Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

“What a nice thing to say.”

“I’m not being nice.”

“Yes, you are. And thank you. But I’m totally confused. What brings you here?”

“I came because of this.” He took an envelope from his pocket and unfolded it on the table. “I get a lot of letters from readers, and most of them don’t make their way past my assistant, but every once in a while, Emily spots a special letter like this one. I can’t stop thinking about it. A little girl named Dorothy sent me a note about your shop.”

“What?” Natalie scanned the note. It had been carefully written on lined schoolroom paper and illustrated with childish whimsy. The handwriting was familiar. Dorothy.

Dear Mr. Dashwood,

I’m worried about the bookstore in my neighborhood because it’s very expensive to have a store around here. I’m worried because it might have to close and that would be a TradegyTragedy. I have an idea for you. I think you can save the Lost and Found Bookshop if you would do a book signing, because everybody loves your books and they would all come. Plus, I would like to meet you in person. The lady who owns the shop is named Natalie Harper. She is really nice!!! I know you’re busy but please come. The librarian at my school said your Publisher would make sure you get this letter.

Sincerely, Dorothy Gallagher

On the back of the page, she had drawn a detailed picture of the shop with the display window and the cat napping on a shelf. The picture was labeled with the shop’s slogan— An Eye for Good Books . There was an overly flattering portrait of Natalie, with flowing hair, curly eyelashes, and an hourglass figure, her red lips turned down in sadness. There was another page with a carefully rendered drawing of herself and Trevor, his bold eyebrows accentuated with slashes of black.

“Dorothy’s one of my favorite customers. She’s adorable,” said Natalie. “And a legit fan of your books.”

“I can see why she likes this place,” he said, scanning the shelves and bookcases. Then his gaze returned to Natalie. “And you.”

Natalie’s heart sped up. Was he flirting with her? How was that even possible? How could this guy—this American literary god—be flirting with her?

She decided to ignore the vibe. Surely it was her imagination. Women probably threw themselves at him all the time. She did not want to be reduced to a cliché, the lonely woman starstruck by an actual star. “Well then,” she said. “Would you like to take a look around?”

She showed him the children’s section, with its plentiful supply of his titles, which he gamely signed. Then he checked out the w.o.w. shelf by the coffee area.

“My mother curated this—some of her favorite words of wisdom,” Natalie explained.

He opened a George R. R. Martin book. “‘Mine is the blood of the dragon,’” he read, and looked over at Natalie. “Should I be scared?”

“Depends on how you feel about bloodthirsty women.”

Sylvia padded over and checked him out with a disdainful sniff, then rubbed his leg and walked away with her tail in the air.

“I’ve had many first dates that went like that,” Trevor observed.

“First dates are hard,” Natalie agreed, feeling the flirting vibe again. Or maybe not. After what had happened with Rick, she didn’t trust herself to read a situation anymore. “Too bad we can’t just skip over them.”

“Who says we can’t?”

“The space-time continuum, for one thing.”

“Oh, a smarty-pants, are you?” He smiled, exuding warmth.

It still felt surreal, having him here, as if he’d just walked out of a dream. “I don’t mean to stare, but I can’t believe you showed up out of the blue.”

“I come to the city fairly often,” he said. “I live in Carmel, but I’ve also got a place on Nob Hill.”

“Well, I swear I didn’t put Dorothy up to this. I had no idea … I did contact your reps to see about an event, but they weren’t encouraging. You’re a busy writer, scheduling events two years out, they said.”

“They’d schedule my bowel movements if I let them.” He grinned. “Sorry. I’m known for my potty humor.”

“So are your readers.”

“Do you mind if I ask . . . Is the shop really in trouble? Like Dorothy says?”

Natalie took a deep breath. “I don’t mind. There are challenges. That’s no secret in bookselling these days. I believe in this place, though. I took over the shop under unexpected circumstances.”

“Care to elaborate?” he asked. “You don’t have to if—”

“I don’t mind that, either. This was my mother’s store. It’s home to me, though. I grew up here—we lived in the apartment upstairs. She died in a plane crash, so now I’m in charge of this place.”

He briefly touched her arm. “You’ve had a tough break. Worse than tough. I’m supposed to be good with words, but I don’t know what to say. What happened is . . . damn. It sucks.”

“Yes. Pretty much on every level. I mean, I do love bookselling, so it’s not like I’m dragging myself to work every day. But the building’s got major problems. Business is off. My grandfather lives in the downstairs apartment, and he . . . well, he’s not in the best of health. My mom left behind a pile of debt she never told me about and . . .” She forced herself to stop the rush of words. “And I’m done complaining to you. I’m sure you didn’t come here to listen to this litany. It’s an honor to have you stop in.”

“I don’t mind hearing about your troubles. I want to help.”

“My first thought when all this happened was that I’d need to close the shop and sell the building. But it’s complicated.”

“I can do complicated.”

He was so easy to talk to that the initial jolt of tongue-tied admiration was wearing off. “My grandfather and my mom opened the Lost and Found Bookshop the year I was born, and they’ve run it together ever since.” She gestured around the room, shadowy now with the after-hours lighting. “I grew up between the stacks.”

“Is there a story behind the name? Lost and Found?”

“There is, actually. They launched the bookstore with a collection of old books Grandy found in the basement.”

“Grandy? You call him Grandy? That’s really cute, and it makes me like him already.”

“He’s pretty great.”

“I’m kind of nuts about rare books,” Trevor said.

“Then you’ll be really nuts about this.” She got up from the table and went to the counter. “Legend has it that Mark Twain and Bret Harte used to drink here when this building was a saloon called the Ten-Foot Ladder. It’s never been verified, but I like to think it’s true.” She showed him the glass-front barrister and under-counter display case of rare books.

He leaned close to her. “That’s quite a collection.” He indicated rare copies of A Christmas Carol and Great Expectations down near the floor. “You’ve relegated Charles Dickens to the bottom shelf.”

“Great stories, but he’s not my favorite,” she said. “He was so awful to his wife.”

“Ah. Well, then. Show me one of your favorites.”

“There’s a first edition Prince and the Pauper , but no other Twain in stock at the moment. My very favorite isn’t Mark Twain, even though he had the most epic love story with his wife and treated her like a queen. I like Jack London because of his ties to the area,” she said, opening the case. “This copy of White Fang has his verified signature and a letter in his own hand.” She laid it carefully on the counter, a near-mint volume with a tooled leather cover and the author’s signature on the title page.

“It’s a beauty,” Trevor said. “I started reading him when I was a kid and reread him a few years back. I’ll never forget Burning Daylight , the one about the guy who throws away his entire fortune in exchange for true love.”