Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

“We always get the soup special on rainy days,” he said.

“That sounds good.” They decided on tom yum soup from a place nearby that made deliveries.

“I’m ordering Thai for lunch,” she told Peach and Cleo. “Do you want something?”

“My usual,” Cleo said. “I always get the same thing from that place—pad thai, three stars.”

“I’ll have the same,” Peach said affably. “Only make mine four stars.”

“Brave man,” Natalie said. “They like to go big on the spice.”

“I can handle it,” he said.

When the food arrived, she and Peach sat with Grandy in his apartment, enjoying the hot lunch while rain smeared the window, turning the view of the garden into a Monet painting. Her grandfather was in a talkative mood now, eager and energized by the family history project.

“People like to know where they came from,” he said to Peach. “Gallagher is an Irish name. Your people came from Ireland, then?”

Peach nodded. “The first Gallagher we could trace settled in Atlanta and worked as a framing carpenter.”

“An honorable trade,” Grandy said. “Perhaps it’s in your blood, then. I can tell you know your craft.”

Peach had no idea how grateful she was that he treated her grandfather with such dignity and patience. As she returned to the shop so Cleo could have her lunch break, she found herself wondering—not for the first time—what Peach’s wife was like. Did the two of them make dinner together after work, ask Dorothy about her school day? Would Peach talk about the old bookstore he was working on? Did he describe its crumbling walls and dotty old man tapping away at his typewriter? Would he mention the stressed-out woman who was probably going to lose everything while trying to save the shop?

* * *

In the final hour before closing time, no one came to the bookstore. Not one customer. Grandy had gone to a community dinner at the senior center with Charlie. Now they were playing canasta with their usual squad. Peach had finished the day’s projects, and he was gone, too. Even Sylvia the cat had padded off somewhere, probably looking for a warm place to curl up as the autumn fog gathered and wandered through the streets. Bertie and Cleo were gone for the day, Cleo to a table reading of one of her plays and Bertie to meet friends for a drink. He’d invited Natalie to join them, but she’d begged off.

Now she wished she’d accepted. So far, her social life in the city was a big fat zero.

The silence accentuated her solitude and despair. These were the moments that struck her like a blow sometimes. The reality of her mother’s absence hung in the very air of the shop, redolent of the papery aroma of books and ink, spinning like dust motes stirred by the turn of a page. The ache of loss was almost physical as she yearned for more time with her mother. The two of them had had their differences, but at the core of their relationship was an indelible bond. She hoped with all her heart that Mom had felt the same way. It was utter torture to think about all the conversations she’d never have, all the moments she’d miss out on.

She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes, trying to swim up from the depths of loneliness. When she opened her eyes, she saw that a refuge lay right before her, as it had all her life. The books.

You’re never alone when you’re reading a book.

She had known the truism all her life. Not only that, she knew there was a book for everything. Her mother had taught her well.

From the publishers’ preview collection under the counter, she selected a novel with an intriguing premise—a woman discovers that she has the uncanny ability to know the outcome of every decision she makes.

Now, that , Natalie thought, opening to the first page, is a superpower . Within moments, she had sunk into the story and was happily lost in a different world, with people facing troubles that made her own seem like child’s play.

A book was a powerful thing. It could take her away from all her incessant worries for whole minutes at a time.

Then she made the mistake of setting the novel aside to go through the latest mail. Bills and notices. On the spreadsheet under Daily Till, she wrote the word pathetic . If she was going to make this crazy enterprise work, she needed a small miracle. Maybe a big one.

On a corkboard above her desk, she looked at the checklist Dorothy and Grandy had made the day of the basement flood. Though written in a childish scrawl, the ideas for making the store more profitable showed a wisdom beyond Dorothy’s years. Add yummy snacks to the café menu. Make an advertising poster. Have a book party for kids on read-aloud day. Go on the radio and tell people about the store. Give out punch cards to keep track of purchases. Host book signings. Send emails to customers and offer them a coupon.

Just looking at the list bolstered Natalie’s determination. She knew she could make this work. Bookstores were important. People loved them. They added a special vibrancy to any community. The very idea had sustained her mother for decades, and now it was up to Natalie to carry on.

Glancing at the clock, she saw with some relief that it was closing time. She could finally pour herself a glass of wine and escape into the book she was reading, leaving the depressing spreadsheet for tomorrow. Then, as she went to turn the Closed sign around and lock up, a sleek Tesla sedan pulled up to the curb, insinuating itself into a prime parking spot that was almost never vacant.

A man got out and hurried to the door, his shadow blocking out the last light of the day. He let himself in before she could flip the sign.

“Oh, good,” he said. “I was afraid I’d miss you.”

“Um, I was just about to close for the day, and—” Natalie stopped in midsentence. The man looked familiar, though she didn’t know him.

And then—dear Lord in heaven—she did.

He wiped his feet on the mat. “Yeah, sorry. Traffic, you know.” He stuck out his hand. “You’re Natalie Harper, right? My name is Trevor. Trevor—”

“Dashwood,” she finished for him on a breathy rush of wonder. Her mouth went dry. Her mind emptied out. She scrambled to find something to say. She shook his hand, trying to remember how to speak. “I’m … Yes, that’s me. Trevor Dashwood, oh my God. Wow, hi.” Holy shit , she thought. You sound like an idiot. Because . . . Trevor Dashwood.

He was even more attractive than in his book jacket photo. This was quite a feat, because in general, jacket photos tended to be touched up or out of date. This guy, though. “And . . . wow, sorry. As you can probably tell, you caught me by surprise.”

He let go of her hand and studied her with an unhurried perusal, his gaze warm and friendly. He had brown eyes and nicely shaped brows, and Mr. Darcy hair. “You don’t like surprises?”

“I’ve never been surprised quite like this.” She couldn’t stop looking at him. How on earth was she standing here having a conversation with one of the most popular authors in the world? Somehow she kicked her brain into gear. “Please,” she managed to say, blushing furiously. “Come in. Can I get you a coffee? Something else to drink?”

“I’m fine for now.” He paused, glancing around at the dim shop. “Is this a good time, or—”

“It’s a great time,” she said, thinking about the lonely evening that had loomed ahead only a few moments before. They went over to a café table. She practically melted inside as he held a chair for her. “Sorry, I’m a bit starstruck. It’s not every day an author wanders in . . .”

“I’m the one who should be starstruck,” said Trevor. “Booksellers are a writer’s best friend.”