The Bookshop on Autumn Lane

by Cynthia Tennent

  I stormed off to search for more bags. Ten minutes later I was pocketing several dollars from a customer, when I saw Kit leaning over the shoulder of a gray-haired woman. I called across the store, “You look much better in person than you do on the sex-offenders web site, Professor.” The lady clutched her purse to her chest and ran out.

  Within a half hour a small crowd had gathered in the store. Mac and Joe were highly entertained by our banter. The usual Kit Darlington fan club thought it was some sort of game. Armed with the attention of the crowd, Kit had started his own counteroffensive. As people walked in, he asked them if they wouldn’t mind signing a disclaimer on behalf of the public-safety department before entering. The county wasn’t responsible for damages should the crazy lady inside insult anyone.

  He lifted his chin to one old man and showed him a bruise that I completely denied causing the day before.

  A familiar curly-headed blond held a book on gnomes to her chest and kneeled down on the ground, scratching a very happy Moby behind his ears.

  Kit joined her as if he owned the place. “Are you still interested in starting a book club, Elizabeth?”

  I stepped in front of Kit. “I’m calling the sheriff if you aren’t gone in ten minutes.”

  Elizabeth enthusiastically pulled her phone out of her purse. “I’ll do it for you. What do you want to say?”

  Corinne and Marva popped up from a nearby aisle. In fact, the whole store seemed to be waiting on the reason for our strange behavior. It was time to burst the illusion of Dr. Darlington.

  “Tell the sheriff that the imposter from Cambridge has been scoping out the bookshop looking for a lost manuscript by Robin Hartchick. I don’t want him on my property any longer.”

  Several women gasped. Mac snickered. “I thought something was odd with him.”

  Marva put her hand on her chest. “You aren’t a lord from England who is here to study the old logging culture?”

  Kit pressed his lips together. Fun and games were over. It was time that the rest of the people in town understood the deception.

  He turned in a circle and addressed the room. “I’m a professor from Cambridge. That’s not a lie.”

  I raised my chin. “But he’s not studying local culture. He’s looking for an imaginary book by Robin Hartchick.”

  Corinne spoke under her breath. “My nephew Richie told me all about it this morning. But I didn’t believe him.”

  While she filled everyone in on the situation, I stood with my arms crossed in front of me, staring at Kit. “I did warn you to leave.”

  “This isn’t finished, Trudy. We aren’t finished.”

  I walked over to the front door and held it open for him.

  He put his hands up and stepped backwards, all the way to the back door. He called from the back alley. “There. I’m off your property.”

  I walked through the store to the back door and slammed it in his face. Alone in the storage room, I leaned against the wall and let out a long breath. The power of connection. Kit had described beauty that way. I thought what we had was beautiful.

  What he forgot to mention is that with all that power also comes pain.

  * * *

  At the end of the day, only a few customers remained. Richie knelt in the corner scrounging for old Cliff’s Notes of Great Expectations that might help him in an English-lit class.

  “Richie, can you look something up on your phone for me?” I asked.

  He glanced over and bit his lip. “I don’t know, Ms. Brown. I feel kind of sorry for Dr. Darlington. Are you going to ‘out’ anyone else in town?”

  “No. Of course not. I need to make a phone call.” The shelves were slowly emptying. “All right. What do I look up?” Richie held his thumbs above the screen.

  “Dumpsters!”

  He dialed the number of a waste-removal company in Gaylord and handed his phone to me. The owner offered to stop by and give me an estimate of what size dumpster I would need to use. When I told him where I was, he said never mind. He knew all about the store. His wife was in earlier. She told him I needed a medium-sized dumpster for the store and a trash compactor for my smart mouth. I asked him to apologize to his wife, the woman I thought was too pretty to be the Gaylord librarian.

  The dumpster would arrive in a week.

  By late afternoon, the crowd outside was gone. I filled a box with children’s books to donate to the hospital in Gaylord when I heard the clicking of heels on the wooden floor behind me.

  “Hello?” Reeba Sweeney stood inside the door. She wore a dark red dress with a green overcoat that made her look like a Christmas tree.

  I straightened. “Good afternoon, Reeba.”

  “I just drove by on my way to an open house and saw the sign. Cheap books?”

  “Yes. I am clearing out this week. Whatever doesn’t go is going in the trash.” I expected it by Wednesday.

  Reeba leaned down and picked up a book with a picture of a businessman turned politician on the cover. “Can my interested buyer and I stop by when you are finished?”

  “That would be great. You can already see the floors and walls now. And the upstairs is much better. Once I paint, I might get a decent offer. Especially if they see how much space there is inside.”

  She took a deep breath and looked around. Then she paused, as if the prospect of explaining the situation to me had already exhausted her. “I understand your enthusiasm. You’ve done a lot of work. But you have to be realistic here. I want to help you. I really, really do. But this is a business deal. I can’t afford to negotiate an unrealistic sale just because I like you.”

  What a fake. “I’m hoping, after I clean it up, your client will offer what the property is worth.”

  She pointed at the wall. “There is an empty business next door. In fact, there are three other vacated buildings on this street. Truhart is not exactly Harrisburg. It’s been hurting for years.”

  “Some of the ladies at the house of horrors think Truhart is ready for a big comeback. They mentioned a community center. There could even be a bidding war,” I lied.

  “Trudy, Trudy. A bidding war. That’s adorable.” Reeba shook her head. “I’m not going to say anything about that pipe dream. The community center committee, the Triple C’s, are a nice group. But the unfortunate name sounds like their bra sizes. Everyone makes fun of them and their eternal optimism. I heard they even want to open a Santa’s workshop. Ha! Marva is so heavy she could be Santa.” Reeba’s loose neck skin jiggled when she laughed.

  “They’re worried that your client wants to open a pawnshop.” I don’t know what made me say that.

  Reeba put a hand on her throat and giggled. At least, I think it was a giggle. It might have been a snarl. “That’s precious. They hold garage sales every weekend, and they’re complaining about a thrift shop.”

  “Pawnshop. There’s a difference.”

  “Selling guns and knives is no different than selling old teacups and lamps.”

  “It is a little different, actually. And they aren’t opposed to all those—”

  “People in Truhart are so idealistic. It breaks my heart. They think that a ghost town like this will draw the attention of some wealthy developer who wants to build gyms and condos and golf courses, not to mention libraries and swimming pools for their kids.”

  “They just hope for something more family friendly and—” I bit my tongue and stopped myself. I needed her on my side. I needed to sell the store.

  “Money is family friendly, Trudy. Putting food on the table is family friendly. You know that place next door? It used to be owned by a family. The Kreaps. They were salt-of-the-earth people. But they had a fatal flaw: Inflexible principles. They believed in quality. For everything. They wouldn’t jack up the prices. Barely sold with a margin of profit. And look how that ended.”

  “A lot of family-run stores went out of business in the past twenty years.”

  “They could have sold to a big discount store at one point in time. B
ut they refused. Now that family sells jams and pickles off the M-33 for pennies.”

  My jaw hurt from clenching it. I walked her to the door and held on to it, issuing an obvious invitation for her to leave. But I couldn’t help asking one last question. “I wonder why Aunt Gertrude didn’t sell to you years ago?”

  “Your aunt was the most unrealistic one in the lot. She held onto this store and all the books inside as if it was the last defense against Armageddon. That cruise ship was the only vacation she ever took.”

  “Maybe doing what she loved was all the vacation she needed.” Why did I suddenly feel the need to defend Aunt Gertrude?

  Reeba almost tripped on Moby, who came between us. He let out a rumble that I had never heard from him before. His ears lay back and his tail stood straight out.

  Reeba raised the book she held and Moby barked loudly. “Be sure to lock him up when I bring people to look at the store.”

  She marched out the store and I realized, too late, she never paid for the book she held. I knelt down and put my arms around Moby. “It’s all right,” I repeated over and over. But it wasn’t for his benefit, it was for my own.

  I could care less who bought the store. All I wanted to do was sell, pay off my debt to my father, and then take myself off to Southeast Asia, where I could pray to the gods of a deserted temple in the middle of the jungle.

  I let Moby lick my face. I would be happy when I had no one and nothing in the world to care about but myself. Moby squirmed in my arms because I was holding him so hard. I let him go. He curled his tail and darted across the street. “Moby!”

  I hadn’t noticed him earlier, when Reeba Sweeney and I were talking. But Moby wiggled and swept his tail in excited circles as he greeted his buddy. Kit Darlington sat on the bench across the street.

  He smiled and slanted his head my way. “Bad meeting, huh?”

  I pulled a multigrain soy bar out of my pocket. “Come on, boy!”

  After much coaxing and much grinning from Kit, Moby finally came back.

  Then I shut the front door in Kit’s face.

  Chapter 13

  Three days later, business was as dead as the fake corpses next door. I squatted by Moby’s blanket. “Let’s go into more debt and treat ourselves to a late lunch at Cookee’s.”

  Moby raised his head and then went back to sleep. He had been out of sorts since I made him leave Kit’s side on Sunday. I kept telling him he had bad taste in friends, and he responded by staring at me as if to say, What does that make you?

  For the past few days a slow stream of customers had dropped by the store. I had been able to get rid of enough books that I could place all the books on the shelves now. Lowering the price to five dollars a bag helped. But business was slowing down. I waited impatiently for the dumpster and tried to ignore the fact that there might be a priceless manuscript somewhere in the store. It was ridiculous. Ever since Kit mentioned that the manuscript could be hidden anywhere, I found myself searching corners for some sign of a hidden manuscript.

  October had settled in, sending waves of leaves down the street and bringing a chill in the air. The trees around Echo Lake were shedding amber and gold almost as quickly as a snowfall. The Halloween house next door was just about finished. I stopped in yesterday, when most of the ladies were gone, and helped place cobwebs around the exhibits. Main Street was looking more like a nightmare than a ghost town. Which was the point of everything. The haunted house was going to open in a few days.

  After washing up and changing into a pair of tight-fitting plaid pants from a vintage store in Queens and an oversized green sweater, I left Moby still sleeping. I would bring a few tidbits back from the diner. Maybe then I’d be back in his good graces.

  I did my usual detour and visited Lulu. Doc had said the parts were due any day. I couldn’t wait to drop the engine and get her fixed. I ran my sleeve across her hood and wiped away the grime and buildup that came with sitting out in the open. I would have to search the cellar for a tarp.

  Except for the whirling of the old Hamilton Beach blender, the diner was quiet for a Tuesday. Mac greeted me and Corinne waved from the mixer.

  Mac grabbed a sausage and some rice from a pot further down and added both to a to-go carton. “You can give that to Lassie later. I’ll keep it here.”

  A familiar curly-headed blonde sat at the end of the counter. She looked over at me and waved. “Come sit with me.”

  I moved down the counter and dropped down next to her. “I’m Trudy.”

  She held out her hand and smiled. “I know. I’m Elizabeth Lively.” I waited for her to comment on the circus at Books from Hell the other day. Instead, she spun back and forth and grinned at me. “Don’t you love these old swivel stools? My grandmother used to threaten me with washing all the dishes if I didn’t stop spinning.”

  “You grew up here?” For some reason, she struck me as a city girl.

  “I spent my summers in Truhart. Loved it so much I came back.”

  “Really?”

  She raised an eyebrow at my sarcastic tone of voice. “It grows on you. Believe me. You lived here for a while, right?”

  “Fourteen years ago. I hated it.”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t remember you. But I remember hearing about your aunt. Quite a character, people say.”

  Corinne placed a chocolate milkshake in front of Elizabeth. “Here you go. Your Froot Loops are coming up in a moment.”

  When she caught me staring, Elizabeth turned pink and shrugged. “Therapy.”

  Corinne filled a glass of water and brought it over to me, saying, “It’s a long story, Trudy. She’s a little OCD about some things like food and neatness. So she does the opposite as some wacko form of therapy.”

  Elizabeth took a long sip. “J. D. doesn’t like junk food. So I come here to get my fix.”

  Mac was cleaning the griddle and called out, “She’s a little crazy, but we all love her. Especially Officer Hardy.” I remembered J. D. Hardy. He was the hunky deputy sheriff I met in the Family Fare parking lot.

  Elizabeth twirled the milkshake with her straw. “Just ignore them. They love to talk about my little idiosyncrasies. It makes them forget their own.”

  “I have none,” announced Corinne.

  Elizabeth looked up from her straw. “Until you get near Marva. Then you two can’t stop fighting.”

  Corinne curled her lip. “That’s what best friends are for.”

  Mac wiped his hands and joined us. “Trudy, I bought an acorn squash that would be great with a garlic and tomato sauce over it. It’s vegan. I saw it on the Morning Show last week. It looked great.”

  My mouth watered. “Mac, you could go head-to-head with any chef in California. And I’m not just saying that. Unfortunately, my budget is limited.”

  “No worries. You are my guinea pig. My buddy who works at the Grande Lucerne sent several customers our way last week. They were vegetarians who were looking for something off the beaten track. He says the foodies from downstate will love this place. It has everything. Quaint atmosphere. Interesting locals.”

  I glanced around the room with a whole new appreciation.

  Mac smoothed his apron and grinned. “I’ve always dreamed of having a chance to do more than flip burgers on a grill and mix shakes in the old mixer.”

  Corinne groaned. “Just don’t forget our regular clients, Mac. If you go all healthy on us, Elizabeth will have nowhere to eat.”

  When they left, Elizabeth turned to me. “I have a lot of friends who are vegetarians, but I don’t know much about vegans. Have you always been vegan?”

  I watched her sipping her milkshake and remembered how much I loved ice cream when I was younger. “You probably won’t believe this. But I hated vegetables when I was little. Especially the green ones. If it was yellow like corn, or red like tomatoes, it could be covered up in a sauce. But no food coloring in the world would hide green vegetables.”

  Elizabeth grinned. “Eve
ry parent’s nightmare.”

  “It drove my mother crazy. She would try to bribe me with all sorts of incentives if I would just please, please eat three bites of peas. But I would have nothing to do with them.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “My little brother is still a picky eater.”

  “Hopefully he’s not as stubborn as I was.”

  “So what did your parents do?”

  I didn’t like to remember those times, but for some reason I felt comfortable talking to Elizabeth. “If my dad was around, dinnertime turned into guerrilla warfare. He would point his finger at me and demand that I finish my vegetables. I would stare right back at him and shake my head. He was in the military, so you can imagine how angry he was that I didn’t salute and follow orders. It was quite a standoff.”

  I took a sip of my water and remembered. My father used to turn his frustration on my mother. “What the hell kind of daughter defies her father like this?” he would ask her. “There are soldiers in the desert who haven’t had fresh broccoli in months and she thinks she can waste it like trash?” Then he would place both hands on the table and lean forward until I could see the pores in his nose. “I’ll tell you what will make you eat those damn vegetables. Sitting here. All night if you have to. Do you hear me?”

  I hated vegetables almost as much as I hated him. I refused to eat them, even when the clock over the stove said 10:30 p.m. and I had school the next day.

  Once, he got so mad that he pulled my hair until I screamed and then he shoved a piece of cold, soggy broccoli in my mouth. With a hand under my chin and another on the top of my head, he kept me from spitting it back out. I realized it was worse to keep it in my mouth where the taste made me want to puke. I had no option but to chew and swallow. I got my revenge. When my father stepped back with a smug look of triumph across his face, I gave in to the gag reflex and threw up all over the table.

  I put my shaking hand in my lap. No need to tell that part of the story to Elizabeth. She was going to town on that milkshake.