He gazed outside, his dark eyes reflecting the view of the Seine. “If it helps, it’s not you, Sarah. The shop has been on a downward spiral for a while. Sophie can’t let go of the reins – something that always holds her back. Her father and her grandfather did everything themselves, until the day they died, so I think she feels she has to follow in their footsteps. But as you can see, it’s too busy for one person to handle everything. Mistakes are being made because of it. And all because she refuses to change.”
I could understand Sophie’s links with her past, and that she wanted to uphold tradition, but it wasn’t working. A generation or two ago, they wouldn’t have had the crowds they did today.
I let out a long sigh. “Well, what can we do, TJ? Surely between us we can come up with something?”
“Sure. Let’s go for a walk.”
Paris under the cover of darkness was almost eerie in an ancient gothic way. Even the apartments looked like they were slumbering, with their shutters like eyelashes – closed against the morning chill.
“OK,” he said. “Firstly, author readings. Can you imagine? In spring we’d get hundreds of people sitting by the Left Bank. This time of year, we can squirrel them into the piano room by a roaring fire and a glass of mulled wine. It’s not only about sales, it’s about supporting the reading and writing community. Giving people the opportunity to be involved with the shop, become a part of it.”
“That would be so much fun.” I said nodding, starting to see his ideas take shape and finally feeling like we were getting somewhere. “It’s easy enough to make flyers. Do a Facebook event? But which authors could we approach?”
His breath blew out in front like fog in the bitterly cold morning. “Oh, I know plenty of authors, lots of poets too. That’s the easy part.”
“OK, great. What else?”
“A book club,” he continued, his face animated, his hands a blur as he gesticulated. “A revolving club, full of locals, tourists, anyone who wants to discuss the novel whether they’re transients or not. True bibliophiles always buy books, and that’s what we need. Sophie does turn over a tidy profit usually, but the upkeep on the building is sky high. This summer the entire top floor had to be rewired. Walls crumbled, it all had to be replaced. Add into that wages, theft, and dead books, it makes for some tight months.”
I groaned, worried for my friend. I’d seen invoices for plumbing work, and electricians, plasterers, and building surveyors, to make sure the place wouldn’t tumble down around our ears. I’d had to call a fair few myself, when disaster struck – pipes bursting, electrics shorting. “OK, a book club. What else?”
“Merchandising. Bookmarks, book bags, and gift packs. Everyone wants to take a piece of Paris home, why not a collection of nostalgia from Once Upon a Time? There are so many old photographs of the shop, each marking some point in its rich history. We could print them on postcards. There’s the correspondence that goes all the way back to the twenties. It should be catalogued, made into a book. There’s so much history and it’s all locked away in a cupboard.”
“Great idea, TJ.” I could imagine little book bundles, and tote bags filled with postcards, and vintage looking posters. Though the correspondence was personal, and I thought an ambitious project like that would need to involve Sophie – it was her heritage, and I could only imagine how special it was to her.
I continued: “The correspondence will have to wait until Sophie gets back, but let’s do the other things you suggested.” Maybe this would galvanize the staff to help more, be proud of the heritage of the shop, and not be mere travelers in the midst, who took more than they gave.
“Sure,” TJ said as we walked back towards the shop, the sun beginning to peak blearily through the gray skies. “Thanks for letting me have a moment to shine. Words, and the celebration of them, are all that matter to me.” He scratched his chin. “I want to look back on my time here and know I added something to the history. We all leave our mark, our footfalls bow the wooden steps, our fingertips leave oil on the pages, we’re woven into the tapestry of the place, but I don’t just want to mar it, I want to make it better.”
There was something unique about Once Upon a Time, people fell in love with it, wanted to protect it, cherish it. The love people had for the place, like it had a soul, and was a real and tangible thing. All I had to do was tap into that yearning. That was how I would rouse the staff and turn everything around at the shop. Talking with TJ had spurred me on – I knew what I had to do now and nothing was going to stop me with my new found enthusiasm.
Chapter Seventeen
“Beatrice,” I motioned her over. “This customer would like to see the music books, he’s looking for a particular novel…”
“It’s right through there,” she pointed, and gave the man a cool stare.
I grimaced. “Can you show him the way please? Help him find the book?”
“Serving,” she said blithely, and went behind the counter. The man, frowning, shook his head and walked out of the shop. Another sale lost. This was the problem. They’d relied too long on the shops popularity. That had worked for a while, but no one helped customers, they just directed them to the right room and hoped for the best.
“Beatrice that just cost us a sale! You weren’t serving, you were stacking shelves!”
She gave me a slow dismissive once-over. “How many sales did we lose when you were prancing around helping that Spanish guy to find the book he wanted?” She glowered at me, I guess because I’d insisted she work the weekend. Now she was doing what she did best – arguing about something ridiculous. I’d reworked the roster so I could have one measly day off, and no one was happy about it, least of all Beatrice. I damn well earned it, balancing the books every evening, running to the bank twice a day because Sophie didn’t trust anyone else with the takings, covering shifts when the staff got a better offer. No more. One day off, and I was taking it.
I knew that’s why she was being difficult but still I bit back at her remark. “I was helping him, and that’s what you do when someone asks for a specific book. Did you ever think people other than tourists would shop here, if they had some assistance when they asked for it?” Her attitude towards me was verging on rude, and I was at breaking point with her. “Look, you’ve managed to shirk most weekends. It’s your turn, and that’s that.”
She cocked her head, her red curls twisted tight like coils. “I don’t have to work weekends, Sarah. And you can’t make me. I have other responsibilities. Find someone else.”
I clenched my jaw, wondering what would happen if I pushed her. They’d all taken it in turns to work weekends, except her. “Bad luck Beatrice. Work this weekend, or don’t work here at all. And that’s final.” I stomped off, all at once feeling triumphant I’d said my piece, and hotfooting it away so we didn’t dissolve into an argument. I was in charge, and she would listen, or she would be fired. No more would I play the role of shy, small town, bookworm.
Rain lashed down as I left the shop, leaving Beatrice to pout over working the weekend. Paris was misty – like something out of a ghost story. The stormy weather made me feel like I was the only person outside, my visibility reduced to a few steps ahead because of the thick fog. It sat perfectly with my mood. TJ said Ridge had called when I was in the middle of the row with Beatrice, and I was too fired up to call him back. Anything he said, I’d probably shoot him down. Better I wait until I was calmer.
Each step away, I felt that same lightness take over. I’d never been a walker back home, but here it was my main mode of transport and a way to clear my head. I wound my way to the Luxembourg Garden. The place was empty, no soul brave enough to walk in the heavy downpour. It was a gift, having the huge expanse of garden all to myself. With my hands thrust deep in my pockets, I sloshed along, thinking of all the famous writers, long since dead, who’d walked these very same steps, and picturing the verdant lush gardens in the summertime – people clutching books, their feet resting against the tip of the fountain
like I’d seen in so many photographs.
When I came to the fountain, I sat on the cement edge, gazing at the cloudy water. Raindrops fell like kisses on the surface. Taking my e-reader from my bag, I switched it on, having downloaded Ridge’s latest article. It was a story he’d worked on months ago, that had only just been published, about the right for patients with epilepsy to be able to use medicinal cannabis as a way to stop seizures, especially in children who sometimes had hundreds a day. Modern medicine wasn’t working for those kids, but the medicinal cannabis was, yet the Australian government had made it illegal to be administered in the home.
He went into detail about one family’s struggle to make it legal, so their child could get the help it afforded, to curb the damage the seizures caused every day. Without the law changing there was little hope. My heart broke when I read the account of the suffering of their innocent child. Ridge highlighted the difference between the drug cannabis that people smoked, and medical cannabis, two completely different things. Reading the story, I was so damn proud of him. Shining a light on an issue that needed to be told. What he wrote about was important. How could I ask him to veer away from that simply to stay by my side? I could embrace being alone, and enjoy that time. I’d spent most of my life that way, only being dragged out when the girls back home insisted. But once I’d fallen in love with Ridge, that solitude wasn’t so ideal any more. How could I not want him there all the time? He made me laugh, showed me how to love and enjoy every single second of my life. So when the brightness of his attention was gone, I floundered in darkness. But that was a choice. And it could be changed.
I thought about TJ and what he’d said about those who flocked here. Was Paris a beacon for people like me? It certainly seemed like a place where you could reinvent yourself, or even just be yourself, and you’d fit in among the hordes of people here who were all searching for something too.
Pulling out my notebook I made notes about our new plans for the shop. TJ’s ideas had been brilliant and I knew they would work, but we needed more concrete marketing plans. Proper signage made, the staff all kept in the loop. Book recommendations and reviews had helped, we just had to step it up a notch. I wrote down all the ideas that flashed through my mind, there were so many things we could do to turn curious onlookers into customers.
I marked mid-December for the launch of the author events. It would be a great way to draw in more customers – who didn’t love getting a book for Christmas?
A man came sloshing along, catching me unawares. He was dressed in a black slicker and plastic boots. “Bonjour,” he greeted me. “Would you like to see the bees?”
Bees? “Pardon?”
“The hives. The bees are protecting their Queen. S'il vous plaît.” He motioned with a gnarly finger to the south of the gardens. His ruddy, lined face and hunched shoulders, made me think of an old weathered farmer. I was intrigued, despite being alone with a stranger who wasn’t making much sense to me. It all struck me as very Parisian. I thought maybe something was lost in translation but I followed him anyway. From a man offering to show me the bees to Anouk only serving customers who had an introduction, the Parisians were certainly an eccentric lot.
My mind whirled as I followed him. We trudged through the wet grass, his breathing labored until we came to a semi-circle of beehives made from what looked like old chests of drawers, with steel pitched roofs on top. I wouldn’t have stumbled on them without the man telling me. Paris had so many marvels, hidden here and there, you just had to know where to look.
“See?” he smiled, his teeth were tobacco stained, and he was missing a molar, which only added to his rugged beekeeper appeal. “They cluster around the Queen in winter, to keep her warm. They live off their own honey, for energy. You come back in the spring time, and take a beekeeping class. I will show you how, and you can try the honey. We must respect the bees.” His expression was solemn. “You see the bee has to fly around, flitter from flower to flower, but he will always come back to his Queen.”
I double blinked.
He has to fly around.
He always comes back.
Chapter Eighteen
The next evening, the shop was strangely quiet. The rain had disappeared and heavy snow fell, sending tourists scuttling back to their hotel rooms, leaving the streets of Paris blanketed in white, and silent. It was like a picture on a postcard – dark flashes of gray and black, with the white snow like hope. I could have stared out the window all day just watching the landscape change.
With the shop door firmly closed against the bracing weather, I tallied the takings discreetly behind the counter. The numbers didn’t match. Again. We were down a hundred Euros. I checked the desk for any handwritten notes, in case someone had borrowed an advance on their wages, but there was nothing. I resisted the urge to bash my head against the wall.
Beatrice wandered over and pulled her jacket from the hook. “I’m leaving,” she said, her voice brusque.
“Wait,” I said, “The takings are down again. Any ideas why?” I asked, hoping that perhaps she’d borrowed some money and forgotten to leave a note.
She huffed, though she tried to mask it by coughing. “I have no idea, Sarah. It’s not my job to balance the takings, is it? If there’s nothing else?”
“Beatrice, I’m not messing around. This is happening regularly now, and from what I can gather, it’s always when you’re here.”
She shrugged, feigning disinterest. “Are you accusing me?”
Why was she so cool about it? Wouldn’t you be angry if someone suggested such a thing?
Was it Beatrice stealing? As far as I could see she didn’t live extravagantly like Oceane. But then, I didn’t know much about her, except her reading habits.
“Do you think it’s odd that it only seems to happen when you’re here?” I threw the question back on her.
“Not at all. You know staff pop in when they want books. They’re not likely to steal on their own shift, are they? Too obvious.”
I shrugged but I just didn’t trust her. “I’ll have to tell Sophie, and see what she says. It can’t keep happening. Just so you know.” Would that scare her? I wondered if Sophie would threaten them all with being fired, or if I should? But after the last time I had brought it up I knew that the culprit wasn’t going to raise their hand and take the blame.
“Good idea. And while you’re speaking to her, maybe tell her about the first edition you sold for almost nothing.” And there it was. I wasn’t imagining her hostility. The passive aggressive way in which she spoke to me. Blurting something out, and then softening it with a smile or an innocent shrug. I felt more than certain now it was her. Her masked threats made it obvious.
“She knows,” I said. “I haven’t kept anything from her.”
She did that same smug grin that I’d come to hate. “Well perhaps you should worry about what you’re doing to make the shop more profitable before you worry about some loose change going missing.”
“It’s not loose change and you know it.”
She raised a brow. “Oh?”
I narrowed my eyes, certain Beatrice was behind the so-called mistakes I’d made. When I thought back to unpacking the boxes from the estate sale with the first editions, there were no Joyce books there. I’d sold one that day, but I doubted it was a first edition. They almost hummed, those types of novels, and were hard to miss. I suspected someone had taken it, and the only person who knew it was there was Beatrice. But I couldn’t prove anything. “See you tomorrow night,” I said, dismissing her by going back to my counting.
“I can’t work tomorrow night, it will have to be the day.”
I sighed, my patience wearing thin. “We agreed on some nights, Beatrice.”
“Yeah, well it’s not as easy for some of us. And you’re lucky I even told you. No one else would have.” It irked me that she was right. The staff treated any idea of a roster like a joke, and no matter how I tried to enforce one, it always ended up the same. But for
the first time in a long time I felt like I was onto something – not only were the plans for the author events and book bags coming along beautifully, I might just have solved the thieving problem too.
***
Tyler approached me, the same mutinous look on his face as the day I’d called the staff together about stealing. He was only a casual staff member, and like a handful of them only deigned work when it suited him.
I gave him a wide smile. “Nice to see you, Tyler.”
He glared at me in response. “You can’t tell me what to do!” Spittle flew from his mouth as he held a piece of paper aloft, waving it in front of me.
“Excuse me? I think I can tell you what to do. And if you don’t like it, Tyler, feel free to give notice and leave. I have Sophie’s permission, and I will pull this bookshop into the twenty-first century if it kills me.” I couldn’t help but feel a thrill of satisfaction as his face fell. “No more, the roster is just a suggestion, or, they’ll work when they want. I’d never heard of anything so dumb in all my life. You’ll work when I say so, or trot on down to the bookshop around the corner and apply there.” The tension was palpable, as Tyler gave me a stare that would have had me shrinking in on myself before, but not now. “Got it?” I asked him.
“Got it,” he eventually mumbled and stalked away.
Do not fist pump, do not jump for joy.
Internally, I did a kind of happy dance. Shy, reserved, mousy Sarah was a thing of the past. Even if I was talking about myself in third person. It felt damn good.
“Right,” I said to the staff who had edged closer, a willing audience to a confrontation they thought I’d lose. “Does anyone else have issues with the memo about the shifts and what’s expected of you while I’m in charge?”
They mumbled ‘no’s, and cast their eyes to the floor. The thrill of victory hit me anew, so I poured that excitement into the next thing on my to-do list. “Now, as I have you all gathered. Christmas is around the corner, and I’d love you to choose your favorite festive reads, and for you to write a little note about why you liked it, without spoilers. We’re going to display the books in the front window, with a bunch of gaudy, flashy, American-esque decorations. And you will be required to sing Jingle Bells on occasion,” I smiled, hoping they knew I was joking to soften the mood. Well, sort of joking. Who didn’t like singing Jingle Bells?
The Little Bookshop On the Seine Page 19