Kit Darlington tasted like I imagined a home would taste.
Chapter 9
The next morning someone knocked at the back door. I looked down at Mickey. He pointed to the nine with his short arm. “Let me in. I come bearing gifts.”
I met Kit at the back door and Moby practically tackled him in his excitement. So did I.
“I missed you too, boy,” said Kit. He handed me a takeout bag. “How did you sleep?”
“Fine . . .” I grabbed the bag and sat on the stairs, watching Kit take a sip from what I assumed was coffee, not tea. “Except for being horny half the night.”
He sputtered and almost sprayed a cookbook.
Last night I had dreamed of playing naked tug-of-war with Kit along the shores of Echo Lake, only to wake up at dawn, tangled in the sheets and kissing the pillow. I lay on my side and stared at the shadows of tree branches gyrating up and down like lovers.
“Hey, look.” I pulled out a bowl and a covered cup with handwritten labels. “Muesli and almond milk.”
“Mac seems to—ah, like you,” Kit said, wiping his mouth. “He prepared it just for you.”
“And a banana,” I said, pulling it out of the bag and putting it up to my mouth, licking my lip in a not-so subtle way.
Kit pulled off his glasses and pretended to wipe them on his shirttail. I gave him a break and set the banana aside. “Having breakfast with you could become a lovely habit, Professor.”
I savored the nutty texture of the cereal. And Kit. He looked good enough to eat in his faded jeans and navy crew-neck sweater. His face had the shadow of a beard that gave him a rather un-professorly look this morning. “Has anyone ever told you that when you don’t shave you look like David Beckham?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Your imagination is amazing.” It made him look even more like Beckham, but I knew he was tired of the admiring masses.
I poured more almond milk into my bowl. “Okay. Okay. I’ll stop drooling over your macho looks and your cute little accent.”
“Who says it isn’t you who has an accent?” He made himself comfortable on a stack of old coffee-table books.
I raised the spoon to my mouth and considered Kit’s effect on women. At first I had been disgusted by the way the women followed him around town. But I was well aware of his charm up close. He was sweet and smart—and tolerant of everyone. I thought about the way he sat in the football stands last night, nodding as Marva asked him if he knew the queen. He shook hands and acknowledged every person that was introduced to him. I had watched closely, hoping to find some crack in the niceness facade he wore like a second skin. But I realized that Kit was the real deal. A nice man. A gentleman.
“Respect,” he had said last night. I wasn’t used to men like that.
Forget respect. I wanted to ride him like a rodeo cowgirl.
“So where do we start this morning?” he asked.
“How about where we left off last night?”
Kit waved a finger at me. “Your humor takes some getting used to.”
“Who said I was joking?”
His eyes widened. But his eyes lowered to my lips. “Take pity on me. I haven’t even finished my coffee.”
“All right. You want to know where we should start? How about we order a dumpster.”
“Be patient, old girl. Remember, if you get this place in order, you can hold your sale and toddle off to wherever you want to go.”
“Toddle?” I laughed. “That word just burst my David Beckham fantasy.” Not really, but I didn’t want him getting full of himself. I couldn’t figure out why he was so interested in helping me, but I was tired of trying to understand him. And it was nice to have company.
I looked around the back room. Things were looking better, I had to admit. After the past few days of working, I could see all the way into the front of the store. It reminded me of the way it used to look. There were still piles on the floor, but it was an organized chaos.
“The main floor is looking better.”
Kit rifled through a pile of papers and mumbled something to himself.
“What?”
He placed his glasses on top of his head to see the words in front of him. “Nothing. There is quite a bit of organizing that still needs doing.”
Although the shelves against the wall were full, books were still scattered in piles around the wood floors. We—or rather, Kit—had organized the corners of the main room by fiction and nonfiction and adult and child. That was as far as we had gotten. But there were aisles to walk down and it was enormously better than it had been. At least the store was no longer a firetrap.
“It looks fine to me.”
“Hmm. If you open for a large sale and really want your customers to find what they’re looking for quickly, you should categorize some of the books.”
“You mean like romance and erotica?”
That got his attention. He readjusted his position on the books. “Amusing, love. However, something tells me your aunt didn’t have much erotica.”
“Probably not. Hey, let’s categorize in an unconventional way. Something fun.”
He gave up what he was reading and scrutinized me patiently. “What would you suggest, Trudy?”
“By emotion. We can have the happy section, the funny section, the hungry section, and the sexy section.”
He pursed his lips. “Where would Shakespeare fit? He is a little bit of everything.”
“I don’t know. Maybe the section for people who like guys in tights.”
Kit tilted his head backward against the wall. “How about this? You eat. I’ll tackle the pile of papers in the corner.”
I leaned back on the step above me and watched Kit go through the papers. He sat on his pile of books and sorted the stack around him. I enjoyed the way his broad shoulders stretched the thin material of the sweater. For a tall, lean man, he was fairly muscular. I could see the outline of his biceps as he reached across the pile. His shoulders too. I wondered what he would look like with his shirt off. I knew a little about how his muscles would feel under my fingertips, but not enough. Putting the empty spoon in my mouth, I imagined the heat of his skin sliding across my tongue. Oh God. I fanned myself with my hand.
“Something wrong?” Kit turned to me.
“Nope. It’s just hot in here.”
“I’m cool. Are the windows open?”
“Hmm.” I bit the spoon and willed myself not to sweat.
“There’s a lot of random papers in this pile. Your aunt seems to have kept every bill she ever received. Book orders; a set of bookshelves she bought ten years ago. Even bills from bookbinders. Did she have a safe or anywhere else she might keep important documents?” he asked in a casual tone.
“Not that I can remember. Why?”
He kept his head down. “Just wondering. Some people have secret stashes of money or jewelry that they hide from everyone else. It would be very convenient for you if you suddenly discovered a hidden bank account.”
“Believe me, all her money was already given to the Furry Friends Rescue Shelter. If Aunt Gertrude was hiding something under all this junk, she most certainly forgot about it.”
“Like what? What might she hide? And what kind of things were already given away?” He stared at me. This serious line of questioning made me feel uncomfortable, for some reason.
“Why is this so important to you?”
He shrugged and went back to the papers. “Just wanted to help. Besides, I like books. Sometimes bookstores own first editions or other important documents. Could help my research.”
“That sounds like something from a Masterpiece Theatre plot. Maybe we’ll discover an original lumberjack diary from Paul Bunyan.”
I heard the sound of voices from outside. I leaned forward to see out the front window. The figures of three women were outlined in the glass, peering through with their hands around their eyes, blocking out the sun.
I pointed at Kit with my spoon. “Your coven is outside.”
/> Kit leaned out of view. “Don’t tell them I’m here.”
“Oh, come on. You love being the center of attention.”
“It’s embarrassing. Marva keeps asking if I am interested in selling a men’s line of beauty products.”
“With your looks and all that charm, you could.” He could make a mint.
He hit his palm on his head and rolled his eyes upwards. “Women!”
* * *
Three hours later, we sat on the floor at the rear of the main room. My head was pounding again and all thoughts of Kit and sex had disappeared.
I put my head in my hands. “I’ve had it with books. Most of this stuff is junk and you know it.” I was whining. But the thought of doing this much longer was making me feel sick.
“Think of them as more than just paper and binding.”
“What are they? Sugar and gold? You’re being ridiculous.”
Kit dropped a book in my lap. “Look, here is a book that you would appreciate.”
“Just tell me the title. My head hurts.”
“Practical Jokes and Other Nonsense.”
I picked it up and hurled it at him. “If someone has to actually read a book about jokes, they’ve already failed at comedy.”
“How do you know? You haven’t read it. Everything you want to throw out was crafted by someone. Each book is ideas and philosophy and imagination and . . . well, art!”
“You really think Practical Jokes and Other Nonsense is art?”
“To a comedian, yes.” He looked around for the book in question. Locating it in the pile at his feet he picked it up, opened it and started reading. “The aim of a joke is not to degrade the human being, but to remind him that he is already degraded.”
“That isn’t a joke.”
“Yes, it is. It’s on us.”
“It didn’t make me laugh. It made me feel sad.”
“Well, George Orwell said it,” he said, flipping the pages. “So he was thinking about all the dystopian philosophy.”
“Oh, great. dysto-thing. That’s really funny stuff.”
I moved to stand in front of Kit. “About all the things last night . . . I was angry and I said some things about books and reading. You can say what you want about my warped views, but you have to admit, some of the books that critics love the most are super-boring.”
“I don’t agree. Every book has some merit.”
I picked up a random book at my feet. I handed it to him. “Find something worthwhile somewhere in this.”
He turned it on its side to read the title: “Gather around Me by Gerry Stuckey. All right.” He flipped the pages of a book that looked like no one had cracked it open since it was first in print a century ago. He found something and smiled. “Here. ‘I lifted the hair from her neck and unbuttoned the pearl buttons one by one until I could see the base of her spine. Then—’ ”
“You’re making that up!”
“No, I’m not.” He held it out and continued reading. “ ‘Her landscape unfolded in curving folds of rapture. I was lost before the journey even began.’ ”
I was about to ask him to read more. Then I caught myself and sat back. “I’d rather watch the movie.”
“I got your attention, though. Didn’t I? You, of all people, should be the last person who wants to throw out old books.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t? You love old things. You’re sentimental. Where did you get those boots? And that old coat hanging on the back of the door?”
“That’s different. These clothes are still useful. Those books aren’t.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“Oh yeah? Do you see anyone else in this town banging down the door, trying to get to these books?”
“I guarantee you that once we tidy up and get this place in order, this store will be full of people.”
“You overestimate your powers. The only people I want banging down doors are the Realtors. Reeba Sweeney is coming back with another offer as soon as I clean up.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Just give me . . . give it time.”
“Time? Angkor Wat is waiting. I cleaned the magazines out of the tub and the cookbooks out of the oven. Upstairs things are starting to look normal.”
“There’s still a lot that needs doing.”
“Not really. I’ve fixed the door, taken down the old awning. I’m going to give the front window a fresh coat of paint. As soon as I make my way to the basement I’ll even be able to do my first load of real laundry. The store is almost ready to sell.”
Kit froze and his mouth dropped open. “Basement?”
“Don’t look so upset. I know it’s going to be an awful job. We can ignore whatever mess is down there and make a walkway to the washing machine . . . if it still works. I haven’t been down there at all.”
He bit his lip and stood up, gazing around the store. “I didn’t even see a set of stairs.”
“You can’t see the cellar entrance unless you go around the outside of the building. It’s hidden by brush and weeds. Reeba Sweeney’s agency was hired by the administrator of Aunt Gertrude’s trust to handle basic maintenance until they found me. They had the water and heater turned on for me. But that’s it. I’m pretty sure they let squatters live here. I’ve been avoiding the basement since I arrived.”
Kit looked down at the floor, as if he were imagining what could be down below us. “Well, there’s no time like the present.”
“I’m not finished here.”
He had the back door open and was out the door before I could say anymore.
I tossed the rest of the magazines in a plastic bag. Why was he so interested? That strange feeling of uneasiness returned. Moby and I followed him.
“Just because you offered to help the first day doesn’t mean you have to continue helping me clean Books from Hell. It’s a beautiful fall day. Perfect for bird-watching and other research.”
“What?” He stood outside and shifted his glasses to his nose absentmindedly. They caught the glare of the sun behind him and for a moment I couldn’t see his eyes. “—birds?”
“Yes.”
“They’re doing great.” He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s tackle the basement.”
“We really don’t have to do this.”
He walked around the corner. Leaves crunched under our feet and he found the area where weeds and bushes had grown over a set of faded blue cellar doors. I had forgotten to put my hair up today and the wind blew it around my face. I tried to control it while Kit reached into the bush and forced one side of the cellar door open. Moby jumped back and then moved forward, sniffing the opening.
“This isn’t locked?”
I shrugged. “I guess not.”
That seemed to bother him. “Why wouldn’t it be locked? Anyone could get in and steal from you.”
“How sad. They might take books.” I said it in a deadpan voice that caused him to look at me sharply.
“You are a smart aleck sometimes, Trudy, you know that?” he said with a frown before turning back to his task.
I grinned and watched his backside as he struggled with the cellar door. I could see the muscles outlined in his broad shoulders and looking lower I was gifted with even more of an eye treat.
I sighed. Here was that feverish feeling again. Maybe he would change his mind about “respect”. I had visions of the two of us wrapped around each other.
“Trudy?” Only the top half of Kit was visible now as he stared at me from several steps down the cellar. “You all right?”
I swallowed. “Fine.” Then I followed him into the recesses of hell.
“It’s a huge mess, isn’t it?” I asked descending the wooden stairs.
“Well, I guess we should have counted our blessings when we were working upstairs.” He pulled on a string that hung from a lightbulb. I gasped: There was junk everywhere. Old clothes racks, boxes, chairs, tables, and Christmas decorations made wit
h dried pasta.
“It didn’t used to look this way.” I don’t know how Aunt Gertrude could let things get so bad down here. The washing machine and dryer in the corner looked like they were built when Nixon was still president. All the room needed was a wringer and a crank.
“I guess I’ll just keep hand-washing or use the Sit and Spin,” I said. Bummer.
“You’re so handy. You could try to fix it.”
“I don’t have much experience with washing machines,” I explained.
“Is anybody down there?” I jumped at the sound of Marva’s voice.
“Of course there is, Marva, why else would it be open?” another familiar voice said.
Kit ran a hand over his face.
“You never know. The young people around here are always up to no good.”
I made a face at the women who couldn’t see us and called, “It’s just Trudy, hoping to be up to no good with Kit . . .”
“Up to what?” A thick ankle followed by a thicker set of thighs descended the ladder.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever been down here.” Marva O’Shea reached the bottom of the wooden stairs.
“Sure you have.” Flo’s head appeared, outlined by the morning sky at the opening of the cellar. “Remember the year Gertrude was in charge of storing the pop for fish fries at the Elks, Marva?”
Kit was looking at them like they had started speaking in a foreign language.
“Oh, now I remember,” Marva said. “Cripes almighty, but we had to let it de-thaw for hours in the winter. That was the last time we gave her that job. The only people who liked frozen pop in the middle of the winter were the Yoopers.”
“Aren’t you a Yooper?” Flo asked Marva.
“No, I’m from Cheboygan.” She held up her hand and pointed to the tip of her index finger.
Kit buried his chin in his neck and peered at me sideways, beseeching me to translate as if the women were speaking in tongues. I grinned. I remembered the Michigan lingo very well and explained it. “Pop is soda. The Elks is an organization that has fish fries on Fridays. De-thaw is de-ice. And Yoopers are the residents of the Upper Peninsula.”
The Bookshop on Autumn Lane Page 12