The Bookseller (19 page)

Frieda and I first met on a September day in 1938. We were freshmen at South High, and it was our first day of school. South was nearly new then; only a decade or so had passed since its groundbreaking. The linoleum hallways were still gleaming, the windows bright and uncracked, the bricks a vivid, school-proper red, without the toll that weather and years would eventually take. We freshmen filtered in that first day, following upperclassmen who seemed to know their way around as if they'd been born inside that building. Those older students spoke animatedly to one another. There were shouts of joy as students hugged one another, many of them thrilled to be reunited after a summer apart. Still others laughed over memories of a summer spent together: “Remember the Fourth of July? Will we ever have that much fun again?
Ever?
”

As freshmen, we envied those older students. Though some of us knew each other from our humble grammar schools, we all felt disjointed. Our exchanges with one another were awkward
and brief. “I hope your summer was nice.” “Do you know how to find room 106?” We immediately grasped, as the crowd jostled inside the building, that our place in these huge halls was yet to be determined. And we were not at all sure that the fates bestowed upon us would be those we'd choose, if given the choice.

Into this mix of insecurity and unfamiliarity strolled Frieda, head held high, long brown hair pulled back from her high forehead with a tortoiseshell band. She wore a straight taupe skirt and an ivory sleeveless blouse that showed off her shoulders, which were tanned and becomingly freckled. Her dark eyes gleamed with mystery and magic. Not just freshmen but even older boys gazed at her as she made her way through the hall. I couldn't take my eyes off her; I stared until she entered a classroom and disappeared.

As luck would have it, I found that I was headed for the same room. As I stepped in, I noticed that—miraculously—the seat to her right was vacant. Boldly, not knowing where my courage came from, I took the seat and held out my hand.

“I'm Kitty Miller,” I told her. “It's nice to meet you.”

She nodded. Her grip was warm and firm. “Frieda Green. Nice to meet you, too.”

We compared our schedules, which had been mailed to us from the school's office the week before. We found that we had nearly every class together. “What a relief,” Frieda said. She leaned toward me and whispered conspiratorially, “I was a little afraid of finding my way around alone—weren't you?”

Yes, of course I'd had the same fear. But I was astonished at her candidness in admitting it. Recovering, I nodded and smiled at her. “Let's find our way together, shall we?”

She grinned back. “Indeed we shall, Kitty Miller.”

Over time, I got to know everything there was to know about Frieda. She came from money; her maternal grandfather had
made a fortune in railroads in the 1880s, and her father's family owned a large construction firm. His family had gotten in on the ground floor when Denver was a young city, just being built up, and they'd stayed on top ever since.

Frieda had gone to private school through eighth grade, but her father felt that she needed to round out her education at a public high school, where she would meet and mix with people of all classes. He had a theory that his children, despite their advantages, would best build their characters by interacting with others of different backgrounds. While attending our solidly middle-class high school, Frieda lived with her parents and brothers in a large three-story brick house in the Country Club section of town—an elite development of palatial houses a couple of miles north of the modest Myrtle Hill district in which my family resided. The first time I went to Frieda's house, I impulsively called it a “mansion,” which made her giggle. “You are so
cute
, Kitty Miller,” she said, grabbing my arm affectionately.

All these years later, I still remember how her grip felt on my arm, how possessive it was—and yet gratifying as well. Despite all that she had, all that she was, Frieda Green—somehow, inconceivably—wanted to be my friend.

It took months before I finally worked up the courage to ask her about this. What, specifically, made Frieda want
me
to be her dearest and closest friend, when she could have been best friends with any freshman girl in the school, or even with an upperclassman girl, if she'd wanted to?

Frieda had laughed at the question. “You are
you
, Kitty,” she said simply. “I could tell from the first moment I met you that you would be loyal, that you would be truthful, that you would stand by me.”

It was an unusually warm day for November, the day I asked
that question, and we were standing on the school lawn between classes. Frieda waved her slender arms dramatically, as if to take in the entire student body, most of which milled around outside with us, enjoying the sun and warmth. “I didn't see that sincerity in anyone else. Not at first glance, anyway.” She shrugged. “So, no point in letting myself be disappointed when others let me down.”

How could I keep from loving someone who spoke so highly of me? No one else, save for my parents, had ever done so in my entire life.

And as for Frieda—how could she not love someone who was so faithful to her? For she was right. Never, no matter what, would I do anything to betray her.

A
nd how amazing, I think as I walk toward her at the counter of our little shop—how amazing that all these years later, we still love each other more than anyone else, outside of our own families.

We are sisters.

Suddenly, I realize something disturbing: in the dreams, I don't know where Frieda is. Obviously, in my last dream, when I was with Michael, I was not spending my weekday morning hours at the shop. Does that mean I don't spend
any
hours at the shop? Do we even
have
the shop in that world?

I shudder, thinking about it. I can't imagine my life without the shop. Without being around Frieda all day, every day.

Thank God, I think, as she starts throwing out restaurant names—“Rockybilt? Could you go for a burger? Or what about C.J.'s Tavern? I know it's an expedition to get there, but I would adore Mexican food, wouldn't you?”—thank God I'm just making up that other world in my head.

C.J.
's Tavern, despite its name and despite having a small lounge that opens into the dining room, is not actually a tavern. It's a Mexican restaurant on Santa Fe Drive. We have to take three buses to get there, but, as Frieda says, it's worth it. You can't grow up in Denver without learning to love Mexican food, and C.J.'s has the best chiles rellenos in town.

Frieda and I are both upbeat at dinner. I am eternally grateful to be here with her, without having to think about that other world. As for Frieda, she simply seems happy and carefree. I know she's been worried about the shop, so it's reassuring to see her so animated.

We talk about the vacant storefront we saw in the shopping center at University Hills. A few days ago Frieda called the manager and set up an appointment for us to look at its interior. “It's not that unreasonable, you know,” she tells me. “Yes, it's more than we're spending now for rent. A lot more. But when you run the numbers . . . I've been going over it, both in my head and on paper, and I think that it would only be a few months before we'd start turning a profit.”

“And what until then?” I ask. “Where would we get the capital?”

She sips her wine. “I can't go to my parents for money. We'd have to get another bank loan.” Before I can open my mouth to protest, she goes on. “I know my father cosigned our last loan. And I know that the bank might turn us down without his cosignature on a new loan. And yes—we still owe on our current loan. I know all that.” She sets down her glass. “But if we could convince the bank that we're going in the right direction, that this move would keep us from going under . . .” She shrugs. “Don't you think they'd prefer to extend us just a little bit, rather than have to foreclose on us?”

I take a big gulp from my wineglass. It sounds so daunting. It sounds like the big time. Like really going out on a limb, much more so than we did when we opened our little shop eight years ago.

Frieda's eyes are dreamy. “We could be big, you know,” she says, leaning toward me. “This could be just the start. There are shopping centers like that cropping up all over the place. And the stores that make big money—they have a formula, you know, a style, something that people come to expect when they walk in.” She shrugs again. “Now, that hasn't been done much in the book business, at least not in Denver. But that could change, right? Who's to say a chain of bookstores couldn't work? If it works for hamburgers and hardware, why not for books?”

Why not indeed? She has a point. A truly good point. I can't deny it.

Still—this feels like
her
gig, not mine. Like she could do this whether I was there or not. She could take all that glowing confidence she's always had; she could use it to sail into whatever success story she wanted to write for herself.

“You've really thought this through, haven't you?” I ask.

Frieda shrugs. “I've been thinking this through for years, Kitty.”

I don't know how to answer that. I take a bite of my chile relleno and push the rice about on my plate.

Frieda glances over my shoulder. “Don't turn your head,” she whispers. “But I have to tell you who I see sitting alone at the bar.”

“Who?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Kevin.”

Kevin? Good grief, I haven't seen him in more than a decade. “How does he look?” I ask Frieda.

She watches him from the corner of her eye. “Tired,” she says
finally. “And old.” She smiles. “He looks old, Kitty. You ought to be happy about that.”

I laugh. “Well, I look old, too.”

Frieda drains her wineglass and lights up a Salem. “Not with that dazzling new hairstyle, you don't.”

I put my hand to my head. Linnea's work has held up well, although I do have an appointment to see her again next week. It's true that when I look in the mirror these days, I see a fresher, more attractive Kitty than I've seen in a long time. But how much of that is a new hairstyle? And how much of it is the fact that—at night when I'm asleep, anyway—I am madly in love with my perfect dream husband?

“I think Kevin just noticed me,” Frieda says. “And you, too. He's getting up.” She lowers her voice. “Take a deep breath, sister. He's on his way over.”

She looks up at him and smiles, and that gives me an excuse to turn my head. I feign surprise, but I'm sure he's not fooled.

“Hey. I thought it was you two.” Kevin leans over our table. He is as long and gangly as he was back in the day, with those sloping shoulders of his. Still built like an adolescent boy. I realize that I have become used to Lars's broad back and shoulders, his stockiness, which complements my own. Kevin and I were never a very good match physically. He was too tall when we danced; the top of my head barely made it to his collarbone, and I felt like I was straining my neck looking up at him. He always tried to get me to wear the highest heels possible, to get us closer in size. That only made things worse; my feet would be killing me by the end of the evening. He also thought I was too chubby, although he did appreciate my bountiful breasts. Despite these noteworthy assets, he was constantly urging me to go on a diet.

Unlike Lars, Kevin has managed to hang on to his hair all these years. He always had a lot of it, dark and wavy, and he still
does. His eyes are the same warm brown they always were, but they look glassy. I can tell he's had too much to drink.

Frieda motions toward the empty chair between us, then stubs out her smoke in the ashtray by her side. “Have a seat, Kev.”

He pulls out the chair and sits. I give Frieda a questioning look. She glances down at her hands, which are folded neatly in front of her; she ever-so-slightly motions with her right pinkie toward her left ring finger. I sneak a peek at Kevin's left hand and see that it is ringless.

Aha. Did she see that from all the way across the room? Or did she just guess it, since he's here all by himself this late at night? Married men—happily married men, at any rate—are not sitting alone in a bar at this time of night. They are at home with their wives, their children, and probably in most cases the proverbial family dog.

“Long time,” Kevin says. He has brought his drink, and he empties it and motions to the waitress to bring him another. “You girls fancy a round on me?”

Now this is a surprise. He was always a cheapskate. Not that he didn't pay for our dates, of course, but I always felt like he took me to the most inexpensive places he could get away with, and spent as little on me as he could. Even for my birthday and Christmas, his presents were things like a tiny bottle of perfume or a cut-rate scarf or hat. He always said he was saving for our future. Well, that didn't turn out to be all that accurate, did it?

Frieda nods at the offer of a drink. The waitress brings Kevin another Scotch and the bottle to fill our wineglasses. “On my tab,” Kevin says pointedly. The waitress smiles stiffly at Frieda and me, and withdraws from the table.

“How is life treating you girls?” Kevin relaxes back in his seat, and for a moment I think he's going to fall over backward.
Good heavens, how many has he had? You'd think, on a weeknight, out in public—and him a doctor now, too; I can't forget that. You'd think a doctor with a drinking habit would be more discreet.

“We've been quite well,” Frieda replies. “We have a bookstore on South Pearl Street.”

Kevin nods. He pulls a pack of Pall Malls from his jacket pocket and lights one. Frieda immediately joins him by selecting a Salem from her pack on the table. He holds out his lighter to her, and she leans forward to accept the flame he offers. I watch them both silently, trying to relax my heated face and my furrowed brows.