2 Witch and Famous (26 page)

“Never mind the money. It was all my fault, really. My enthusiasm far outweighed my common sense and my usual manners.”

“Same here.”

“That’s enough apologizing on both our parts,” Sam said. “What’s done is done.”

She nodded. Unlike most women, she seemed to hang on his every word. This was not an everyday occurrence in the life of Sam Gold and his pulse quickened further as he spotted her naked ring finger. When was the last time he had even done a hand check?
Years ago.

She saw him glance at her fingers and hid her hand from him in her jeans pocket with a half-smile, and then lifted a russet eyebrow at him.

Thus encouraged, he rambled onward. “Despite our clichéd cute meet, I am pleased to meet you, Jessie Smith.”

“Who?” she asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Jessie Willcox Smith?” he continued, confused for a moment. “Like the book illustrator? You did say your namesake was on the book cover.” She was open-mouthed.

“Right.” She looked embarrassed.

“I was listening to you, Jessie. That’s what gentlemen do. They
listen
.”

She laughed and the sound was sweet and musical. “That’s very unusual in a man.”

“But not a gentleman. It would be less than courteous not to listen when a lady speaks. May we please start over?” Hating that he was usually reluctant to even shake hands with anyone, he made himself do it anyway. He held out his hand in a too-gallant introduction with even a slight bow at the waist.

She shook his hand firmly, but delicately, with the tips of her fingers.

Ah, so she’s shy, too
, he thought.

He seemed to amuse her easily. How much could he get away with as a middle-aged man with a bad back, a book-hoarder’s house, and two tiger-striped cats without names? He was intrigued by her, but he assumed she’d give him about twenty more seconds of her time and flee down the street to disappear forever. He supposed that would be just as well. She was too young for him. That should have been the end of the story.

But it isn’t
, whispered the angel on his shoulder.

He perked up. The angel on his shoulder was never wrong.

She chattered on to fill up the gap between them. “I was born Jessie Willcox, but when I got married to Jared Smith, I just decided to keep my maiden name as my middle name. It seemed fitting for a children’s bookseller to have a name like that. Everyone remembers it.” She paused. “I would have married him just for the name.”

He laughed, but his ray of hope faded at the mention of a husband. “There are a lot of Smiths in the world. You had millions from which to choose a husband.”

Her expression changed. After a fleeting eye flicker away and back, she said, “I should tell you that I’m a widow. My husband was a firefighter—he died on September 11, 2001, in New York.”

He was startled. “I’m sorry for the tragic loss of your husband. I hope you are doing all right now.”

“I am. I still miss him sometimes, but I have places to go and things to do. Books to covet, buy and hoard. And sell, if I can bear it.”

To her inquisitive eyes, he offered, “I’ve never married. I’m convinced that it must be all of the books in my house. No room for hers. You know?”

“Yes. So, now you know my name. What’s yours?”

“I’m Sam. Sam Gold. My name is not as interesting as your name, Jessie Willcox Smith. The only story I have about my own name is that it used to be something unpronounceable, like Guildersteinhemwallenfoot when my great-grandparents arrived on Ellis Island in 1881. The immigration officer, shortened it to Gold.”

“Guildersteinhemwallenfoot?” she said in perfect imitation of the way he had said it.

He laughed. “Not precisely,” he admitted. “It was something like that. It’s easier for my customers to remember that a guy named Sam Gold sells books than some fifteen-syllable name.”

“True. What’s in a name?”

“All of one’s personal history,” he said.

“Indeed.” She cringed like she’d been struck.

He searched her face for a clue as to what he had said wrong. “What’s your book specialty?” he asked gently.

Her face cleared of whatever had upset her. “I collect vintage children’s books. I sell them—the ones I can bear to part with—at many of the New England flea markets.”

“I do all of the flea markets around here, but I haven’t seen you around.”

“I’ve seen
you
,” she piped up. “You were in New Hampshire, last summer, at a roadside flea market with a table of first edition John Fowles, Eudora Welty, and some Sylvia Plath.”

“Yes! I did go to that.” Never one to forget a face, he wracked his brain and could find no memory of seeing her.
Ever.
“You should have said hello. I thought I knew everyone on the circuit. How could I have missed you at my tables?”

“When I had a free moment, I walked over. But suddenly, you were talking to a customer and haggling over the price. I didn’t want to interrupt and then someone walked over to my own tables, so I ran back to tend them. And the moment was lost. Whatever clever thing I planned to say to you, I lost it.”

“Sounds like something I would do. What a shame we missed each other. Do you come often to Port Sapphire?”

“I’m in and out of the area,” she said. “Perhaps we would have met last summer if you had stepped away from your table to see mine.”

“I don’t do that too often. I tell myself that someday, I hope to sell more books than I buy.”

She laughed. “We are both prisoners of our book lust, it seems.”

Say anything to keep this going
, advised the angel on his shoulder.

He couldn’t bear the thought that she might end their conversation and walk away. “What was on your table that day?” he asked, talking shop with her, just to keep her talking.  

“Let me think. That day, I had a first edition of George MacDonald’s
The Light Princess
, a smattering of Beatrix Potter, some Book House sets and firsts of
Winnie-the-Pooh
.”

“Nice children’s inventory,” he said. “It’s difficult for me to get away from the tables. I don’t socialize all that much at the flea markets. It’s my business, so I am pretty serious about it. I also choose my friends carefully at flea markets. People do steal books, you know, even other vendors, so I rarely chat while I am at the flea market except about the books on my table—I try not to get distracted from that.”

She’s quite a distraction, isn’t she?
remarked the angel on his shoulder.

“So, what kinds of friends do you have, Sam?”

“I have just a handful of friends, mostly from college and beyond, and my next-door neighbor, the grandmother of Cindy. We all have common interests in fine American literature, good poetry, politics and the last vestiges of the American peace movement. I also have friends who share tickets to live local music, and ones who like to go look at IKEA bookshelves with me.”

She laughed. “I like
everything
in IKEA.”

“The Swedish meatballs, too?”

“Yes! So, whose poetry do you appreciate?” she asked.

“Pablo Neruda. Especially,
The Captain’s Verses: Love Poems.
Robert Frost. Walt Whitman. Others.”

“Impressive. Novels?”

Keep going
,
you’re on a roll,
said the angel in his ear.

“Writing or reading?” he said.

She looked surprised. “You do both?”

“Yes. I write and self-publish mystery romance novels. I have moderate success in ebooks, less in print.”

“How wonderful. I’ll have to read them. What an age we live in.”

“It is. From my point of view, there isn’t much to talk about with other people unless they are interested in books and ebooks, music, peace, politics, and technology. I might be an introvert, but I’ve become comfortable in my own skin, by this age.”

She assessed him with her eyes. “You’re not as old as you pretend.”

“I’m fifty-seven but thank you.” He looked at her with a question in his eyes.

She digested this for a moment, her eyes measuring his face.

Ladies rarely discuss their age,
said the angel in his ear.

She glossed right over the age issue and said, “I’ve been a bookworm since I learned to read and never wasted much time on anyone who didn’t want to read books. And except for buying and selling books, I really don’t have a social life. Our type of work is not conducive to being the life of the party.”

“Your focus on bookselling, like mine, probably explains your single status for the last twelve years.”

“Twelve?”

“Since your husband died on September 11th.” Now he was confused again. Isn’t that what she had just told him? He scratched his head.

“Right.” She directed the conversation back to him. “What about your stories of singlehood?” Her blue eyes were curious and an almost-smile quirked at the corners of her full mouth.

“Oh, please! Adventures of a lifetime bachelor? Another time, perhaps. If you ever get insomnia, call me and those stories of an utter yawn fest will put you out like a light.”

“I do get insomnia sometimes. I’d call you for that cure.” She briefly touched his arm and his heart skipped a beat. “Then tell me about your book inventory and personal collection.”

She was a woman after his own heart. Perhaps she wouldn’t cringe when she found out that he lived in an old house with ten thousand books and almost no room to move. Where other women failed to find him interesting for more than an hour, maybe Jessie was his last chance—he clung to hope that he would someday find true love. With a rabid book lover.

She’s almost too young, you know, not that it matters much to her,
said a tiny voice in his ear.

He almost said
shhh
aloud to the invisible angel on his right shoulder.

Sam looked at Jessie for a moment, suddenly uneasy. “I feel pretty silly standing out here on the sidewalk talking for so long. We’re in the village fishbowl, so to speak, here on Main Street.”

“So, where should we go to sit and talk?”

Jessie just moved things to the next level
, said the angel on his shoulder.

He looked down the street. It was awkward for him to ask her out on a real date, even though she was clearly leading him down a primrose path to that very thing. He was usually shy with women and this one was young and pretty, very much out of his league. Mostly, if a woman was interested in him, she did the talking and he did the listening until one of them would find a chance to politely withdraw.

“I’ve never been in that one, but there’s a little coffee shop down the street,” he suggested. “It got good reviews in the newspaper.”

“Perfect!” she said.

He had a feeling that any place he’d suggested would have been deemed perfect at that moment. She looked up at him with stars in her eyes.
What the heck?

“Would you like to go there and have a cup of coffee or tea?” He paused, not used to such rapt attention from women. “We could talk books, our favorite subject. Or about something else if you prefer…” He left that option hanging like a lobster trap full of chicken necks.