Moby wagged his tail and I narrowed my eyes at him. “See how you feel when I don’t share my quinoa with you this afternoon.”
“Quinoa, huh?” Kit said from inside the dumpster. He popped his head up over the top. “What kind of kibble is that for a dog like you? I’ll get you a big, fat steak, boy. With lots of red meat and blood oozing out of it.”
He said the last few words loudly on purpose. He knew that would bother me this early in the morning. I was just about to say something when he disappeared and I heard a loud bang. “Bloody hell.”
“What happened? Are you all right?”
“Bugger. I lost my footing.”
“Be careful in there, Professor. You don’t strike me as someone who is particularly fr—frugal. I don’t think the city has insurance for dumpster diving.”
He popped his head up over the top of the dumpster again. “Frugal?”
“Fragile—I mean . . . You know what I mean.”
He played with the words. “Fragile-fragile . . . agile?”
“Agile. That’s what I said.”
“I thought that’s what you said, love.” He grinned down at me and with his hair in disarray he looked surprisingly young. The light was getting stronger and I could see his breath vaporizing like smoke.
“I know that may come as a bit of a surprise to you, Trudy. But I am quite agile. I grew up in a very old building and I would climb all sorts of walls and turrets.”
I blocked out all the reasons why I shouldn’t be standing outside in the dawn of day. He didn’t talk much about himself much. I was interested. “A castle?”
“I wouldn’t call it that, exactly.”
“How old was it?”
“Sixteenth century.” He disappeared and I saw a faint glow that must be his flashlight. Then I heard the dull thunk of books being tossed about. The dumpster served as a kind of amplifier. Kit didn’t have to shout at all. I heard everything inside as if it were a soundstage.
“Was there a moat?”
“It dried up over the years.”
I sat on a small well tucked into the molding of the dumpster and crossed my legs. “So, how is it that a young man who grew up in a castle could be so interested in things in the colonies?”
“You already know that story from your research.” I heard rustling as he dug deeper into the container.
“I know some of it from a teenager’s smartphone. And some from you. You were sick of all the old stuff. The scary ghosts. Macbeth. Things like that. You love baseball. And football. You love four-wheel drives. And a good cup of coffee.”
“What else do you need to know about me? That pretty well sums it up.”
“I know you’re obsessed with Robin Hartchick. But tell me the rest. Tell me your real story.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Why are you so into Robin Hartchick and finding that manuscript?”
Silence fell, and I waited.
“Did you ever have that moment when you discovered something you loved so much you knew it was your destiny?”
I thought about the travel brochure on Lulu’s visor. “Yes.”
“That was me the first time I read Spring Solstice.” Kit was close. I pictured him leaning against the Dumpster wall behind me. “By the time I turned the last page, I felt like Robin Hartchick was speaking directly to me. He wrote about the young man who didn’t belong. How he journeyed across the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to find his way in a barren forest near a rocky shore. He wrote in a voice that felt like mine.”
“But it wasn’t enough to read the story and put it back on your shelf?”
“No. I wanted to understand the character. I wanted to live the movement Hartchick created in literature. I wanted to . . . I almost wanted to be . . .”
“American?” I offered.
“Yes, I suppose so. But it was more like I wanted to be Robin Hartchick. And by association, I didn’t want to be . . .”
“You didn’t want to be Christopher Darlington.”
“It wasn’t a conscious thought.”
“It’s a very sad way to feel.” I knew that feeling very well, in fact.
“I still cherish my own heritage.”
“I’m thinking that didn’t go over well in the castle.”
He chuckled. “My father. A most esteemed and knighted scholar. Did your research reveal that he had been knighted?”
“Yes. So, you did meet the queen.”
“She’s lovely, really. I liked her hat that day. Anyway, like I was saying, good old Dad was a famous scholar of English literature. He was horrified by my taste. American literature was a shallow imitation of what he believed in. He was good at covering that up with his colleagues, mind you. But he wanted me to appreciate his world. Sometimes I didn’t think he could accept anything that wasn’t four-hundred years old. But everything changed.”
“How so?”
“The family home has always been impossible to keep up. It costs a fortune to maintain. My mother grew increasingly panicked over our funds. Last year, for a new source of income, she insisted we open for tours. It just about killed my dad. Imagine a bunch of tourists wandering around his beloved home in Bermuda shorts and sneakers. He projected all his anger on me. When I publicly stated I believed there was a lost manuscript, he stood up in front of the Association of Comparative Literature and called me delusional.”
I had learned about that when Richie read the article to me at the garage. “That must have been awful.”
“It wasn’t my best moment. We were sitting in our formal wear, drinking champagne at the same table.”
I closed my eyes and pictured Kit. Perpetually upbeat. Stiff upper lip. Always wearing a charming smile. I imagined him trying not to show how upset he was in front of a crowd of his peers.
Strange. Right now, with a metal wall between us, I felt closer to him than I ever had.
“What happens if you don’t find the manuscript?”
“I keep looking.”
“Aren’t you afraid it doesn’t exist?”
I heard him sigh from the other side of the cold metal. “At least I’m going after something I want.”
“Even if it’s all an illusion?”
“Many dreams are illusory, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. I’m not the one standing in the trash looking for a Robin Hartchick manuscript.”
“No, you’re the one trading it all away for a trip.”
We were back to the real problem now. “All you really cared about this whole time you were with me was the manuscript. Isn’t that right?”
“I could ask a similar question. All you cared about was selling the store to get to Angkor Wat, right?”
“I didn’t lie, though.”
Kit started moving behind me. I heard a clanking and a rattling above me. I looked up to see his head popping back up. “For the record, Trudy, I tried at least a half-dozen times to tell you why I was really here. But you were too busy with your practical jokes and your free-spirited fun to hear it.”
I jumped off my cold perch. “You know what? Be my guest. You can sit there with your old books and search for the dead guy’s manuscript. Just watch out for the ghosts that are going to haunt you for all your lies.”
“The only one haunting me is you. And do you want to know the answer to your question?”
I moved to the back door. “No.”
He called after me. “The answer is no. The manuscript wasn’t the only thing I cared about. I wasn’t thinking about the manuscript at all when we were together. I happen to like being with you, Trudy Brown. I like the way you smell, the way your hair looks when you don’t brush it. I like the sleepy way you look at me in the morning.” He fell off a book and a clattering sound erupted along with a string of foul words.
I returned to bed, but not to sleep. I wanted to blame my insomnia on the clamor coming from the dumpster. But I knew that wasn’t the problem.
It was getting harder to
be mad at Kit. And very easy to let the lovely words he spoke from inside a trash container warm my heart.
Chapter 15
By noon the next day, the front half of the store was actually beginning to look like something other than a book-hoarder’s lair. I took a break and sat on a pile of old magazines, eating a stale protein bar, and measured my progress. I could hold out my arms and twirl in a full circle without tripping or falling over books and boxes. I could see the gray walls and the dusty pine floorboards. With new paint, window cleaning, and TLC, the store might be quite appealing to an interested entrepreneur.
Kit was nowhere to be seen. With no one to make fun of, things were way too quiet. Moby sat by the back door, exhausted from our work this morning. He had followed me out the door each time I schlepped my crumpled box of books to the garbage. Several times he raised his head and pricked his ears, thinking he heard something. I knew he was listening for a familiar voice. But the alley was quiet. We were both a little disappointed.
My measly lunch was hardly satisfying. Whatever Mac served was probably amazing compared to old fruit leather and rice crackers. The sound of a car door slamming and then the blip of the door being locked made me look up. I felt an unsettling gnawing in my stomach that had nothing to do with my hunger when I saw the gold Lexus parked in front.
A sharp knock rattled the front door. I pictured Reeba Sweeney on the other side and weighed the merits of ignoring her. But Moby was already barking and I saw her peering through the front window at me.
I opened the door and pasted a smile on my face. “Hello, Reeba.”
She stood on Christian Louboutin heels that barely brought her up to five feet, clutching her large Tory Burch purse, and trying to see over my shoulder into the store.
“I was driving by and thought I would check on you.”
I stepped back. “As you can see, I’m making progress. I’ve got a dumpster out back now. This place is going to look great.”
“Hmm.” Reeba clicked past me and walked around the clear space I had created.
I followed her. “It cleans up really nice, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t see any cracks in the walls or major damage to the floor. But it’s going to need work once you get it cleared. At the very least, you might need to re-sand the floors and paint the walls.”
I couldn’t imagine how much it would cost me to rent a sander. I brushed the tip of my boot across the wood. “I don’t know. People pay top dollar for this worn, lived-in look these days. Some people even purposely buy salvaged wood to make floors look old.”
She sent me a pitying half smile. “This isn’t a decorator house, Trudy. Businesses want to know their investment is sound. They want quality. Not old and used.”
I bit my lip. “I’ll see what I need when I get to that point.”
Reeba fished into her large purse and took out a folded piece of paper. “I have an alternative way to handle your sale. This is a solid offer from Logan Fribley. It’s cash. As is. It’s exactly what you need. You can accept it and be on your way with minimal fuss.”
My mouth turned dry as I stared at the paper clutched in her fat fingers.
She waved it up and down. “It won’t hurt to at least look at his offer.”
I took it from her and unfolded it. As I stared at the number on the page, she explained, “Logan doesn’t want a negotiating war. He is offering a flat price on the bookstore. I have to say, it is quite generous. It’s actually much more than he is offering for the old grocery next door.”
My head shot up. “He’s buying next door too?”
She laughed and adjusted her frizzy halo of dark hair. “Honey, he’s buying the whole block.”
“But what about the community center? And the Santa’s workshop?”
“What about it? I told you last time I was here. That committee’s been talking about that for as long as I can remember. They don’t have two pennies to rub together.”
She must have read the doubt on my face. She stopped herself and changed tactics. “You are new here, Trudy. You don’t have a history with the people of this town like I do.”
Actually, I did. I should be grabbing the offer and running with it, based on my experience fourteen years ago. But I had a new bond with Truhart now. I didn’t want them to lose their hopes for a community center. It was a good cause.
Reeba put a hand on my arm. Seeing her jangly bracelet and chunky rings sent an unexpected shot of ice up my shoulder. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s not something that people like to talk about. And everyone knows I’m not a gossip. But some of the people next door . . . well, I don’t think I can mention their names. Let’s just say you may have been sitting with them at the football game a few weeks ago? They may not be the upstanding people you think they are.” She raised her hands in quotation marks when she said the word upstanding.
I stepped back so she wouldn’t touch me again. “That’s not something I need to know.”
“Maybe it is. Flo Jarvis’s husband was one of the richest men in the county. But he might have cheated on his taxes. I’m not saying anything one way or the other, of course. But Flo might have inherited more than a bait shop if she hadn’t been forced to pay all the back taxes he owed when he died. Some people might think she knew all about the tax scam when it was happening.”
Reeba came closer. I took another step backward. Moby appeared at my side, leaning against my knee. Reeba checked herself when she saw the big dog. “Now, I’m not saying, but June Krueger and her husband might have lost their house last year.” Her voice was high and lilting, as if she were telling a sick fairy tale. “They might have defaulted on their mortgage. All I can say is that they rent a house I own now. And I can’t tell you, but they might have been late on the r—”
I put my hand up. “I don’t need to know that kind of thing, Reeba.”
“I’m not saying anything, just so you understand. People in this town might not be in a position to raise money for a ridiculous community center when they might not be able to pay the mortgage on their own houses. Maybe you should think twice before relying on them for help in selling this store.”
Before I knew what I was doing, I raised the paper with the offer from Logan Fribley in front of her face. I tore it straight down the middle.
“I’ve decided to list with a different Realtor, Reeba. Tell Logan Fribley that he can send his next offer to me directly if he decides to increase his price.”
“What?”
“Anyone who would talk about someone’s personal finances with a stranger is not the kind of person I want to deal with.” I realized I was shaking.
Reeba glared at me. “I am shocked and saddened by your disrespect. After all I have done for you, Trudy Brown.”
“Done for me?”
“I went out of my way to get the keys to you that first morning you arrived.” Reeba stamped her foot and raised her voice to a shriek that would have been perfect in the house next door. “I’ve been working hard trying to find buyers for this wrecked-out building. You wanted to sell as quickly as possible and I even convinced Logan to offer cash.”
I took a step toward her. “Is it possible the lawyers who administered Aunt Gertrude’s estate might have paid you for keeping this place up? Which you might not have done so well? Might you have realized that at the last minute and changed the locks before I got here to make it look like you did something?” I threw her passive-aggressive language back in her face. “How much money might you be making on an easy sale? Is it possible this building might not even officially be listed yet? If not, why are you trying to get me to accept a lowball offer? I’m not saying anything, mind you, but I can’t help but feel that you might not be representing my best interests.”
She curled her lip and raised her voice. “I have never been so disrespected.”
“You said that already.”
“You’re making a big mistake to think you can talk to me that way.” Her face was red and her
jowls jiggled as she spoke.
I moved to the door and held it open for her. “Probably. I might have a conscience that lets me sleep better at night than yours. Now, go on. Moby might bite you.”
She swept out the door and ran into one of the fake spiderwebs I’d woven in the doorway. It tangled up in her hair and she waved her arms around herself, frantic to get rid of the fake spiders. The words crazy and stupid were just a few words that came from her mouth.
She drove off in her Lexus, trailing a mass of webbing and spiders in her wake. The only thing missing was a broomstick out the tailpipe.
* * *
I should have guessed that my temper would come back and bite me in the butt. It wasn’t more than an hour or two later that I received another important visitor.
“Trudy,” Mayor Bloodworth said before I even opened the door. I had barely seen him and his brown suit since that first morning I arrived in town.
“Mayor, what an honor,” I said. “Please come in.”
He stepped inside and surveyed the store. Moby rose from his new favorite spot, where the last of the National Geographics waited for me to sort. I was taking my time in hopes that I might find pictures of Angkor Wat.
Sheriff Howe followed the mayor, looking for all the world like he would rather be issuing a traffic ticket than standing with the town leader.
The mayor put his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth. He opened and closed his mouth several times. Then he turned his back to the front window and said, “It has just come to our attention that the dumpster you are using is parked illegally on public property.”
I peeked over the mayor’s shoulder and noticed the shrewd little woman sitting in the front seat of the Lexus parked on the curb. She stared straight back at me with a triumphant expression on her face, her vengeance cold in her beady eyes.
“I didn’t realize there was anything illegal about parking it behind my store.”
“The thing is,” said the sheriff miserably, “you need a permit for a dumpster.”
The Bookshop on Autumn Lane Page 20