He followed me up the wooden steps. My towel wasn’t the fluffy kind that reached the knees. It was the standard “one size fits all” from the dollar store. I was well aware that I was somewhat exposed to the man behind me. I didn’t care about my nudity, but goose bumps broke out on the backs of my arms anyway. I was probably just cold. Still, was he peeking? I turned my head sharply. The top of his head and the back of his neck were all that was visible as he concentrated on each step.
I waved my hand when we reached the top of the steps. “Here we are.”
He stepped in front of me and took in the view. He passed his hand over his eyes. His cheeks were ruddy and red. I’d never seen someone so excited about books. Yep. I was definitely safe with him.
“I’m pretty sure I saw several books with birds on the cover near the window. Go ahead and look. Take anything you see. I’ll finish getting dressed,” I said, unwrapping my towel and grabbing my suitcase. I was bothered by my virginal reaction on the stairs. Just to prove I was still the same “Anything Goes Trudy” my San Francisco friends called me, I left the door to the bathroom open as I changed. I heard Kit Darlington clearing his throat and then the unmistakable sound of books and clutter being moved about.
“What brings you here?” I pulled on my dollar-store panties with pink pandas all over them. There was a pause and I wondered if he heard me. “What are you doing in Truhart?”
“Research.”
“Really? On birds?”
Another silence. “Ahhh . . . that and more.” He sneezed.
“Are you allergic to dogs?” I stepped into my leggings.
“Dust.”
“Sorry. Everything in this place is dusty. It’s been sitting for almost a year.” I slipped my arms into an oversized olive-green tunic I bought at a secondhand shop in New York a few years ago. He sneezed again.
“If you want, I can see if Aunt Gertrude has some apple cider.” I combed my fingers through my damp hair and moved into the main room.
He wasn’t where I had left him. He was scrutinizing a pile of books under the table in the living area. He jumped and turned with a guilty look on his face.
“I thought I saw another bird book.” He had nothing in his hands. “Apple cider, did you say?” His tone was so polite I wanted to offer him tea and crumpets. What was it with the English? They were so proper it made you lift your pinky finger and straighten your posture when you were around them.
I smoothed the front of my shirt. “Apple cider. You can mix it with water and drink it three times a day. It helps all the mucous and stuff that come with allergies.”
“I have an antihistamine for allergies.”
“Those aren’t good for you, you know. All those chemicals are bad for your body. At the very least you should use a neti pot.”
I moved close and turned my back to him. “Do you mind?”
“Mind what?”
“Can you button that top button in back? It’s so much easier when I have someone to help me.”
I lifted my wet hair and felt his warm hands at the base of my neck. That same rush I felt on the stairs traveled down my back. Only this time it didn’t feel like goose bumps. It felt like velvet.
I stepped away and turned toward him. I could see a smattering of blond hair on his lower arms where he had rolled up his sleeves in perfect folds that must have taken many years of practice. I shouldn’t be attracted to him at all. He was way too clean-cut. But he wasn’t totally nerdy. The deep blue eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses and the square jaw that needed a shave proved that. I giggled. I was being ridiculous. I mean, he was into birds!
An old boyfriend of mine had been into birds too. Our last day together he told me he was going for a walk in the woods. He returned holding a gun and a half-dozen sparrows upside down as if they were weeds. He made fun of my horror and claimed they were the rats of the sky. It still made my blood run cold to think I had slept with the man.
I narrowed my eyes. “What exactly do you like about birds?”
“Birds? Ah . . . I am fascinated by birds. Specific ones that are . . . native to this area.”
“Really? You mean like where they can be found so you can shoot them or like their mating rituals and stuff?”
“I don’t own a gun or shoot anything. And I always find mating rituals fascinating.” His eyes wandered to the front of my sweater. I hadn’t bothered with a bra. There was nothing there. I was almost as flat as he was.
He coughed.
“You better be careful with those allergies, Kit.” I pulled my hair into a loose knot.
He moved to the back window and cleared his throat. “Is that your car outside?”
“Yup. That’s Lulu.”
“Lulu?”
“She’s a classic.”
He put his hand over his mouth, but I could see a smile. “You named your car but not your dog?”
“Well, he’s not really my dog. And Leo named the car. A long time ago.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Brother.” Leo had been gone for several years and thinking about my only sibling still made my chest hurt.
“What are you going to do with all of this?” He studied every piece of junk in the room. Even a basket with papers falling out. He lifted the stack and peeked between the sheets.
“When I first saw this mess, I briefly considered calling that TV show about hoarders to come over and check it out. But I’m pretty sure that will take more time than I actually have.”
“Time?”
“Yup. It’s all going in the trash as soon as I get a dumpster here.”
His head jerked up. “What?” He backed up against a large pile of books, almost falling over. “Do you mean you are throwing all these books away?”
“That’s the plan.”
“You are going to take them by the handful and toss them?” He uttered each word separately. His tall frame blocked the sunlight from the window. With the light coming behind him, he reminded me of my father when I left vegetables on my dinner plate.
Out of habit I stood up straighter. “Yes.” The word sir had been on the tip of my tongue.
But the mirage ended when Kit sank down until he was sitting on a book stack. “Let me understand this, Trudy. You want to throw all the books in this bookshop away?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I had the urge to apologize for disappointing him. “I know it isn’t PC. That’s politically correct, in case you don’t have that term in England. Everyone loves the idea of bookstores and the nostalgic memories of getting lost in the stacks and reading Nancy Hardy or the Drews or”—his face was blank—“or whatever kids liked in England when you grew up. And I know how romantic bookstores are in movies. But I can’t afford the walk down memory road.”
“Because?”
“Because I have a building to sell. And a trip to Asia to plan. Books don’t sell anymore. Everyone knows that.”
“That isn’t technically true.”
“I spent the summer here fourteen years ago. We had no more than ten people who regularly shopped in this place.” I paused and thought about it. “I guess I should be fair. I never hung around long enough to take notice. And this town isn’t exactly Boston. Have you seen the other buildings on Main Street? Nothing sells in this town unless it has an engine and runs on dirt, snow, or water.”
“I hear they’re trying to change things.”
“Are they still talking about a community center? They were talking about that fourteen years ago.”
Adjusting his position, he pulled a book from beneath him. He checked out the title and opened the first page, then set it aside. “Exactly what do you have against books?”
“Nothing. They make great seats.”
He stood up and grabbed a book from an overflowing laundry basket. “Why the rush? I mean, there are probably some splendid books in this space.”
“I thought about that. But most of these books are used. There isn’t much value
in this place except for the property it sits on.” Even that was sketchy, judging by the empty buildings on Main Street.
His gaze floundered around the room, as if he were having a panic attack. Poor guy. A sensitive type. He ran a hand over his chin. “Wasn’t there a—a famous author who used to live around here?”
“Who cares about that old dude?”
“A lot of—” He lowered his chin and stopped himself. “You should consider other options. Charities are always looking for books. And there are surely other uses for them.”
“Finding a home for everything here would take months.”
“Not really. It’s all the things that aren’t books that are causing the biggest eyesore.” His voice was husky now. He had moved closer as we talked. A hint of cologne mixed with something else was making me want to lick him. If heat had an aroma, that was the other ingredient I smelled.
I shook my head and stepped away. “No. I want it cleared out quickly. Then I can sell it.”
“What’s the rush?”
“Travel. Life. It’s all waiting for me.”
He didn’t respond. His glasses were in his hand and he was scanning the disintegrating volume that had broken apart in his hand. He rifled through several loose papers, the smile gone from his face.
“Everything all right?”
He mumbled something to himself.
“Earth to Kit?” I said again.
His blue eyes darted my way and I was struck by their intensity. A gust of wind sent the curtains billowing and knocked over the broom. As suddenly as the breeze came up, it disappeared.
Kit blinked, coming back from where he had been a moment ago. He walked over and righted the broom.
“Thank you. I’m going to get settled this afternoon and start cleaning out again tomorrow.”
Kit gazed around with the same hungry expression the dog did when I unwrapped my fruit leather earlier. I took pity and offered him a crumb. “Feel free to stop by any time before I empty this place. You see a book you want? It’s yours.”
He put a finger to his lip. “I might do that.”
He was almost at the bottom of the stairs when I called down to him. “Hey!”
He turned around.
“You forgot your bird books.” I held out several that he had put aside earlier.
“Oh yes, of course.” He ran up the steps and took them from me. “I almost forgot.”
The sound of his footsteps going back down the back stairs were slow and deliberate. He took his time leaving. When I heard the back door close, I peeked out the window and caught him looking in the trash again.
Academics were such obsessive sorts. In love with the written word. Too bad. The dog leaned against my leg. His companionship was much more my style. Limited vocabulary. Simple needs.
Beyond the alley came a sweetly captivating melody. A tiny yellow-breasted bird flapped its wings from where it was perched on a low-lying jack-pine branch. It was beautiful with its bright-colored breast and a dark mask around its eyes. I checked to see if Kit had seen it. But he was looking down at the books at his feet.
Chapter 4
The old collie sat down, cocked his head, and whined. With those dark eyes rimmed by graying fur, he looked at me like I was supposed to know what he was thinking. I hated it when he did that. Human speak was tough enough. But dog speak did not come naturally to me. Since we’d been together, I worked hard to interpret his sounds and gestures. Usually I figured he was hungry. But a nagging sense that I wasn’t understanding him kept bothering me.
I ruffled his ears. “Come on, carnivore dog. Let’s find you some meat!” Poor thing. It would have gone easier on him if he had been thrust on a meat-loving person who lived on acres of green grass and had sheep to chase. But he was stuck with a homeless vegan like me.
I left the doors unlocked, hoping for a book thief, and headed toward the one restaurant in town that appeared to be open. Along the way, we passed the vacant grocery store that abutted the bookstore. The sign above the door was gone now. It had been called something like Kreap’s Grocery Store when I lived here, but I always thought of it as Creepy’s. Not because I couldn’t read the name properly, but because it was dark and empty, even then. A Laundromat called the Sit and Spin stood on the corner. If Aunt Gertrude’s washing machine in the cellar didn’t work, that would be handy. On the opposite corner stood a small building with a sign that read Colon Cleaners. That stopped me in my tracks until I saw the faded outline of a Y at the end of Colon. At least someone in this town had a sense of humor.
The other stores on Main Street were few and far between. False clapboard fronts were the genius of some 1970s architect who should have been run out of town. It was supposed to evoke a lumber-town character, but instead it made Truhart feel like a Western ghost town. The only thing missing was a tangled ball of tumbleweed rolling down the street.
The end of Main Street was the only place that showed signs of life. Cookee’s Diner, the sign on the roof read. Several cars parked in angled spots in front guaranteed people, and the smell of something cooking on the griddle promised a tasty treat for my furry friend. I hoped they would have something for me. Even in a large city, it wasn’t always easy to find food with no milk products, eggs, or honey. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like in a small town like Truhart.
I knelt down in front of the dog. I didn’t own a leash. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have tied him to it. Not after the way I found him.
“Stay if you want to keep hanging with me, dude. Otherwise, good luck.” He raised his ears and tilted his head. He had heard me say that before. Yet he always waited exactly where I left him when I returned. Old faithful. He might be old and wimpy, but he was going to make someone a great companion someday.
A bell above the door jingled. The soothing aroma of coffee and the haze of fried food filled the diner. Beside a front window were three large booths covered in faded blue vinyl. I glanced up at a sign above the counter: Large Booths for 3 or More, and felt a kinship with the two men sitting at the largest booth at the end of the counter. I loved people who ignored the rules.
A tall, balding man stood behind the counter. He was dressed in a white T-shirt, white pants, and a large apron that said If you don’t like my cooking lower your standards. He greeted me. “Our waitress isn’t back from picking up her granddaughter. But I can help you when you decide what you want. Whatever you want, we can fix it. But we try to impress our newer customers by giving them menus.” He handed me a menu, then returned to the other end of the counter. The men in the booth were arguing. The cook got in on the debate.
While they talked, I pretended to read the menu.
“—I don’t care if the county looks like a cesspool, I’m not paying more taxes to make the mayor’s wife feel like she lives in Paris,” argued a wiry, white-haired man wearing a faded plaid button-up under gray coveralls.
“I agree. But a community center and a better-looking downtown might attract more business and summer tourists,” said the cook.
“We’ve got an ice cream stand and putt-putt golf. That’s all they need, Mac,” said a small, angular-faced man. He wore the same kind of gray overalls as the man across the booth from him.
“The lake is our big attraction. Not some sort of chic shopping district,” said his buddy.
“Did you just use the word chic?” asked the cook.
The white-haired man looked over at me and winked. “I learned it from my wife. Every time she watches that HGTV channel, she moves furniture around and paints a room.”
The cook pointed at me with a greasy spatula. “We need a woman’s perspective. You’re not going to defend that, are you? Chic is a stupid word.”
I raised palms toward them to show I took no offense. “I don’t own a couch to move or a TV to watch, so no defending here.”
“A lady after my own heart,” the cook said, lifting a spoon in the air. “Now food is different. Definitely worth spending time and money on.
What can I get you, my dear?”
“How about oatmeal and coffee?”
His mouth turned down.
I looked outside and saw my friend, with those two furry ears and dark eyes of longing, looking through the door. “To go, if you don’t mind. No butter, no cream or milk.”
The cook reached for a pot from the rack and turned to the stove. “Breakfast so late? Are you sure? You’re tall but you look like a good wind could blow you over. Can I fix you an omelet and hash browns on the side?”
“No thanks, I don’t eat eggs.”
“Allergies, huh?” he asked over his shoulder.
“No, vegan.”
That made him stop with his spoon in the air. “Vegan?”
“Isn’t that some sort of weird satanic ritual?” one of the men at the booth said. The other man chuckled.
The cook stepped in front of me and lowered his body until his elbows rested on the counter. “I have never met an actual vegan. I’ve certainly never cooked for one. What don’t vegans eat again?”
“Meat, fish, poultry, or any other animal by-products.”
“Eggs?”
“None.” I shook my head. My no-egg policy had already been established, but I knew I’d have to say it again until it sank in.
“Is it because they are a rooster away from being baby chicks? You do know that the eggs aren’t fertilized, don’t you, honey?” He said it as if I was ten years old and finding out the truth about Santa Claus.
“I know. It’s because I like and I respect chickens.”
“So do we. I respect a good chicken sandwich,” said one of the men at the booth. They both laughed. I was used to it. I crossed my arms and sighed.
“No egg-eating at all, huh?”
“No eggs.”
The cook’s dark eyes, framed by thick eyebrows with wayward strands of hair, made him look kind. I didn’t want to insult his own views on food and animals.
The Bookshop on Autumn Lane Page 4