admonished, I stand on the street and check my phone. Luck is with me. It’s a late-opening day.
Of course it is. The library always knows.
Generally when I’m home, getting to the New York Public Library means hopping the 7 train to get to the Main Branch. The Mulberry Street branch is way closer, of course, but for a feeling this bad, only the Main Branch will do. Besides, history has taught me the best thing for a panic attack is action. I decide to hoof it.
It’s always tourist season in New York—even on a windswept March evening—and soon I’m close enough to the fashionable part of Manhattan to adopt the native New Yorker walk. Head angled down, stride long, speed high. Of course, the real key is to make eye contact with no one. This serves to keep all the hawkers at bay, and tonight? It also means no one can read the fear in my eyes.
I’m full-out running by the time I spot Patience and Fortitude, the two stone lions guarding the front door of the library. Glancing at my phone, I see it’s after seven. Less than an hour until they shut the place down, but that’s okay. What I need won’t take long. I stand in the line to show the guard the inside of my handbag, and then I’m through.
Stepping to one side for a moment, I stop and just breathe the place in. Considering our respective inventories, it smells remarkably different than Two Old Queens. Of course there are the scents of books and ink and paper, but here at the library, it’s more—careful. The temperature is better regulated, and the shelving radiates the comforting smell of lemon polish.
Most visitors end up in the General Research area with its windows and high ceilings, or maybe take a wander over to Manuscripts and Archives. Not me. I veer away from the crowd, make a hard left, and head straight for my favorite room.
I’m not sure who Miriam and Ira D. Wallach were, but—folks? You don’t know how many times you’ve saved my sanity. The Wallach Room is the photography archive for the library, of course, but it’s also my happy place. You want to find a specific daguerreotype from 1850? Or maybe you’re looking for something from the Annie Leibovitz collection? Or what if you need the entire history of everything appearing on film? The Wallach Room is your go-to.
But truthfully? I almost never look at any photos in here.
I mean, I have. Lots of times. When I was still in school at NYU, I was here weekly for that very purpose. When you’re chasing an arts degree with a focus on photography, this place holds a lot of answers.
These days, though? Well, mostly I come here—to remember how to breathe.
To sit in a very proper, upright wooden chair at a desk in which my position is actually numbered. To rest my fingertips lightly on a polished surface unobscured by piles of papers, unsorted magazines, or books of every genre and condition. To watch—in a totally non-creepy way, I promise—the resident librarian as he glides from his seat behind the front desk across the room, retrieving stray elements of the collection. Sorting them. Filing them. Returning them.
This is the organizational center of the universe.
This library is the second largest in the country, third in the world. It’s got a collection topping fifty-three million items, and a staff of more than three thousand people. And it is the tidiest place I know. I can take a chair at my numbered seat in my favorite room, and within minutes—within seconds—the peace of the place wraps itself around me like a cloak. Like one of those heavy blankets that people—people who don’t suffer from claustrophobia, I hasten to add—use to calm themselves into sleep.
Of course, you might think it’s crazy for a person who works in a bookstore to find comfort in a library. What can I say?
Maybe it is crazy. But you know what? It works.
Tonight, the polished desks in the Wallach Room are almost completely unoccupied. A lady wearing a carefully pinned silk scarf around her neck sits at the table nearest the door. She’s got three folios spread out in front of her and is so engrossed in her work, she doesn’t lift her head as I come skidding into the room.
The librarian looks up immediately, a frown darkening his features. Horace is a guy who’s had a grey buzz cut a
nd black horn-rimmed glasses since I’ve been coming here. Which is to say, long before buzz cuts and horn rims made it back into vogue. As soon as he recognizes me, his brow clears. He does make a little patting gesture with his hand, indicating I should cool my jets, but I’ve already slowed to a walk. I give him something in the vicinity of a smile, and practically meander down to the end of the third table, my favorite.
I haven’t even taken my seat yet and I already feel better. Horace has one of the old card catalogue drawers out on his desk. The sight of him returning the little rectangular squares carefully back to their correct alphanumeric locations makes me smile for the first time since before the new Evil Landlord made his presence known in our lives.
Pulling out a book to use as my cover, I slide my bag under the table and take my seat. I always have a book in my bag, in case I find myself on a train, or stopped at a light. Today’s title is the latest Denise Mina mystery, set in Glasgow. At the moment, I’m still too roiled to read, but I open it anyway, turning my bookmark sideways to hold the pages open.
This is officially a Quiet Room, which means as soon as the disruptive noise I make getting to my seat ceases, absolute peace descends. Two aisles away, Elegant Scarf Lady reorders the contents of one of her portfolios. The soft shushing noise of the documents sliding against the table only adds to the comfort of the place.
Everything is going to be all right. It has to be. Our new Evil Landlord and his minion, the Evil Nephew, can’t prevail. They can’t because it would mean chaos would have a foothold, and my whole goal in life—my whole reason for existing—is to eliminate chaos. To make things run smoothly. To emulate what I see—what I feel in my very bones—around me right now. When I’m here, I know everything has a place. I have to believe this works in the wider world too. On some kind of larger, cosmic scale, even Frank Venal has a place somewhere, there is no doubt. But not in my life. Not in the lives of the people I love most.