I shoved with my shoulder and made enough room to slip through. Beside me, the dog whimpered. I crouched down. “We can either get started or spend another night in the car. What’s it going to be?”
I was talking more to myself than to the old collie and I knew it. I had come to the proverbial fork in the road. And the truth was I had no real choice to make.
The bookstore was mine. It had been mine for the past year. In her infinitely warped sense of justice, Aunt Gertrude had left me with the one thing she knew I wouldn’t want.
I could give up and walk away. Tell the lawyer I wanted no claim to the store, its contents, or its back taxes.
Or I could take a chance. Fix it up. Sell it. I could have the last laugh. After I paid the taxes and reimbursed my father for the money he leant me when I had my appendix out last spring, I would be clear and free. I could finance my trip to Asia. And then say good-bye to Truhart forever.
I had never been someone who had been averse to risks or taking chances. In fact, very little frightened me. But for some reason, this store scared the crap out of me.
I squeezed through the door. The front room had been bad enough. But it was almost tomblike in the back room. The sound of my own breathing and the panting of the dog at my knees filled the space. Outside, a car revved its engine at the only traffic light in town. The faint sounds of someone laughing down the street traveled on the wind. There was life out there.
My gaze wandered to the stairway that led to the apartment upstairs. I had no idea what to expect up there. More books? A dead body?
The dog moved past me. He sat down in front of a particularly hefty book and raised his ears. His dark eyes framed by the sable mask made him seem intelligent when he stared at me that way. He looked more ready to do this than I did. And if the wimpiest dog in the world was ready to take on the challenge, how could I walk away? We had come halfway across the country, after all.
“All right, buddy. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I reached down and grasped a book at my feet, clearing a path for both of us.
Chapter 3
There was nowhere to put the books that were piled everywhere. Never one to let tiny problems keep me from getting things done, I opened the door and threw them into the alley. It would do until I had a better option. I made a mental note to look into the cost of renting a dumpster, or even better, a junk-hauling service. If that didn’t work, I could always start a bonfire.
I cleared enough space and eventually reached the bottom of the staircase. My hands were dust-covered, my back was sweaty, and my hair was coming loose.
I took a water break twice, sharing my bottle with the dog. I let him lap it up midair, caring little that I spilled on a dictionary at his feet. The tome was so old it probably still included the words spiffy and golly. By the time I reached the stairs I was out of patience. I brushed aside the books and let them tumble down the open rail to the floor below.
By then, the dog was asleep next to my suitcase in the middle of the path I had made. At least one of us seemed content. Too groggy to care about the falling books, he opened his eyes, made sure I was still nearby, and rolled on his side with a moan, dead to the world.
Finally I stood at the top of the stairs, in front of the door to the upstairs apartment.
“Oh, please, let there be a shower and clear path to it,” I said to no one. I held a precautionary hand over my face, turned the tarnished brass handle, and pushed.
“Crap.”
Since when had Aunt Gertrude become such a pack rat? Sure, I remembered the small apartment being cluttered with things she collected over the years. But never like this. Aunt Gertrude had either lost her marbles at the end, or the intruder Reeba Sweeney mentioned had been a very messy squatter.
Everywhere I looked there was junk.
Cereal boxes, baskets, cans of food, empty containers, dead plants, and grocery bags littered the ground. Pill bottles, tissue boxes, and pots and pans cluttered the counter of the small kitchenette. Piles of blankets, coats, magazines, and shoes were scattered across the couch and chair in the living area. And, of course, more books. Ironically, a broom stood near the door. The cleanest broom in the county, for sure.
I pulled my hand away from my nose, testing for biological hazards and dead animals. A stale, mildly sour smell permeated the air. I was grateful that there was no stench of rot. Spying the refrigerator, I decided to hold my gratitude. Unless Aunt Gertrude had an epiphany before she left on her cruise, chances were I’d be scrubbing that for the next month.
I pulled off the scarf that covered my hair and wiped my face. Suddenly, this was overwhelming. The prospect of walking away looked brighter and brighter. It was going to take a lot to get this place cleaned up and ready to sell. Maybe Reeba Sweeney could sell as is and I could take a loss.
And then what?
Hunger sent yearnings for rice noodles in Vietnam and curry in Thailand through me. Flashes of wise monks and hidden temples gave me courage.
I spotted a small path through the main room and stepped with one foot in front of the other, as if I were on a balance beam, toward a window above the couch. Climbing on the armrest, I steadied myself against the wall and reached for the window latch. Then I threw up the window sash and let a wave of fresh air spill into the room.
I made my way further down the path to the bedroom. Clothes and books and magazines again. Boxes in the corner. But there was a bed. A glorious, marvelous bed. Only a few clothes rested across its surface. I climbed over a pile by the window, slipping and sliding on things I could not name, and once again opened the window.
I hopped over a broken chair to see if the bathroom was still intact. I flipped on the light to reveal a dingy room with—what else? Books. But at least they weren’t in the toilet. There was some access to the sink. And even though there were rust spots and corrosion all over the white porcelain fixtures, the water was working. Reddish-brown liquid burst from the pipes in gargling spurts that eventually cleared and became even.
Within minutes I had every window in the apartment open. Fresh air wandered to the furthest corners. Raising my arms above my head, I took a deep breath and did the mountain pose. Breathing in and out, I let that single yoga move wash over me.
Okay. This was doable. Armed with a breeze and an idea of what I needed to do, I tackled the one room I wanted most. The one I could finish by the end of the day. The bathroom.
* * *
I set down the sponge I had used to scrub the tub, grateful that Aunt Gertrude had hoarded cleaning supplies. There were five duplicates of every bathroom cleaner in existence under the sink.
I dried off with the towel I had retrieved from Lulu. I hadn’t had a shower since that campground outside Joliet. It felt wonderful to be clean.
While I blotted my long hair, I studied the books that covered the floor. Aunt Gertrude apparently favored books that looked like short-story collections and old magazines for her bathroom reading. The thought of her sitting in here until she finished made me laugh. I attacked the stack between the toilet and sink, tossing the larger books out the window to the alley below.
A muffled grunt caught my attention.
A high-pitched bark erupted from the floor below me. My sleeping friend heard something too.
“Hello? Anyone out there?” I yelled. No reply. I must have imagined it. I picked up another handful of books and tossed them.
A shout erupted from the alley. Did I hear someone say “bloody”?
A man lay sprawled across the mound of books and magazines I had just thrown away. Wrapping the towel around me, I shoved my feet in my boots and tromped down the staircase and out the back door to investigate.
A tall, golden-haired man lay on his back, arms and legs flailing about. Black-rimmed glasses hung from one ear. He held a hand over his nose.
I skirted a pile of magazines to get to him. “Can I help you?”
He gawked at me and adjusted his glasses. With better
vision he inspected me from my wet head to my boots. A silly grin split his face. I wasn’t used to that kind of unveiled male appreciation. It made me wonder if he had sustained a concussion. Either way, I would take the compliment. I selfishly basked in the light of appreciation.
I shook my hips, half joking. “Like what you see?”
His face turned red and he whipped the glasses off again. “No. No!”
“You don’t like what you see?”
“No. I mean, yes. I’m not really looking at anything at all. Not that you’re nothing, that is. I . . .” His voice trailed off.
I extended my arm his way. “Let me help you up.”
The knot of towel at my armpit slipped and he shook his head. “It’s all good. Just go back to holding the tow—” He rolled over.
“I thought you weren’t looking?”
“I’m not. Now.” He came up on his hands and knees and tested the sturdiness of the ground before he unfolded his long body. When he finished, I had to tilt my head back. He stood on several layers of books, but I suspected that he was tall even without his pedestal. He was lean too. He held a book in his hand.
“Are you trash picking?”
“Of course not. I saw these books and I was—” He stopped himself and sighed. “I must seem like a blithering idiot. I sincerely apologize for interrupting your—uh—bathing.”
I knew his type. Even though his clothes were out of alignment from his fall, his khaki pants, blue oxford shirt, and brown sweater vest made him look like he had just come from the library. His broad shoulders almost shattered the image. But his nervousness sealed it.
“No need to apologize or act all formal on this side of the pond,” I said, referring to his British accent. “Especially when I’m the one who just threw a hardcover on your head.”
He placed his glasses back on his face. “Well, it was my fault too. I forgot to check the weather report for falling books.” Humor? Interesting. He was younger than I thought. Square jaw, long nose. Close-cropped amber hair with hints of sunshine. Early thirties, maybe.
“Hey, were you standing in the front of the bookstore earlier? I think I saw you across the street.”
He stepped off the stack of books. He was still tall. “Could be. I was . . . walking by a while ago.”
The dog whined loudly from the open back door. “That’s the dog’s way of protecting me,” I explained. Just to prove his viciousness, the old collie wagged his tail and came to investigate.
“I’m shaking in my shoes.” He put a hand on the dog’s back.
Something caught his eye. He put his glasses on and reached for the magazine under my feet. A soggy Richard Nixon smiled at us from the front cover of the Saturday Evening Post. “This issue is fairly rare, I believe.” He yanked on the pages. I stepped back and he shook the magazine. Water dripped off of Dick’s five-o’clock shadow.
I hung my head upside down and shook my hair. “Didn’t he have some kind of problem with water? Water . . . water . . .”
“Watergate?”
“That’s it!” I said, flipping my head back. My hair caught the breeze.
A muscle in his jaw flickered. That same look of appreciation that had put me in a tizzy earlier passed over his face. His smile could have come with a martini—stirred, not shaken.
“Why don’t you come inside and sit down for a moment? You could really be hurt.”
He rubbed his forehead and gazed at the open door. “Well, if you insist. But how do you know I’m not using the weak excuse of a concussion as an opportunity to pinch all your worldly goods?”
“Because I’m never that lucky,” I said, laughing. He could pinch me and my worldly goods any time.
“I think I’m too dizzy to get that.”
“That’s all right. Most people don’t get me.” I walked toward the door, but he paused.
“My name is Christopher Darlington, by the way. Just in case you feel the need to know my name before I commit a crime.”
He was so darn proper that I felt like curtsying. For once I decided to use my full name. “I’m Gertrude Brown.”
His eyebrow shot up and he leaned forward, as if he hadn’t heard me. I suppose even to a Brit it was an unusual name.
“I’m named after my great-aunt Gertrude, who lived here. My friends call me Trudy.”
Whatever I said seemed to please him. A full grin spread across his very appealing pale lips. “My friends call me Kit. Christopher was my uncle.”
Something in common and we’d only known each other for two minutes. “Pleased to meet you, Kit.” I held out my hand.
“Likewise, Trudy.”
There must have been static from that pile of old books. A shock ran up my arm when our hands touched. We both jumped back, surprised.
And my towel dropped.
* * *
Nudity was an embarrassing predicament when I was young. I avoided it in the locker rooms during gym just like every other teenage girl. But when I was nineteen, I spent two years in California, working at various auto garages in the Castro and Haight-Ashbury districts of San Francisco. There, I learned that clothing was a socially constructed idea that I had been taught from an early age. I didn’t walk the streets nude every day like some of the characters I befriended. But I enjoyed the freedom of participating in several events to celebrate the natural state of the human body.
At first it had been awkward. But by the time I participated in the “World Naked Bike Ride” and “Saint Stupid’s Day Parade” I found nudity to be fun and enlightening. Among the sea of short, large, hairy, and sagging bodies, I learned that my own lanky, small breasted body was just as normal as everyone else’s. It was liberating.
When my towel dropped, I picked it up and kept going. “Come on in. I can’t offer you a seat. But I can offer you a book.”
The dog ran ahead of me and barked at Kit to follow. He wiggled so much that I had to nudge him so we could pass through the door.
Kit seemed to be having trouble keeping up. He kept sucking in air and clearing his throat. I took pity and rewrapped the towel more firmly.
Making extra room for my guest, I kicked several books out of the way. When I turned around, it was to find that Kit had taken a great deal of interest in the back door and its hinges. His ears were red.
“The towel’s back.”
When he pivoted toward me the sun caught his glasses and I couldn’t see his expression. Whatever embarrassment lingered disappeared the moment he noticed the books that filled every corner of the room.
“Good Lord.”
“Simply shocking,” I concurred in my best British accent.
He ignored my impersonation and scanned the room. “This is . . . impossible.”
“Impossible? I’d call it many things. Ridiculous. Outrageous. But impossible? I’m not getting that same frequency, Kit.”
He climbed over a pile of books near the door that separated the front and back room to get a better view of the store. “It could take years to go through all these books.”
“I sure hope you’re wrong. I’m giving it a few weeks.”
“Your aunt lived here?”
“It wasn’t quite so bad fourteen years ago. It was a bookstore. Used and new. She had a lot of books even then. But they were neatly piled up in the shelves and in stacks. Now it looks like there was a great big earthquake.”
“What on earth happened?”
“Squatters, supposedly. Although I have a feeling the property management neglected it until I claimed the old place. The upstairs apartment is just as bad. I made it into the shower, however, as you can see.”
The old collie had taken to Kit. He sniffed his private parts.
“Hi girl.” Kit patted his head and tried to redirect his nose.
“Boy.”
“Sorry.”
“Everyone does that because he is so pretty.”
“What’s his name?” He stroked an apparent sensitive spot behind the dog’s ear. I was almost j
ealous as I watched the dog melt in his large hands.
“He doesn’t have a name.”
“That’s odd.”
Kit returned his attention to the books. He reached down, stacking them into neat little piles. He seemed on edge as he straightened the books at an inhuman speed. Maybe he really was a librarian.
“Are you looking for something?” I moved closer and kicked a large book—with a picture of Martha Stewart on the cover—out of my way.
“No. No—yes, actually.” He stopped and adjusted his collar. “Sorry. I should have explained earlier. When I saw the books littered in the alley, I couldn’t help myself. Are they yours?”
“Not if I can help it.” I tilted my head and read the spine of the book he held. It took me a moment to make out the words. “Naked Birds and Antelopes?”
“You mean Native Birds of North America?”
I felt heat creep to my face. “Hmm. You like that stuff?”
“Yes. Especially books on literature . . .” He blinked. “And uh . . . things about the region. Logging. Local customs . . . famous authors.” He searched my face. “Even ornithology like this,” he added weakly.
A long, tangled strand of hair was dripping down my neck. I flipped my head back and forth to get rid of the excess moisture. “Or-nith—what was that?”
“Ornithology. The study of birds.” He said it as if I should know the word.
“Oh.” I couldn’t hide the disappointment in my voice. Nothing like a discussion on birds and books to cut off my estrogen.
He was handsome in a very Britishy sort of way. But a bit of a weeny, after all. I wasn’t one to judge, of course. But my personal preference ran to cars and engines and anything that I could explore without the need for a manual. Usually men who liked that stuff came with tattoos and bulging muscles.
His eyelids lowered to where my towel had slipped. Was that fog on his glasses? Or maybe he was trying to figure out if he would make it out of this place alive. Since it was clear there was no danger of him being a serial killer, I nodded my head toward the stairs. “Come on upstairs. You can take anything you want. I’m guessing Aunt Gertrude saved the best books for her own apartment.”
The Bookshop on Autumn Lane Page 3