Haunting Jasmine (26 page)

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Authors: Anjali Banerjee

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

BOOK: Haunting Jasmine
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“Time-out!” Mohan laughs.
Auntie is shaking her head. “We didn’t think to look here. I’d forgotten about this hidden place.”
“I didn’t forget,” I say.
“You go, girl!” Tony says from behind everyone else.
We all file into the foyer, and after everyone has left—except Auntie and Tony and me—I produce
Tamerlane and Other Poems
from my purse. I’ve encased the slim volume in plastic. “A surprise for you,” I tell Auntie.
“The Bostonian book!” Tony says.
“What’s this?” Auntie asks.
“Not by a Bostonian,” I say. “Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Poe!” Auntie exclaims.
“Who?” Tony says.
“This is an extremely rare volume,” I say. “Connor gave it to me. Poe wrote these poems early in his career, and nobody took any notice. No copies were known until 1876, when one was found in the British Museum. Only twelve surviving original copies are known to exist, and this is another one.”
Auntie gasps. “Only twelve!”
Tony is staring at me. “Girl, Connor gave you that book for a reason.”
“I’ve had the authenticity verified,” I say. “At auction, this little old book could sell for over two hundred thousand dollars.”
Auntie grabs the back of a chair for support, as if she might faint. “Ay, Ganesh.”
“Unbelievable,” Tony says, letting out a low whistle.
“And so you see, Auntie, we won’t have to sell the bookstore anytime soon.”
“No, we won’t.” She presses a hand to her forehead.
I glance at my cell phone display, and there is Poe’s face—wide forehead, mustache, wild hair. He smiles at me.
“Thank you,” I whisper to him.
“I have but one hope,” he says
.
“I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.”
Chapter 43
 
Auntie stands at the threshold of the bookstore she has nurtured and cherished for so many years. Resplendent in a purple printed sari and clashing snowman sweater, she hunches against the wind, waving at the crowd in the garden. Half the town of Fairport has braved the blustery weather to see her off.
Stoic, patient, and impeccably dressed, Subhas waits by the black limousine he rented in Seattle, to transport his bride on the ferry to the airport.
Might as well leave in luxury,
he said. Four giant suitcases weigh down the trunk. Ma and Dad and Gita are already in the backseat, perhaps helping themselves to the wet bar.
I’m staying here, where I need to be. If I leave for too long, the bookstore gets cranky. Auntie has left me many of her antiques; smaller pieces have been shipped to India by sea.
At the bon voyage party in the parlor last night, island residents took turns paying tribute to the woman who helped them, who so often mysteriously handed them healing, life-changing books. Auntie thanked them for supporting her store, for giving her cause to celebrate. She introduced me as her successor and assured everyone that I would carry on the legacy of her bookstore.
“Don’t let the name change fool you,” she said to the crowd, while we all drank wine and feasted on Lucia’s baked cookies and scones. “Jasmine’s Bookstore will be everything Auntie’s Bookstore was, and more. A new era begins.”
Everyone clapped and hooted. Ma and Dad beamed, Ma looking triumphant. I’ve finally come home, where she wants me. Dad wandered off to browse the engineering textbooks, and Gita rearranged displays and decorated the rooms with plants and flowers she’d brought from Seattle. Dilip is away on another business trip. If it weren’t for the massive engagement ring on her finger, I could believe that he, too, is a ghost.
Tony got drunk, made a rambling speech, and broke down in sobs. We all comforted him, and he fell asleep on the couch in the tea room, where he is sleeping now. For once in his life, he stayed overnight in the bookstore.
The spirits are behaving themselves, perhaps worried that I may still decide to sell the store. After all, Auntie has paid her debts, still managing to keep some cash from the sale of
Tamerlane
, and she has left the business to me. I hope I can live up to her fame. The town loves her; the tears flow freely as she bids everyone a final good-bye.
“Ruma,” Subhas calls, “we’ve got to go now. We’ll miss the flight.”
She turns to me and grabs my hands tightly. “Bippy, you must be sure. Are you sure?” Her eyes search mine, perhaps for a hint of indecision. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I moved in already, didn’t I?” I smile at her, but I can’t hide my nervousness. “Okay, I’m scared to death. But I’m here.”
“You will never be entirely sure of anything,” she says, still squeezing my hands. “But we must act anyway, nah? Subhas is not perfect. He is prone to fits of pouting, and he has acquired many other bad habits over the years. I’m not sure, you see, but I must go with him anyway. He is a good man. He loves me.”
“You can always come back,” I say. “We’re here for you.”
“
Acha.
I will write you many letters. Your ma and dad are already planning a long trip to India. I have to put up with them for three months, bah!”
“You’ll have fun together. I’ll miss you so much.” My voice breaks, and I wrap her in a tight hug. Somehow I know she will not come back.
“And I you, Bippy. You’re the proper successor for the bookstore. You must keep the spirits alive.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I nearly forgot.” She hands me her bundle of keys. “The bookstore no longer belongs to me. You must make it your own.”
Through the haze of my tears, Auntie becomes a mirage as she lifts the hem of her sari and walks daintily down the steps.
Chapter 44
 
The attic apartment affords me a spectacular view of the ocean, the mainland, and majestic Mount Rainier. In the garden, a winter towhee flits through the fir branches. My new cats, Monet and Mary, sit on the windowsill, tails flicking, their green eyes reflecting the light.
I give the kitties breakfast, then make my own. The rituals—feeding the cats, brushing them, and tending to their needs—lift me out of my lonely space. I open the windows to let the rich air fan through the rooms.
“I’m supposed to be here, waiting to become a sister-in-law, right?” I tell the cats.
They purr.
“Connor has gone to heaven or wherever he was supposed to go. And I hope Robert and Lauren are happy in the condo. Maybe I should have asked for more money, huh?”
The cats keep purring.
“They paid me well. Anyway, this house is better than the condo, right?”
More purring.
“Right.” I picture Lauren lounging in the sunroom overlooking the sea; for all I know, she and Robert will live there together happily ever after. He can’t say I never gave an inch. I’ve given him more than a mile. Perhaps this twinge, this touch of jealousy, will always plague me, but it comes less often now, and the pain is fading. Time will heal me; time and distance.
“Let it be, right?” I say to Monet. He purrs and stretches his front paws forward, rump in the air. Mary squints at me and hops onto the desk, where she can sit in state to survey her world. No bookstore is complete without literary cats.
I pull on a soft cotton sweater, new jeans, and a new pair of sneakers and brush my locks in the bathroom mirror. My hair is sleek, luxurious.
“This looking glass belonged to me,” Emily Dickinson says.
“So Auntie was right.” I smile at Emily’s austere reflection. Lately, the spirits visit me when I need them, but they don’t intrude. “I hope your afterlife is not so lonely.”
“Sometimes I engage in lively conversation with Edgar or Charles,” she says. “Jane and Beatrix visit me often.”
“And Connor?”
“He’s gone. Connor no longer needs to be here.”
“Of course.” If he were here, I would feel him.
I head downstairs to open the store. Monet and Mary pad down after me. Tony shows up in shades of pale blue and green. He wears those colors well. He picks up Mary and cradles her. She goes limp in his arms.
“I have so much good news, I can hardly contain myself,” he tells me.
“Spill!”
“I’m in love again.” His face radiates happiness.
“You deserve it. Who is he?”
“Someone I met in my writing group, in Seattle. You have to meet him.”
“I would love to. Bring him to the store.”
“He’s been helping me with my manuscript, and now I have an agent. She wants to represent my romance novel.” He puts Mary down and she trots off.
“We have to celebrate!” I grab his hands and we dance in a circle. I can hear the spirits laughing.
They help me when a mother comes in wanting a book about how to deal with a crazy teenage daughter; when a grandma looks for a potty training book; when a coin collector wants the next coin book a year in advance of the publication date. Bram Stoker whispers in my ear when a mother seeks the latest vampire novel for her daughter.
For story time I like to choose Dr. Seuss to read aloud. His spirit smiles as I act out the rhymes. My heart fills with joy as I watch the kids’ enraptured faces. But I am divided inside, part of me always watching for … what?
One Wednesday evening, Ma shows up for the book group. She joined a few weeks ago; she provides lively counterpoint to Virginia Langemack and Lucia Peleran.
“Sanchita called, but she hasn’t come back,” Ma says sadly. She shrugs off her coat and hangs it in the closet, then pulls the current book group selection from her purse:
Gone with the Wind.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.
“Mohan has filed for divorce. He’s already dating someone new. Can you imagine?”
Somehow, I’m not surprised. “He keeps bringing Vishnu to story time. That’s all that matters.”
Ma is already striding back toward the tea room. “Are you seeing anyone? Dating?”
“Not at the moment.”
“A very nice man will be at the Mauliks’ Saturday night—”
“Ma, stop.” My voice is gentle but firm.
She shakes her head slightly, but she doesn’t press.
Virginia Langemack arrives and engages in a heated debate with Ma about what flowers would work best along the downtown corridor.
Lucia Peleran waltzes in, something different about her, something radiant. “This is my last day at the book group,” she announces. “I’ve got news.”
“It’s a newsy kind of day,” I say.
Ma and Virginia stare at Lucia.
Lucia pantomimes a store sign. “Lucia’s Luscious Levain. Come in for your magical muffins and charmed cakes. I’m opening my very own restaurant and bakery!”
Everyone claps.
“Good for you,” I say.
“I couldn’t have done it without Julia Child. Her book is amazing. Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” I say.
Julia’s hearty laugh reverberates through the rooms.
The next afternoon, I receive my first letter from Auntie on her fragrant pink stationery:
Dearest Jasmine,
Subhas and I are staying in his lovely cottage in Santiniketan (see enclosed snaps). Every morning, we walk to the university and through the nature reserve. We’ve taken the train into Calcutta—sorry, Kolkata now—to shop at the bazaars. So many relatives have been passing through to visit and congratulate us, I haven’t had time to write to you until now.
I miss the bookstore, the customers, Tony, and your ma and dad and you. But I’m happy here, thanks to Lord Ganesh. If Dickens hadn’t come to life to walk the earth for one day, and if he hadn’t tripped Subhas, then Subhas never would have fallen in front of the newspaper stand. My bookstore was featured in the
Times
that day.
I neglected to mention this detail. Subhas was visiting Seattle, and when he saw the article on the front page, he knew I was only a few miles away, on Shelter Island.
Thank you, Charles Dickens.
 
 
Much love,
Auntie Ruma
So Connor was not the first spirit to step outside, and perhaps he will not be the last.
A few days after Auntie’s letter arrives, I receive another, this one from Professor Avery. He now volunteers at an orphanage on the outskirts of Chennai. He fell in love with the director and married her. Together they plan to adopt orphaned girls and establish a network of orphanages. He keeps
Magic in the Mango Orchards
on his shelf—the book that drew him to India and changed his life.
He took a bold leap. And I have, too. I hold on to the sweet memory of Connor. I treasure the gift that he gave me—the ability to let down my guard, to let the castle walls crumble around my heart.

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