The Bookshop on Autumn Lane

by Cynthia Tennent

  “Am I going to owe you a tip for bringing me coffee and finding me a seat?”

  He scanned the room. “I kept thinking about you and this horrendous mess. I thought I would see if you needed a hand this morning.”

  “This place could use a dozen hands to get it cleaned up. But you don’t have to help me, you know.” I lowered myself and lifted the lid, inhaling the beautiful smell of java.

  “It’s no problem t’all. Just sit, relax, and tell me where to get started.”

  “This isn’t normal for me.”

  “Drinking coffee?”

  “No. I’ve never known a man who wanted me to sit while he cleaned.”

  “What kind of duffers have you been dealing with?”

  I smiled into my coffee at the term. “Not too many of the good kind of duffers, I guess.” For the past year, I had been reminding myself of all the reasons why I never wanted to hook up with a man again. Now they weren’t just creeps, losers, assholes, and tools. They were duffers too. I would add that term to my vocabulary. I worked hard at using appropriate and interesting words. It helped to make up for all the times I mixed them up by accident.

  I watched him from the corner of my eye as he stacked books against the wall. He tilted each spine sideways so he could see the cover. Then he placed them into piles.

  I waved my cup at the floor in the middle of the room. “Just make an aisle in the center of the floor so I can move. Throw everything in a pile against the wall.”

  “You can’t treat books that way!”

  “Why not?”

  He stopped. “You aren’t getting a dumpster yet, are you?”

  I took another sip. “No. Not yet. But I thought I would start throwing some of these books away now. This stuff is ancient. I’m pretty sure there are travel books from the 1950s in that pile. Can you imagine what would happen if someone tried to take one of those to New York or L.A.?”

  “They’d be looking for streetcars and the Knickerbocker Building.” He relaxed and went back to work.

  “Ooh-la-la. History. I’m impressed.”

  He shrugged. “It’s ingrained since birth. Everywhere you turn in England there’s a history lesson waiting for you. It gets rather tiresome after a while.”

  “Is that why you studied birds?”

  “I didn’t—no.”

  “I was wondering: How does one make a living in or-tho-lo-g-y?”

  His smile froze at the mention of his specialty. “Or-nith-ology.”

  “That’s what I said. You didn’t hear me correctly.” I looked down at my coffee and swirled it violently. I hated the way I always mixed up words.

  “I’m not a—well, I’m actually a professor. Of American . . . uh, studies. I’m on sabbatical until January. Maybe longer.”

  I scrunched up my face and shuddered. “A professor? I should have known.”

  He raised his head. “Are you making fun of me?”

  I waved my cup and took a big sip. “No, of course not. So where do you teach?”

  “Cambridge.” He mumbled it so matter-of-factly that I almost choked.

  “No shit,” I sputtered. “Should I call you Professor or Doctor or something?”

  “Please don’t. Only my students call me doctor.”

  I imagined him in front of the chalkboard, with a classroom of female students sighing and writing I Love You in the margin of their notes. Even I would be tempted to go to school if he was the professor. “Dr. Darlington. Nice!”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Makes me sound like a total prat, doesn’t it?”

  “Don’t take it too badly. It’s better than your lordship.”

  “Oh, so you’ve heard that one?”

  “Hard to ignore it when everyone I meet in this town mentions you. What is that all about? I mean, I know you’re British. But how did they make the leap to calling you my lord?”

  He tilted his head, trying to read one of the titles, and mumbled. “I keep telling them to stop.” He picked up another book. “Perhaps you should organize this. It might help if you decide to give books away. I’ll stack fiction in the shelves against this wall, and we can put nonfiction on the other side. If we come across children and young adult, let’s put it in the back shelves.”

  “Why not just throw it in the alley? Trash comes in a few days.”

  He steepled his fingers to his lips as if weighing his words carefully. “Trudy, may I respectfully suggest that you give it a little time? Sell the books cheaply. Or give them away if you prefer. There are a number of charitable organizations that would love to receive books.”

  “I wasn’t planning to—”

  He narrowed his eyes and focused on my T-shirt. “It is the responsible thing to do for the environment.”

  Now he had me. I had been guilted. Since the moment I decided to throw the books in a dumpster, I had been faced with a nagging sense that I was doing something wrong. I was the queen of vintage shopping, garage sales, and thrifting. Growing up, we had moved so much that giving away our clothes, toys, and household items to other military families was a way of life. Everything was recycled.

  He straightened and came toward me. “You will spend about five hundred dollars on a dumpster, right? At least cover the cost by trying to sell some of this. And think about it. You could help all those kids and their families who have no books to read.”

  I crossed my arms. “I don’t have that much time.”

  He squatted in front of me until we were eye to eye. “Asia, is it?”

  “Angkor Wat. I’ve wanted to go since I was thirteen.” But with my mom.

  “Isn’t it still the rainy season in Southeast Asia?”

  “It’s almost over.”

  “Then you have time. It’s only September. The next rainy season doesn’t start again until late spring.”

  He was probably right. I wasn’t crazy about the lowball offer from Reeba Sweeney’s client. And no one else was banging down the door to see the place. But I wasn’t ready to give in just yet. Unfortunately, the prospect of staying in Truhart any longer gave me the creeps.

  “Why do you care so much?”

  “It was just a suggestion.” He stood up and bit his lip. The sunlight hit his glasses, obscuring his eyes. “Do you mind if I stop in sometimes and look around? Your aunt may have some—ah—inter-esting books that might help me in my research on the area.”

  “What are you researching? Midwestern ghost towns?”

  “Old logging towns of the Midwest. Turn-of-the-century culture.” He grabbed a pile of books and sorted them.

  “And birds?”

  “That too.” He grabbed a stack of books at his feet.

  “Hey, I didn’t promise anything.”

  “Certainly.” There was a new spring in his step as he moved around the room.

  “You look happy.”

  “There’s nothing better than spending the day among books—at least for me.”

  This was going to stink! The last thing I wanted to do was play librarian. But it made sense. If I got it organized, we could open up the doors and have one gigantic fire sale. I’d make enough pocket change to pay for a dumpster. Maybe even lure a tempted buyer in the process. Then it was off to Southeast Asia. The one place I could lose myself and find myself at the same time.

  I set my coffee on the window ledge. “If I do decide to sell the books I would give it one week. No more.”

  “Mmm.” He wasn’t listening to me. I watched him leafing through a pile of papers and thought of a million excuses not to get near anything that resembled a book.

  “Maybe I should get the broom and start sweeping.”

  “No sense in doing that until we have more floor space for you to actually sweep.”

  “Who knows what we’ll find underneath this stuff.” Maybe he was the squeamish sort. “Watch out for mice. We might have to remove some residents who weren’t included in the will.”

  He glanced up. “I can get some mousetraps for you this
afternoon.”

  I recoiled. “Traps? No way. That’s cruel! I’m sure I can find a way to shoo them out the door without snapping their heads off.”

  He looked over at the dog, who was asleep near a stack of magazines. “Your nameless dog isn’t doing his job if there are mice around.”

  “He’s no longer nameless. A little girl fixed that yesterday. Meet Moby. And he wouldn’t hurt a fly, poor old boy.”

  Kit reached over and rubbed his ears. Moby rolled over onto his side and lifted a paw, happy to be scratched. “He’s a sweet chap. How did you two find each other?”

  I didn’t feel like going into the whole story. “We were both going in the same direction. Away.”

  “Moby. Hmm. Funny name. But it suits him, I think.”

  He turned back to work and I pretended to be busy cleaning off my pants. After several more minutes of stalling, he pointed to a heap nearby. “If you clear that area, you’ll be able to get to the front door easier.”

  “You’re really into this. It’s so pointless,” I moaned. I started the slow process of organizing books anyway.

  Minutes felt like hours as I slowly sorted and stacked. The mid-day sun was high by the time I placed a book in the children’s pile.

  Kit reached out and stopped me. “That goes in the adult pile.”

  I pointed at the cartoon on the cover. “It’s a kids’ book. There’s a cartoon on the cover.”

  “Nope. Breakfast of Champions. Kurt Vonnegut. You’ve heard of him, right?”

  I scoffed, “Who hasn’t?”

  He sat back on his heels. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Don’t be silly. Every semiliterate person on this side of the pond knows him.” I looked down at the sandy hair that covered his arm and swallowed. My head was pounding and I felt the sting of frustration behind my eyelids. “We’ve been at this for ages. Maybe I should get started upstairs. The apartment is what really needs cleaning first.”

  He studied my face. “That would be fine.”

  I stepped around him and almost tripped on the children’s pile, as if the books were reaching out their manacled hands on purpose.

  I heard Kit behind me. “Uh, are you all right?”

  “I’m getting a headache.”

  “We could both use a break soon.” He followed me.

  “I’m only working a bit longer, then I have to grocery-shop.”

  “I’ll help you get started in the living area,” he said as we reached the top of the stairs.

  “Suit yourself. Maybe you should have gone into the cleaning business instead of teaching.” He ignored my grumpy comment.

  Glad to have something besides words and titles to distract me, I moved aside a stack of paper grocery bags and opened a cabinet. Cleaning was not my favorite task. I was always grateful I didn’t own a home to tidy. I would have to get used to the fact that I did now. At least temporarily.

  Plastic cups, mugs, and glasses of all sizes lined the shelf. It was messy, but in the scheme of things it was the most normal-looking part of the apartment. Above the glasses a fine coat of dust covered the old Corelle dishes I remembered from years ago. I grabbed one of the five dish soaps under the sink and filled the basin with warm, soapy water. When I finished, I threw in the pots and pans and the utensils. Then I cleaned off the shelves. It was good to work with dishes. They had no pages or words.

  Kit had cleared enough room on the couch to sit. I set the last dish in the wire rack and plopped down on the couch. “Let’s take a break.” Kit sank down next to me and I raised my eyebrow. “No sneezes this time?”

  “I went to the chemist and bought antihistamines before coming this morning.” Seeing the disapproval, he smiled and stretched out his long legs. “Don’t get cheeky with me, now. I don’t have time for homeopathic remedies. I happen to like instant relief like the rest of the world.”

  “Do you know how many chemicals you put into your body with that pill?”

  “Almost as many as you put on the doorknob.”

  “Touché.”

  “Don’t speak French. It gives me indigestion.”

  “Typical Brit.” Was I flirting?

  He gazed at me from lowered lashes. “No need to be sarcastic now. I get the impression that you are not enjoying this.”

  “Sorry, my aversion to cleaning is almost as strong as my aversion to this store.”

  “What did you do for a living before you came here?”

  “I worked for several touring bands and theater companies.”

  “You’re an actress?”

  “Oh right.” I let the sarcasm drip off my words. “Do I look like an actress?”

  His eyes wandered from the top of my head to my boots and I felt as if a spotlight were raking me. “Well, with your titian hair and dark eyes you do remind me a bit of that actress who starred in that movie about the, ahh—lady of the night. The one who lived in the hotel with the man and then she turned classy.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. But I loved the word titian.

  “There was that scene with her in the tub and headphones on.”

  “You mean Pretty Woman?”

  “That sounds like the one.”

  “Ha! An old boyfriend used to say the same thing. But my hair is much redder and, well—my boobs don’t even have cleavage half the time.”

  “Yes they do. I mean, no!” He removed his glasses, trying not to look at my chest and I saw a hint of red creeping up his neck. “So . . . you aren’t an actress. What exactly do you do in these theater companies?”

  “I’m a techie. I run the light boards and help with the sound engineering. Sometimes I even help the carpenters with the set design.”

  Surprise split his face into a smile. “Really?”

  “You sound like you don’t believe me. Girls can be mechanics and engineers these days, Professor.”

  He dismissed my tone. “No. It’s just that—pardon me if this sounds like I’m whinging, but aren’t plays part of the arts, like books and literature? Your idea to toss these books in the trash is a bit like throwing your livelihood in the trash, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose you could think about it that way. But plays and movies are alive. At least to me. Books and I don’t get along, though. My aunt always forced these super-boring books down my throat. I was here less than two years, but it was awful. She never owned a television or let me go to the movies in Gaylord. It was always ‘sit and read.’ ” I did a fairly good imitation of my aunt. She had been a large-boned woman with buggy eyes and a shrill voice that still popped into my dreams, turning them into nightmares.

  He was quiet for a moment. “Maybe she wanted you to learn to love books. Lots of people do. I do.”

  I slapped him on the knee. “I won’t hold that against you.” Beneath my fingers, I felt surprisingly well-defined quadriceps. I lifted my hand, trying not to let him see how his nearness affected me.

  “So, tell me about this aunt of yours. If you disliked her so much, how is it you came to inherit the store?”

  I put my head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. “It was revenge.”

  “I don’t quite follow.”

  “When my mom died, my emotionally challenged father dumped my brother and me on my great-aunt Gertrude. He had to return to duty overseas. Never having raised kids herself, she was at a loss with teenagers. My brother was seventeen by then. Able to fend for himself. But me, I was thirteen. Almost fourteen. Awkward. Used to being among other girls who understood the perils of being uprooted by the military every year.” I was also disappointingly stupid. At least, that’s what my aunt said. I now knew what my condition was called. But back then, I had never been in one school long enough for anyone to figure it out.

  “Why didn’t she give the store to someone else? Your brother or your dad?”

  I didn’t want to talk about Leo. “It would have made sense to give the store to my father. But Dad remarried and then retir
ed back in the States. If there was one person Aunt Gertrude hated more than me, it was Dad’s new wife.”

  “That bad?”

  “No. She’s a sweetheart. But she isn’t American. Aunt Gertrude thought she married Dad for a visa.”

  “Blasted foreigners. So, I guess you were the only logical choice.”

  “If she were nicer, Aunt Gertrude would have given it to the town. But revenge was more her style. Even in death she wants me to read.”

  “So . . .” He frowned at the glasses in his hands. I probably sounded ungrateful. “Your aunt never married? I heard some rumor about a writer in town . . .”

  “Oh, that. Yeah. It’s crazy, but Aunt Gertrude had an affair with a famous writer when she was younger. Have you ever heard of Robin Hartchick?” It always freaked me out to imagine Aunt Gertrude having sex. To me, she was nothing but a prune with female parts. But she actually had a lover once. Good thing I had already finished my coffee, because picturing Aunt Gertrude in the same bed I slept in—doing stuff—well, it would have made me gag.

  “What happened?”

  I laughed. “She was dumped!”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’m almost positive that he was the only lover she ever had.”

  “That’s very sad.”

  “She was like twenty when the affair happened. I haven’t thought about it for a long time. I guess she was younger than I am now.”

  “A young, impressionable small-town woman and a worldly author. One could almost feel sorry for her.”

  “If you knew Aunt Gertrude, you’d feel more sorry for him.”

  Kit gazed at me with a strange intensity. “You don’t mean that.”

  I wanted to stick his glasses back on. Maybe it was easy to understand the power an attractive, worldly male could have on a young woman. The difference was that I was older and more experienced than Aunt Gertrude had been. If I wanted to—which I didn’t—I could have a fling and move on without being wounded in the least. But I was in a long celibate phase of my life at the moment.

  Kit studied his fingernails. “Robin Hartchick. Come to think of it, I did hear he spent his summers in Michigan. Spring Solstice is considered one of the greatest pieces of twentieth-century fiction. He wrote only one book . . . supposedly.” He paused. “She never heard from him again?”