Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

Back inside, she made cortados for herself and Grandy, and an Americano for Peach. With all the work that had to be done on the building, he was a constant presence, and she relied on him more than she was willing to admit. He had a calm sort of energy, the bearing of a man who knew what had to be done and was doing it, simply and competently.

Charlie arrived for their morning walk to the senior center. Exquisitely neat in his white cotton jacket and canvas sneakers, he regarded Grandy with gentle affection. Peach came in with the old crate from the crawl space, greeting Charlie with a nod. “Your buddy was on a treasure hunt,” he said, indicating the dusty collection.

Charlie removed a few rusty tools and stoneware pots, then took out an old vase and rubbed off the dust. “This is beautiful,” he said, holding it up.

Natalie had seen similar vases in the curio shops of Chinatown. “Pretty. I’ll clean it up and put some fresh flowers in it, assuming it doesn’t leak.”

Charlie nodded. “Handle it with care. Might be another of your treasures.”

She grinned and took it from him. “Right.” As she upended the vase, a large, hairy-legged spider scuttled out. Natalie screamed, flinging the thing away from her. Peach’s hand shot out and grabbed the vase before it shattered on the floor.

“Damn,” he said, “you really don’t like spiders.”

“Sorry.” She sagged back against the edge of the counter. “Nice ninja move, by the way.”

Peach stooped and picked up a dusty object tied with twine. “This fell out of your vase.”

It was an old folio the size of a playing card. Natalie opened it carefully to reveal several onionskin pages covered in Chinese characters. She showed it to Charlie. “Any ideas?”

He studied the paper, then shook his head. “My Chinese reading ability is not strong enough.”

Natalie sent a picture of the vase and folio to Tess—Another treasure? Or someone’s Chinatown souvenir?—and then put the items on a shelf above the espresso machine.

A few minutes later, Tess returned the text. Could be something, could be nothing. I’ll send someone around from Sheffield’s to pick it up .

After Grandy and Charlie left, the day was quiet in the shop. Too quiet. Bertie had an audition for a revival of Waiting for Godot . Cleo had gone to work a school book fair. Natalie busied herself with ordering books. The shop featured about seven thousand different titles, but a steady stream of new material was needed to keep the inventory fresh. The budget didn’t allow for mistakes. It barely allowed for the requisite numbers of new books. Making a living as a bookseller was entirely possible, but only if the inventory was skillfully managed. Sometimes she looked at her mother’s bookkeeping and wanted to scream.

Agitated, she got up to stretch her legs and wandered over to her mother’s w.o.w. shelf—the “words of wisdom” Blythe had marked in favorite books. Natalie’s eye fell on a volume of Thoreau’s letters, and she opened it to a passage marked with a sticky note in her mom’s handwriting with an arrow pointing to the words: I am grateful for what I am & have. . . . It is surprising how contented one can be with nothing definite—only a sense of existence . . . . O how I laugh when I think of my vague indefinite riches. No run on my bank can drain it—for my wealth is not possession but enjoyment .

Natalie’s frustration ebbed as sadness returned. Trying to channel her mother’s optimism, she focused on the heady pleasure of deliberation. Which books would catch someone’s eye? Which would captivate their imagination? What brand-new title would get people talking? She’d made a spreadsheet—of course she had—detailing sales patterns, review and media attention, and reader affinities, and made a plan for each major category.

The king of the spreadsheet, week in and week out, was the elusive Trevor Dashwood. People couldn’t get enough of his books. Natalie ticked the box next to his recent title, knowing the copies would sell quickly, whether or not he’d deign to visit her shop two years from now. She was actually more excited to find the next Trevor Dashwood—the incredible author no one had heard of yet but who would one day capture the hearts of readers.

She’d been staying up late every night, devouring new offerings from publishers, and there were several she couldn’t wait to put on display in the shop—gripping memoirs, soaring romance, irresistible cookbooks, twisty thrillers, exuberant children’s books. This part of the process was catnip to her. Still, studying the spreadsheet and her own notes on the distributor’s order sheet, she felt a wave of uncertainty. There was no algorithm for predicting which books would sell. That took judgment and taste. She only hoped she had adequate supplies of both.

This had been her mother’s singular expertise and probably the reason the shop was still afloat despite Blythe’s haphazard management. She’d called herself a book evangelist. Natalie could still remember her mom’s look of utter pleasure when she hand-sold a book to an eager customer.

In the late afternoon, a bright spot appeared—an email from Quill Ransom’s publicist. Since she was local, the author was available on short notice. The publicist proposed a date for the book signing. Natalie knew one event wouldn’t reverse the shop’s fortunes overnight, but it was a start. She went straight to work planning and even had an excited call with the author, who sounded utterly charming.

An older couple wandered in to browse, and despite Natalie’s sales pitch— This story is like a conversation with a trusted friend. That one kept me up all night. Even though science fiction isn’t always my thing, I loved this time travel novel —they left with a single paperback. Three teenagers came in, but only wanted to take selfies with books to post on social media. Even Peach, who generally didn’t interact with customers while he was working, couldn’t suppress a comment as they jostled their way through the aisles.

“Is there a point to that?” he asked Natalie.

She shrugged. “To make them look smart online, maybe.”

“Is there a point to that?” This time Peach asked one of the jostling kids.

The boy shoved his phone into his back pocket. “Not really, man.”

Natalie cringed, hoping Peach wasn’t going to start something.

“Tell you what,” Peach said. “I was a giant loser in high school until I read this book.” He showed them a copy of a Dave Eggers book. “It raised my IQ like forty points after I read it.”

“Really?”

“Nope. But it’s an awesome book and you should read it.”

“Yeah?” The kid struck a pose with the book and his friend took a picture. “I’ll get it on my phone, then.”

To Natalie’s surprise, he already had the app, and he purchased the digital book from her.

“Thanks,” she said. “Let us know how you like it.”

After they left, she turned to Peach. “I keep wondering if there should be some kind of etiquette around taking pictures in bookstores.”

“How about you put up a sign saying this is a phone-free zone?”

“I don’t think so. Seems bossy to me.”

“You’re the boss.” He turned the bill of his baseball cap backward and marked something on the wall he’d dug into.

“I was a toxic boss in my last job,” she said. “My coworkers hated me.”

He chuckled. “You? Naw.”

“You laugh. I overheard them talking about how awful I was. Really, they couldn’t stand me.” She liked the fact that he found it hard to believe that she could be toxic.