The Bookshop on Autumn Lane

by Cynthia Tennent

  My hands ran up and down his back and under his jacket and shirt to the hard body that I already knew so well. One of his hands was buried in my hair and the other traveled over my back. He was like steel with a velvet veneer. And he was on fire.

  I heard someone making little mewling sounds and realized it was me. I laughed at myself and Kit captured my mouth again. The world spun away in a dizziness and frenzy that reminded me of dancing and spinning in joy.

  Cool air hit my stomach as he lifted my T-shirt, sliding his hands along my bare skin underneath. He pulled his mouth away from mine to let it trail down. Kneeling on some godforsaken uncomfortable mound of books, he found my breasts.

  The camp lantern gleamed off the top of his head and I ran my fingers through his hair. I closed my eyes as his tongue fluttered back and forth across my nipples. They puckered in the cool air. I messed up his hair with my death grip on his head. He pulled away and slowly lifted my shirt further.

  “Who is this very familiar-looking cartoon character on your T-shirt?” he mumbled as he held the fabric out of the way.

  I looked down, trying to figure out what he was talking about. “Oh, that’s just Bart. Bart Simpson.”

  “Boyfriend?” he asked with a saucy grin.

  “Hero,” I replied.

  “But way too young to watch this.” He tossed my shirt over a self-help book.

  In only my pink-panda underpants, I watched Kit’s eyes travel to my face. His eyes were feverish and I shivered at the thought of what was coming next. I reached for his shirt, but he put a hand on my wrist and stopped me. “This is my den. I don’t have an electric chair. But I get to call the shots tonight.”

  “Be my guest,” I said as I lowered my arms. Heat shot straight to my core.

  Kit ran his hands up my arms and traced my collarbone. He leaned in and followed the path with his tongue. His fingers drifted lower and he took a deep breath and raised his smoky eyes. “May I?”

  My mouth went dry. I swallowed and nodded. Or at least I think I did. Whatever it was, he took it as yes. I watched his hands run down my hips and inside the waistband of my silly panties. He lowered them and I stepped out, enjoying the return of his hands when they were off.

  What his hands touched, his lips and eyes followed. I felt extraordinary. Cherished. I understood how a woman could feel worshipped. When he touched me in the most sensitive area, I shuddered. Kit’s nostrils flared and he lifted his fingers to my lips. And what I did for Kit in the electric chair, he did for me . . . Only better.

  The evening took an intriguing turn, like a porn movie set in a library. We made love among the paperbacks and hardcovers—some very hard covers. When it wasn’t comfortable, we tried new positions, rearranging the books and the blanket to suit ourselves. It was an entirely different way to use books and I welcomed the way the rough pages bunched and shifted in front of my face when Kit kneeled on the blanket and pressed himself against me. He came into me from behind and I was so sensitive I almost lost control right there. He reached around and touched me with his fingers, bringing me to a climax that went on and on. I grasped the pages of an open book in front of me and wrinkled the corners of the pages with my fists. I held on to them for dear life as I cried out. Kit joined me moments later.

  Afterward, when we were exhausted, we pulled my dharma quilt over ourselves and snuggled in our cave. The lantern waved in the wind and I wondered if anyone in the world had ever made love in a dumpster. And if so, had it been as magical as it had been for me?

  Kit lifted his head and grinned at something above my head. He reached for a small book and checked the title on the spine.

  “What is that?” I asked in a sleepy voice that made him kiss my earlobe.

  “Some light reading.” He flipped through the pages, trying to catch the light. “Want to read it with me?”

  I shook my head. He adjusted his arm underneath me and began.

  “She is a mortal danger to all men. She is beautiful without knowing it, and possesses charms that she’s not even aware of. She is like a trap set by nature—a sweet perfumed rose in whose petals Cupid lurks in ambush! Anyone who has seen her smile has known perfection. She instills grace in every common thing and divinity in every careless gesture.”

  I closed my eyes and imagined that woman as he spoke. “Who is she?”

  “You.”

  “No, it’s not. I know that. It’s a play, right?”

  “Cyrano de Bergerac.”

  “I thought I recognized it. I made a balcony for it once in a summer-stock theater in Canada. She’s Roxane.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “Me? I can’t remember words. But for some reason that part stuck with me.”

  He braced himself over me and the light shone from behind him like a halo. “Words are just the vehicle for the story. You get where you need to go in other ways, Trudy. That is what makes you so magnificent.”

  I didn’t deserve that kind of pretty language. Most of the time we teased more than we were serious. I closed my eyes, afraid to see him mocking me. I didn’t want to ruin the pretense that I was his Roxane.

  The night was quiet. A breeze started and finished from different ends of the night sky. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I opened my eyes to see if he was smiling with that teasing look he often used.

  But he was staring at me from unwavering eyes; a solemn, almost sad expression on his face. “I wish it had been different, Trudy.”

  He moved a piece of hair that the wind had flicked over my eye. “I wish we had met under the glitter of the streetlights by the Seine. On a warm night in Paris with the sound of music in the air.

  “I would have seen you standing at the gilded railing. Your hair glowing in the lights. Your smile and the way you hold yourself when no one is watching would remind me of an enchantress, looking for all the world like you had a secret that no one else could share.”

  I touched his cheek and blinked back heat that made my eyes feel heavy. No one had ever described me that way. “I would have shared my secret with you, Kit . . . If I had met you on a Paris night.”

  * * *

  I slept a dreamless sleep that was surprisingly refreshing. When I woke, my head rested against the soft pillow of Kit’s shoulder and my hip was nuzzled between two hardcover copies of the encyclopedia. My guess was they were volumes 1 and 2, because volume 3 was under his head. The early-morning sky was tinted deep fuchsia and orange. I didn’t want to move, not just because of the cool air outside the blanket, or because I was so comfortable in his arms. I was afraid if I left, reality would hit and I would never feel this way again.

  “Good morning, Trudy.” Kit’s half-lidded eyes and lazy smile made him look adorably sexy.

  “Good morning, Christopher.” I liked the sound of his full name.

  He pulled me to him, planting a soft but firm morning kiss on my lips. “I adore waking up with you.”

  I sent a rueful gaze to the encyclopedias. “Yes, but I am afraid my behind will be permanently marked with the history of—what’s this?”

  “Spanish sailing ships. But I fear, fair damsel, that your bum will be permanently marked with more than just the history of Spanish sailing ships,” he said, touching a spot on my hip that looked a bit like a hickey.

  “Peachy,” I said, curling my lip.

  Kit must have read my mind. He propped himself up on his elbow and said, “Maybe we should just stay here and ignore the rest of the world.”

  If only we could. I thought about the things that I had to do today. “Your books and festival are waiting for you, Professor.”

  A gust ruffled his hair. The wind was stronger this morning. Several leaves had blown into the container and skimmed across the top layer of books. We rose stiffly and wobbled on the unstable carpet of books beneath us. Scrambling over the mounds of paper and cardboard looking for our clothes, we stopped every few moments to touch each other.

  When we were semi-dressed, Kit helped me
over the ledge before tossing the chair and blanket out. He grabbed the lantern and hopped out in one leap. So agile. British secret agent Double-O Darlington.

  Moby was awake. He whined from inside the store.

  “He’s been a good boy. Both of you come by the house when you are dressed and I’ll give you extra cash so you can buy him a proper bone,” Kit said.

  The sun’s colors were shifting. It drifted above the horizon now and the sky turned pink. I held my blanket to my chest. I didn’t want to leave Kit yet.

  He stepped close and cradled my face in his hands. “Now a soft kiss—Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.” Then he touched his lips to mine.

  When he finished, I sighed. “What was that from?”

  “Keats. I love American literature. But I am British after all.” He winked at me and walked away.

  I watched him disappear across the field toward the lake beyond and felt something inside me loosen. An overpowering feeling of freedom raced through my veins. I leaned back against the Dumpster and lifted my face to the morning sun.

  When Kit read to me last night, an old rage that had weighed me down for years came unhinged. Now I felt a delirious lightness that reminded me of the way I felt a day not so long ago when I first started to forgive my father.

  Dad had softened in his old age. Or maybe it was the new wife and children. There were two of them. One to replace the boy who had been blown up in the convoy ambushed in the desert. And another to replace me. The girl who refused to follow orders.

  Maybe someday soon I would call Dad and tell him I ate vegetables now. I don’t think he knew. I would promise again to repay him for the loan, even though he didn’t want me to. And I would tell him I didn’t hate him anymore for leaving me with an emotionally disconnected woman who knew nothing about raising children.

  After Kit left me, branded by his kiss in the morning sun, I scaled the Dumpster and climbed back inside. I hunted around until I found what I was looking for: Cyrano de Bergerac. I clutched it to my chest and I clambered back over the edge before returning to Books from the Hart.

  Chapter 17

  “This feels weird.” My hand tingled where Kit placed the hundred-dollar bills as casually as if they were pieces of gum. He must have kept large denominations around the way some people kept pennies in a jar.

  We stood inside the lake house he was renting. He lifted my chin with his index finger and angled my face up. “Don’t think twice about it. You need the loan and I’m not putting any conditions on it.”

  “Maybe I should find some other way—”

  “When you sell the place you can pay me back, all right?” He lowered his head and kissed me. I was too busy worrying to enjoy it. “Are you sure I can’t give you more for Lulu?”

  “Yes.” On that part I was definite. If the store didn’t sell, I was going nowhere, so it didn’t matter. I had all the time in the world to find work and pay for Lulu at that point.

  “You are a stubborn wench!” Kit said with a grin, pulling me close. “Do you have time for a quick breakfast? I don’t have to meet my colleague until later in the morning. Even better, I could forget the conference and stay.” His hands strayed down my back.

  “I have plenty to keep me busy. And the house of horrors opens tomorrow. I’ll be making things bloody and gross for the rest of the day.”

  “Brilliant. Do you at least want me to drive you to the county offices?” Moby leaned against our knees and wagged his tail.

  “I’m going to ask Elizabeth Lively for a ride.”

  “Come back later, then. I haven’t had the opportunity to host you in a king-sized bed. Imagine the possibilities.” My heart did a cartwheel.

  When he kissed me again, I dropped the cash and almost told him to cancel. We could spend the day discovering new ways to use books. But he picked up the bills and stuffed them in my pocket.

  “Come. At least have coffee.”

  While he prepared the coffee in the kitchen, I played snoop. The living-room fireplace was huge. The view out the floor-to-ceiling windows was incredible. When I wandered into the large dining room that overlooked Echo Lake, my attention was caught by all the books strewn across the table and the papers pinned to several project boards against the wall. Among them was a picture of Robin Hartchick as a young man. A newspaper article with a picture of a burned building. A magazine interview with a portrait of an elderly Robin Hartchick.

  Kit stood with two mugs in his hands, watching me. “I’m getting ready to throw all that out.”

  “I see that.” A trash can stuffed with dozens of handwritten sheets of paper sat by a chair. “So this is why you never invited me over. You didn’t want me to see your paper trail.”

  “That was before you found out. Then . . . I didn’t think you wanted to get within a mile of me. It’s done, now.”

  “Can you at least explain more of what you were looking for?” I reached out and touched the magazine and papers that described Robin Hartchick’s life, and tried to grasp Kit’s fascination.

  He made it easy for me. Putting down the mugs, he reached out and plucked the article from the bulletin board. “This is an interview conducted with Robin Hartchick right before he died.”

  “He looks awful, like he could have been in the house of horrors,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s one of the reasons no one took him seriously. He mentions in that interview that his very best work, in his humble opinion—which was never humble at all—was a novel he wrote prior to Spring Solstice. But look at him. He could barely talk or walk.”

  “People thought he made it up?”

  “Yes. He claims the manuscript was lost in a fire. They thought he was delusional.”

  I looked at the newspaper article that showed a picture of a burned-down building. “Is that the fire?”

  “Yes. I dug up some information. There was a hotel on the west coast of Michigan that burned down. Your aunt was supposed to meet him there.” He set the bowls on the table.

  I got goose bumps looking at the charred, blackened building. It was a connection to a young Aunt Gertrude that I knew nothing about.

  “Sip and I’ll tell you.” Kit sat down. He handed me the mug. Checking my face to make sure I was still interested, he continued: “Let me back up first. What do you know about your aunt and Robin Hartchick?”

  “Some of it. Aunt Gertrude was swept off her feet by Robin Hartchick.”

  “She was young. He was ten years older.”

  “Hard to picture anyone falling for Aunt Gertrude, much less sweeping a lady as imposing as she was off her feet.”

  Kit didn’t laugh at my comment. “Here she is.” He pointed to a picture of her young face. She looked innocent and sweet. And almost beautiful. “That’s the woman Hartchick fell in love with.”

  I stared at the portrait for a long time. I didn’t know she had red hair. “Can I keep this?”

  He reached out and tenderly wiped the corner of my mouth. “Of course. Did you know they met when he was on a hunting excursion in Michigan? He was from Chicago and she lived in Traverse City with her parents and her little brother, your father’s dad.”

  “How did they meet?”

  “No one I spoke with remembers. But they all say it was love at first sight.” The color on his cheeks heightened as he spoke. “When she ran off with him, Gertrude’s father basically disowned her. Did you know that?”

  “My grandfather was quite overbearing, according to my dad.” I didn’t comment on the similarity in his son.

  “For the next year they lived in the happy haze of 1960. Life was still good then. According to his autobiography, they lived over a store on Echo Lake. He wrote a novel and she worked as a waitress and supported them both. Then things went downhill.”

  “What happened?”

  “He traveled to New York several times that year. He stayed for weeks at a time. According to people who knew your aunt, she waited patiently, believing that he was busy submitting his short
stories to agents and publishers.”

  “And?”

  “He was playing around on her. Robin Hartchick was famous for his womanizing later in his life. His five marriages illustrate that. He was a major-league philanderer, even back then.”

  “How did she find out?” I almost felt sorry for Aunt Gertrude. She was estranged from her family and living on her own in a town where she knew no one. And Robin Hartchick was two-timing her.

  “You didn’t know any of this?”

  I shook my head. I wish I had. I’d like to think even a fifteen-year-old me would have been a little nicer to a heartbroken old woman. “In August of 1960, he called her and told her to bring the manuscript and meet him at a hotel in Charlevoix. The wealthy members of Chicago society summered there. Hartchick had an agent who was coming up from Chicago and was interested in reading a novel he had written. His first.”

  Kit leaned forward. “My sources say that when your aunt tried to check into the hotel, the clerk confused her with another woman. A woman who called herself Mrs. Robin Hartchick and routinely met Hartchick at the same hotel in Charlevoix.”

  I sat back and pictured Aunt Gertrude. Young. Innocent. And betrayed.

  “The hotel burned down the night before he arrived.”

  “My aunt was in the fire?” I gasped. I curled my knee under me. This was horrible.

  “She got out, but most of her things were burned. According to reports, the fire started in a fireplace in the lobby that wasn’t properly cleaned. Your aunt met Robin at the train station in tears. She claimed the manuscript was lost in the fire.”

  I sat back in my chair. I thought the last twenty-four hours had been bad for me. What did I know? I was mad at Kit for his white lies. But Aunt Gertrude had found out the man she loved was cheating on her. Been in a hotel fire. And then had to explain why she lost the great American novel.

  “There were no copies of this manuscript?”

  “She brought the carbons with her. He couldn’t believe she did that. She was very upset, evidently. Partly because he cared more about the manuscript than her. He packed up and left her shortly after that.”