The Bookshop on the Corner (A Gingerbread Cafe story) (8 page)

“He’s smart, and funny, and considerate. Not to mention extremely good-looking. You could do worse.” Lil stopped swinging on the love seat and jumped up. “Let’s toast to new beginnings.”

I wondered just how often they’d discussed my singledom. The way they were acting you’d think I was about to marry the guy, not go on a harmless picnic.

“Wait.” CeeCee held up a hand. “Missy hasn’t got a drink. Go on in, Lil, and get her a glass so she can toast, too.”

Missy grinned at me and shrugged. It was inevitable they’d find out.

“Hang on, Lil,” Missy said. “I don’t need a glass. I’ll toast with my water.”

Lil stopped abruptly and surveyed Missy. “Wait a minute, you’re the one who toasts something as simple as the sun coming up, and you’re not—”

CeeCee cut her off. “She’s pregnant!”

Missy nodded, and was swept into CeeCee’s arms. Lil embraced them both in a group hug.

Once everyone settled back on their chairs, the girls plied Missy with questions.

I watched them talk animatedly, and thought there must be nothing as special in the world as having friends like these. And I giggled to myself, because they’d forgotten all about my date with Ridge, leaving me time to think about what it all meant, and how I really felt.

The girls’ chatter fell away, and suddenly all eyes were on me.

“Don’t think you gettin’ away with not tellin’ us everythin’,” CeeCee said, using her particular brand of stare-down tactic.

Hand on chest, I said, “Who — me?”

“Let’s hear it, honey,” Missy said. “I need my beauty sleep, and I want to know
all
the details before I go.”

Their gazes bored into me, and I knew they wanted me to be open to the idea of love. I’d put up so many barriers, and made so many excuses, but they could see through them.

“When I close up tomorrow, he’ll be there to whisk me away to the woods, so let’s hope this is more of a romance and not a horror story, don’t you think?”

Lil laughed, and said, “Maybe it’s more of an erotic story — you ever think of that?”

I blushed to the roots of my hair. “If I had a cushion I would lob it at you now.”

She giggled. “And that’s exactly how I know it’s crossed your mind. When you become Sarah shot-putter.”

“You know me so well…” Our words floated off into the moonlit night, like stars.

Chapter Eight

When I arrived at the bookshop the next morning, it was blanketed in darkness. Pre-dawn there was a bite to the air. I peeked through the window as I always did to try and catch the books fluttering about.

In the shadows the shop looked asleep, no movement, no color. It was a beautiful sight, made even more perfect by the fact the books were mostly second-hand and had that loved feel about them. Hardbacks with brown leather covers looked like austere grandparents perched alongside a pile of colorful paperback chick-lit books.

I opened the door, and let the musty scent of the shop wash over me. Old book scent, it should be bottled. Treading quietly, I scanned the shop to see if there’d been any changes since I’d left the day before.

A thin dog-eared novel hung slightly over the edge of one of the shelves, as if it wanted to be found and read again. As if it needed more love after a lifetime of its pages being turned and bent by the pads of so many fingers.

Most booksellers frowned upon dog-earing a book, but that was how you knew it was special. It had lived, and been reincarnated again with another owner; there were notes on the margins, and words highlighted. With a book like that, when you gently pried open the cover you could hear whispers from the past float out from the pages.

I took the little book that craved another reader and popped it in the front bay window, to read once I’d made some coffee.

Shuffling through to the kitchen, I switched on the kettle. A steaming cup of coffee and a few chapters would do just fine until the sun rose. Quiet time, when the streets were deserted, and the birds still slumbered, was like a panacea for me. Time to revel in reading and fire up my blood with caffeine before I became bookseller Sarah, and not so much whimsical Sarah.

The kettle whistled for attention, so I filled up the coffee pot and wandered to the front of the shop and set myself up in the bay window. Sipping my coffee, I rested against old pillows, and had just opened my book when a movement out of the corner of my eye startled me.

Shrugging down so I couldn’t be seen, I glanced out of the window. Holy moly. It was him. The sexy reporter. What was he doing…running? His athletic frame whizzed by one side of the street and back down the other. Was something chasing him, or was he doing that for fun? Earplugs sat inside his ears; he certainly looked kitted out for exercise: shorty shorts, vest top, and sneakers. His man bulges pumped on opposite sides to his stride, and when I say man bulges, I mean those mammoth biceps of his. They were like footballs, they were so big. OK, maybe not that big, but they were rounded and much more sticky-outy when not covered up.

He was out of sight, having crossed the street and moved past the Gingerbread Café. I went back to my book, only managing a few words as the need to glance out of the window distracted me. Where was he? By now he should have turned and be headed past the bookshop again.

I leaned closer to the window, and looked to the right. Footsteps pounded against pavement, so I shrank back covering my face with the book.

After a beat, I peeked above the book, gazing at his retreating frame. Who knew calves could be so appealing? Spellbound, I watched him until he was out of sight.

A fine sheen of sweat had broken on my upper lip. Exercising was hard. I was waiting for him to appear across the street, when he stood in front of the window, surprising me. I let out a yowl of fright. “You scared me!”

He stood with his hands on his hips. “I saw you watching me.”

I scoffed, and held up the book in front of my face. “I was reading, I had no idea you were there.”

He cocked his head, and grinned. “I could see your reflection in the windows across the road. Your face was pressed firmly up against the glass as I ran past. Were you checking out my butt?”

“Oh please. As if! Hardly. I am not that kind of person,” I lied.

He wiped his brow, and said, “That sounded very defensive, and usually defensive means guilty.”

“Oh that was
you
running past just before? I see! OK, that makes sense, I actually thought you were some kind of burglar. A robber even. A crook. A sheis—”

He cut me off. “Liar.”

I feigned disbelief. “We are extremely community minded in Ashford, and when we happen across someone running at six in the morning we immediately look for either an army of angry spiders chasing the person, or if that person is carrying a duffel bag with Aunt Pam’s best silver. It’s just a neighborhood watch thing.”

“Neighborhood watch? Is that what you call it?”

I nodded slowly, in a way I hoped made me seem very believable. Trustworthy. “Yes.”

He laughed. I couldn’t help notice his particular man-sweat did smell a little like the books described — I’d thought that was a myth. An earthy, lemony scent, punctuated by the washing-powder fragrance that still hung on his clothes. Oh, boy.

“Only six hours to go,” he said, fingering the buds of his earphones.

“What, until you’re finished running? Wow, you New Yorkers really commit when you commit.”

He flashed a smile. White teeth, God love ’em. “Funny. Six hours, until I whisk you away, and let you decide what kind of story it is, right?”

Oh, my God. “What?” I sputtered.

He grinned. “Horror, romance…erotica.”

My mind reeled. How did he know that?

“CeeCee’s Facebook,” he said.

She had embraced technology and run with it. I cleared my throat. “I’m sure the post you’re referring to is
actually
about books.”

“I can read between the lines. I’m a reporter, remember.”

Note to self: tell CeeCee to make her Facebook posts a lot more ambiguous. “Sometimes you may just read too much into things, you think? You know, looking for a story when there isn’t one there?” I crossed my arms across my chest and pursed my lips for good measure.

“You look adorable when you do that pose.”

A smile twitched at the corners of my mouth, but I controlled it as much as I could without making my nostrils flare. “Adorable?”

“Adorable.”

He glanced at his watch. “Five hours and fifty-five minutes.”

***

The morning was hectic, which didn’t leave much time to think about the impending picnic with Ridge — a good thing. The less time I had to worry about the fact he wasn’t the right man for me, the better.

I was packing a huge order when Missy strutted in. “Need help?” She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“There will be no book heaving from you, Missy.”

“That sure is a big stack of books. Are they for Tomlinson?” She giggled.

Tomlinson was one of my best customers. We didn’t know anything about him, really, except that he went by the moniker Tomlinson and his tastes for literature were mainly erotic. I scoured the globe looking for first editions of Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller novels, plus a wealth of other erotic literature that would make even the more sexually liberated person blush. But, hey, reading was reading in my book.

“Sure is. I found a very early Kama Sutra book translated into French. I think he’ll like that, don’t you?”

Missy sighed. “I guess so. Do you ever wonder about him? Like why he collects only erotica?”

I shrugged, and blew my bangs out of my eyes. “Maybe he’s writing a thesis or something? Maybe it’s a lifetime investigation into what makes people tick in the bedroom. Who knows?”

“Could be. We live in a funny old world.”

I had lots of customers like Tomlinson. People who collected certain genres, or hard-to-find books. No matter what their proclivities, I respected them because they respected books. They prized them. And these clients always intrigued me. Since I posted the books, and they paid online, I never got to meet them. But that didn’t stop me imagining where they lived, or what they did with the books. Were they on display? Did they arrange them in alphabetical order? Or size order? Color order?

In Tomlinson’s case, did he hide them? Were they locked away in a vault because of their worth, and their subject matter?

I had another regular customer who wanted only books with handwritten dedications. It didn’t matter which book or what the message said, but she wanted books that had been given as gifts. I’d found two for her earlier this morning.

Mexico on a Budget
: ‘Derek, Don’t have too much fun without me! I’ll love you always, Tina xoxox’

Judy Blume classic,
Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret
: ‘I read this book when I was your age, I hope you cherish it, love Mom.’

I can understand her wanting to collect books with dedications. Can you imagine what stories these little snippets tell? Especially if you weave the title of the book around their words. Why wasn’t Tina going to Mexico with Derek? Why did he give the book away? Did they stay together, or did he meet someone in Mexico? Did they trade this book for a later edition and go back to Mexico together years later?

Did the young girl find solace in Judy Blume’s words? Why didn’t she cherish the book as her mother hoped? Was it because she was a grown woman now, and maybe kids of today considered this book old-fashioned? Would you not keep it for memory’s sake?

So many questions, all the markings of a life so different from mine. These books told a story, and not just the one written on the black and white pages.

I placed the last of the books in the box for Tomlinson, and taped it shut.

“So-o-o,” Missy said, weaving her way behind the counter and perching on the stool. “Are you nervous?”

I considered lying for a moment but then thought better of it. “Extremely.”

She tutted. “No need to be. There was practically steam coming off you two last night. You were downright sizzling sitting there next to each other.”

I ran a finger around the collar of my sweater. Gosh, I was literally hot under the collar just thinking of last night. “Do you think he noticed my gawping thing when he was eating his ice cream?”

Missy threw her head back and laughed. “I don’t think so, honey. Plus, he was certainly making a show of it. The mind boggles at what a man could do with an instrument like that.”

“Missy! Oh, my God.” I stifled laughter out of pure embarrassment. Maybe the chemistry between Ridge and me at dinner hadn’t been as subtle as I thought.

“What? Oh, come on, we were all thinking it.”

I groaned. “Really?”

“Mmm-hmm. That man was making a play as if he were trying out for major league baseball. You must be the big time.”

“Baseball metaphors, Missy?”

She grinned. “He can hit a home run with me any day.”

I covered my face and howled with laughter.

“Come on,” she said. “He’s not going to strikeout, is he?” She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Do you want football metaphors?”

“Stop.” I held up a hand. “I’m going to pull a muscle in a minute.” There was nothing like a few minutes with Missy to make you laugh as if you were fit to burst.

“Anyway, all jokes aside, I came to tell you I think you should just try and enjoy today. Don’t read too much into it. Don’t compare Ridge to the heroes in your novels — though saying that he’d probably beat them hands down. That man is seriously hot! His eyes actually twinkle. I didn’t know eyes could do that.”

Yes, his eyes.

“I saw him running this morning.”

Missy’s forehead wrinkled. “From what?”

I giggled again. “I think it’s a fitness thing.”

She scrunched her nose as if the thought of running for fitness was foreign to her. “OK…”

“He caught me staring.”

Missy guffawed. “So you mean to tell me he ran up and down this street like some kind of show pony? He wanted you to stare at him!”

“At six in the morning? He wouldn’t know I get here that early.”

Missy shook her head. “Honey, of course he knows. He gave Lil and Cee an inquisition about you that day in the café. You’re the only one who doesn’t get it. That boy, sorry, that
man
, is completely entranced by you!”