The Bookshop on the Corner

by Rebecca Raisin

  I loved them all.

  And I found it hard to part with them. Though years of book selling had steeled me. I had to let them go, and each time made a fervent wish they’d be read well, and often.

  Missy, my best friend, said I was completely cuckoo, and that I spent too much time alone in my shadowy shop, because I believed my books communicated with me. A soft sigh here, as they stretched their bindings when dawn broke, or a hum, as they anticipated a customer hovering close who might run a hand along their cover, tempting them to flutter their pages hello. Books were fussy when it came to their owners, and gave off a type of sound, an almost imperceptible whirr, when the right person was near. Most people weren’t aware that books chose us, at the time when we needed them most.

  Outside, the breeze picked up, gathering the leaves in a swirl and blowing them down the street in waves. Rubbing my hands for warmth, I trundled into the reading room, and added some wood to the fire. Each day, the weather grew cooler, and the crackle and spit of the glowing embers were a nice soundtrack to the shop, comforting, like a hug.

  The double-stacked books in the reading room weren’t for sale, but could be thumbed and enjoyed by anyone who wished. They were my favorites, the ones I couldn’t part with. I’d been gifted a huge range from a man whose wife had passed on, a woman who was so like me with her bookish foibles, that it was almost like she was still here. Her collection—an essential part of her life—lived on, long after she’d gone. I’d treasure them always.

  I wandered to the front of the shop. The street was coming alive. Owners milled in front of shops, chatting to early-bird customers, or lugging out A-frame signs, advertising their wares. Lil, my friend from the Gingerbread Café, waved over at me. Her heavily pregnant belly made me smile. I pulled open the front door, a gust of wind blowing my hair back, and fluttering the pages of the books.

  “You take it easy!” I shouted. Lil was due any day now, but insisted on working. Times were tough for all of us, so Lil had to work, but claimed instead she wanted to spruce things up before she left. Nesting, her best friend and only employee CeeCee called it.

  Lil tossed her long blonde curls back from her face. “If I take it any easier, I’ll be asleep! Besides, how are you going to survive without your chocolate fix?” The wind carried her words to me in a happy jumble.

  “True,” I agreed. “I’ll be there as soon as my tummy rumbles.” It was torture, working across the road from the café, the scent of tempered chocolate or the yeasty smell of freshly baked bread wafting its way to my shop. I’d find myself crossing the street and demanding to be fed, flopping lazily on their sofa, while they flitted around making all my food dreams come true. The girls from the café were great friends, and often gave me a metaphorical shove in the back when they thought I should step from the comfort of my shop and try something new, like love, for example.

  They’d set me up with Ridge, knowing I wouldn’t take the leap myself. When I’d first met him, I couldn’t understand why a big-shot reporter from New York would be interested in a girl from smallsville. It wasn’t that I didn’t think I was good enough, it was more that our lives were a million miles apart, and the likes of him were a rarity in Ashford.

  My girlfriends hadn’t seen it that way, and literally pushed me into his arms, at a dinner party the night of the infamous man crease fiasco. I wouldn’t say that’s when I fell in love with Ridge, my face pressed up against his nether regions after a “fall” on the uneven deck, but it was pretty damn close. My so-called friends had orchestrated the night, including the “whoops” shove in the back from Lil, so I toppled ungraciously toward Ridge, landing on my knees at his hip level. My breathing had been uneven, as his sweater rode high, and jeans had slung low, giving me ample opportunity to scrutinize the deep V presented to me. My lips a mere inch away from his tanned flesh, until he scooped me up, before I almost licked his skin to see what it tasted like. I had this strange burning desire to see what flavor he’d be. That’s what reading too many romances does to a girl.

  Recalling the evening still provoked a blush, because it was so unlike me. I mean, imagine if I had flicked my tongue against his exposed skin? He would have been running for the hills before the entrée was served. But that’s the effect he had over me, he made my mind blank, and my body act of its own volition, including a thousand scenarios I’d never have entertained with any other guy. Dumbstruck by love was a real thing, I’d come to learn.

  Lil’s boisterous laughter brought me back to the moment. “See you soon. I’ll have a chocolate soufflé with your name on it.”

  “You’d tempt the devil himself!” I joked and gave her a wave before stepping back into the warmth of the bookshop.

  My email pinged and I dashed over to see who it was from. That’s how exciting my life was sans Ridge, an email was enough to make me almost run, and that was saying a lot. I only ran if chocolate was involved, and even then it was more a fast walk.

  Sales@littlebookshop.fr

  Sophie, a dear Parisian friend. She owned Once Upon a Time, a famous bookshop by the bank of the Seine. We’d become confidantes since connecting on my book blog a while back, and shared our joys and sorrows about bookshop life. She was charming and sweet, and adored books as much as me, believing them to be portable magic, and a balm for souls.

  I clicked open the email and read:

  Ma chérie,

  I cannot stay one more day in Paris. You see, Manu has not so much broken my heart, rather pulled it out of my chest and stomped on it. The days are interminable and I can’t catch my breath. He walks past the bookshop, as though nothing is amiss. I have a proposal for you. Please call me as soon as you can.

  Love,

  Sophie

  Poor Sophie. I’d heard all about her grand love affair with a dashing twenty-something man, who frequented her bookshop, and quoted famous poets. It’d been a whirlwind romance, but she often worried he cast an appraising eye over other women. Even when she clutched his hand, and walked along the cobbled streets of Paris, he’d dart an admiring glance at any woman swishing past.

  I shot off a quick reply, telling her to Skype me now, if she was able. Within seconds my computer flashed with an incoming call.

  Her face appeared on the screen, her chestnut-colored hair in an elegant chignon, her lips dusted rosy pink. If she was in the throes of heartache, you’d never know it by looking at her. The French had a way of always looking poised and together, no matter what was happening in their complex lives.

  “Darling,” she said, giving me a nod. “He’s a lothario, a Casanova, a...” She grappled for another moniker as her voice broke. “He’s dating the girl who owns the shop next door!” Her eyes smoldered, but her face remained stoic.

  I gasped, “Which girl? The one from the florist?”

  Sophie shook her head. “The other side, the girl from the fromagerie.” She grimaced. I’d heard so much about the people in or around Sophie’s life that it was easy to call her neighbors to mind. “Giselle?” I said, incredulous. “Wasn’t she engaged—I thought the wedding was any day now?”

  Sophie’s eyes widened. “She’s broken off her engagement, and has announced it to the world that my Manu has proposed and now they are about to set up house and to try immediately for children—”

  My hand flew to my mouth. “Children! He wouldn’t do that, surely!” Sophie was late forties, and had gently broached the subject of having a baby with Manu, but he’d said simply: absolutely not, he didn’t want children.

  The doorbell of her shop pinged, Sophie’s face pinched and she leaned closer to the screen, lowering her voice. “A customer...” She forced a bright smile, turned her head and spoke in rapid-fire French to whoever stood just off-screen. “So,” she continued quietly. “The entire neighborhood are whispering behind their hands about the love triangle, and unfortunately for me, I’m the laughing stock. The older woman,
who was deceived by a younger man.”

  I wished I could lean through the monitor and hug her. While she was an expert at keeping her features neutral, she couldn’t stop the glassiness of her eyes when tears threatened. My heart broke that Manu would treat her so callously. She’d trusted him, and loved him unreservedly. “No one is laughing at you, I promise,” I said. “They’ll be talking about Manu, if anyone, and saying how he’s made a huge mistake.”

  “No, no.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “I look like a fool. I simply cannot handle when he cavorts through the streets with her, darting glances in my bookshop, like they hope I’ll see them. It’s too cruel.” Sophie held up a hand, and turned to a voice. She said au revoir to the customer and spun to face me, but within a second or two, the bell sounded again. “I have a proposal for you, and I want you to really consider it.” She raised her eyebrows. “Or at least hear me out before you say no.” Her gaze burned into mine as I racked my brain with what it could be, and came up short. Sophie waved to customers, and pivoted her screen further away.

  “Well?” I said with a nervous giggle. “What exactly are you proposing?”

  She blew out a breath, and then smiled. “A bookshop exchange. You come and run Once Upon a Time, and I’ll take over the Bookshop on the Corner.”

  I gasped, my jaw dropping.

  Sophie continued, her calm belied by the slight quake in her hand as she gesticulated. “You’ve always said how much you yearned to visit the city of love—here’s your chance, my dear friend. After our language lessons, you’re more than capable of speaking enough French to get by.” Sophie’s words spilled out in a desperate rush, her earlier calm vanishing. “You’d save me so much heartache. I want to be in a place where no one knows me, and there’s no chance for love, ever again.”

  I tried to hide my smile at that remark. I’d told Sophie in the past how bereft of single men Ashford was, and how my love life had been almost nonexistent until Ridge strolled into town.

  “Sophie, I want to help you, but I’m barely hanging on to the bookshop as is...” I stalled for time, running a hand through my hair, my bangs too long, shielding the tops of my eyebrows. How could it work? How would we run each other’s businesses, the financial side, the logistics? I also had an online shop, and I sourced hard-to-find books—how would Sophie continue that?

  My mind boggled with the details, not to mention the fact that leaving my books would be akin to leaving a child behind. I loved my bookshop as if it were a living thing, an unconditional best friend, who was always there for me. Besides, I’d never ventured too far from Ashford let alone boarded a plane—it just couldn’t happen.

  “Please,” Sophie said, a real heartache in her tone. “Think about it. We can work out the finer details and I’ll make it worth your while. Besides, you know I’m good with numbers, I can whip your sales into shape.” Her eyes clouded with tears. “I have to leave, Sarah. You’re my only chance. Christmas in Paris is on your bucket list...”

  My bucket list. A hastily compiled scrappy piece of paper filled with things I thought I’d never do. Christmas in Paris—snow dusting the bare trees on the Left Bank, the sparkling fairy lights along the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Santa’s village in the Latin Quarter. The many Christmas markets to stroll through, rugged up with thick scarves and gloves, Ridge by my side, as I hunted out treasures. I’d spent many a day curled up in my own shop, flicking through memoirs, or travel guides about Paris, dreaming about the impossible...one day.

  Sophie continued: “If you knew how I suffered here, my darling. It’s not only Manu, it’s everything. All of a sudden, I can’t do it all anymore. It’s like someone has pulled the plug, and I’m empty.” Her eyes scrunched closed as she fought tears.

  While Sophie’s predicament was different to mine, she was in a funk, just like me. Perhaps a new outlook, a new place would mend both our lives. Her idea of whipping my sales into shape was laughable though, she had no real clue how tiny Ashford was.

  “Exchange bookshops...” I said, the idea taking shape. Could I just up and leave? What about my friends, my life, my book babies? My fear of change? And Ridge, what would he have to say about it? But my life...it was missing something. Could this be the answer?

  Paris. The city of love. Full of rich literary history.

  A little bookshop on the bank of the Seine. Could there be anything sweeter?

  With a thud, a book fell to the floor beside me, dust motes dancing above it like glitter. I craned my neck to see what it was:

  Paris: A Literary Guide.

  Was that a sign? Did my books want me to go?

  “Yes,” I said, without any more thought. “I’ll do it.”

  * * *

  THE SUN BOBBED in the blue sky, making me squint. For October, Paris was warmer than I’d expected, more so than Ashford. It was as though the city of love had pulled out all the stops on my first morning here. The air was fragrant with promise. I rifled through my backpack, searching for sunglasses. My face was split with a cheesy grin.

  I was really here! Paris!

  And so far, I’d hadn’t been snatched, mugged, or even scammed, as Mom had warned me about four million times before she kissed me goodbye. Rolling my suitcase along, stifling a yawn, I made my way to a ticket booth to ask where the train station was.

  I had to catch the RER train to central Paris, but I’d been swept along in a throng of people, and unsure of which way I was meant to go. Somehow I’d ended up outside, and couldn’t contain my joy. I wanted to jump in the air, kick my heels together, and screech Bonjour, France! Instead, I smiled and trundled forward. Fatigue tried to catch me, I’d stayed awake for most of the flight, as excitement pulsed through my veins, making sleep impossible. I shook the lethargy away, promising myself a nap before starting at the bookshop. The time difference made my head spin—but I was here, and that was the only thing that mattered.

  A raven-haired woman, chewing gum in the same repetitive pattern, click, blow, pop, eyed me with feigned disinterest as I approached the counter. “Oui?” she said.

  I dropped my backpack to the floor, and leaned close to the glass.

  I hastily found the train timetable, and pointed. “Où est...?” Where is...how did you say train station? I flipped through my French phrase book.

  Before I could find it, she popped her gum and said in English, “The train station is that way.” She looked over my shoulder to the next person, signaling she was finished with me. I wanted to laugh, she was so French!

  “Merci beaucoup,” I thanked her, feeling foolish that my accent was so jarring compared to the words that fell from her tongue in a silky cadence.

  Hefting my backpack on, I wheeled my suitcase in front and made my way to the platform. The sign was a maze of different colored lines crisscrossing all over the place. Shoot. It was a complicated web. How on earth would I pick the right one? I’d expected one freaking train! My research hadn’t stretched to public transport, and again the size of the place hit home.

  Overhead on the PA a French voice rang out, announcing something, but speaking so quickly I couldn’t untangle the words. I blew out a breath. Maybe Sophie’s French lessons wouldn’t be enough here—unless people spoke to me like I was a five-year-old, with laboriously slow enunciation. Behind me people hurried along, bumping into me and jostling me out of the way. A train approached, its motor screeching, and brakes grinding, so loud it was like a drawn-out scream. I turned in fright, but no one took any notice. Openmouthed, I watched crowds exit the newly arrived train, and others elbow their way on, in one big gorging mass of bodies, and bulky accoutrements.

  As fast as a click of fingers the doors shushed closed, and the train was off again. I double blinked. Why was everyone in such a hurry? Where did they all come from? One minute the station was empty, then full of bustling bodies, then empty again. Somehow I had to pick the right train to head into centra
l Paris, and then squeeze into the damn thing.

  Could I push my way forcefully like everyone else including grappling with my heavy suitcase and backpack? Why did I smuggle so many books into my bag? The weight of them slowed me right down, despite the wheels on the bottom of my case. It’s not like I was going to a place bereft of books! I couldn’t face some of my favorites being sold, though, and had taken one, then two, then a stack of them, just in case. They were my talismans, a reminder of my shop.

  When the next train arrived, I gave myself a silent pep talk, and mimicked the people ahead of me, lunging myself and suitcase onto the train with a cry of eee! When the doors closed, I surveyed my limbs; all intact! I hadn’t been snatched, mugged, scammed, and now I could add hadn’t been squashed to death on the train. I was one step away from potentially booking a trek up the Himalayas... Settle down, Sarah. You’ve been here all of five minutes. My bucket list was a little fanciful for a newbie tourist, I must admit.

  Eventually the crowd thinned, and I snagged a seat. I pushed my face against the glass, and tried to calm the erratic beat of my heart. Since I was a little girl, I’d dreamed of visiting Paris, and here it was before me—breathtaking, glorious, and everything I imagined. Apartments as far as the eye could see, window boxes with bright red flowers spilling out, like lackadaisical smiles. White shutters were flung open to welcome soft sunshine inside. Cars zoomed up roads. Abbeys were dotted here and there, their gothic facades awe-inspiring. I was goggle-eyed with the beauty surrounding me.

  The city sprawled in every direction; even though I’d spent many a night dreaming of Paris, and gawping at photos, I hadn’t expected this. The sheer enormity of what I’d done gave me pause, and I was proud of myself, for the first time in ages, for leaping from the monotony of my life and doing something that scared me.