Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

“I still have my tearstained copy of Call of the Wild ,” she said. “I cried and cried. ‘There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life . . .’”

“‘. . . and beyond which life cannot rise.’”

“You did not just finish that quote for me.” She regarded him with cautious delight.

“Sorry, couldn’t help showing off a bit.”

“That’s amazing. As Anne-with-an- E would say, we must be kindred spirits.”

“You can have Anne and her green gables,” he said. “Not a fan.”

“Most guys aren’t. Every girl is.” Part of her stepped back as if she were having an out-of-body experience. She was actually here in her shop discussing literature with one of the most famous people in publishing.

“All right, then. I’ll take this one.” Trevor reached into his jacket.

“Wait. What? You . . . Are you sure?”

He laughed. “Is this some kind of test?”

She took a printed sheet from the back of the book. “It’s valued at five thousand dollars.” She was almost embarrassed to say the amount aloud. She couldn’t read his expression as he regarded her for about three beats of her heart. Maybe he was getting a Lee Israel vibe from her, wondering if she was a fraud or forger. “Really, I—”

“Done, then.” He took out a checkbook.

She stopped breathing for a moment. Then, somehow, she managed to shift into professional mode. “You’re serious.”

“Serious as a shushing librarian.”

“Well. I’ll wrap it up for you. And give you a certified receipt.” Her hands shook a little as she took the check—from Flip Side LLC with a post office box address—and carefully wrapped the old volume and placed it in a bag—one of the nice bags, not the cheap ones. Thanks, Jack , she thought. You’re off to a good home.

She tried to picture the book in Trevor’s house. Did he have an elegant English gent’s library? A bohemian book cave? A showy showroom?

“So about that book signing …” he said. “Remember, our mutual friend Dorothy says you’d like to schedule something soon.”

“I’d love to host an event for you,” she said. “But I understand how busy you must be. Your publisher and your rep were pretty firm about saying you’re not available.”

“They’re just doing their job as gatekeepers. If you’re game, I’ll make time,” he said.

“Really?”

“Really. Look, I get what you’re going through. But bookstores are the lifeblood of this business. Let’s make a plan.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s make a plan.”

* * *

A half hour later, Natalie was convinced she had stepped into a dream. A pinch-myself-this-can’t-be-happening dream.

Trevor Dashwood wanted to have a book signing. Given his high profile, it was going to be more complicated than simply setting up a table in the shop. The event was going to take a lot of planning. He insisted on making the plan over drinks at his favorite spot in the city—the Tower Library Bar.

The Tesla glided through the hills like a toboggan in winter, silent except for the silky electronic music of SwingLow drifting like a phantom caress through the speakers.

A valet stationed at the ground floor of the high-rise greeted him with discreet familiarity, and they crossed an opulent lobby to the rooftop elevator. As they waited, two young women approached, blushing but determined.

“Trevor Dashwood, right?” one of them said.

He smiled briefly and nodded.

There weren’t many writers people could recognize by sight, but Trevor Dashwood was definitely a man of the moment.

The woman held up her phone. “I hate to intrude, but could I . . .”

“No problem.” With an ease that likely came from long practice, he posed with her for a quick selfie and did the same for her friend. “Just do me a favor and don’t tag the location for a few hours.”

“Of course,” she said. “I just want you to know I’ve loved your books ever since I discovered them at the age of ten, and I’m saving them for my own kids one day.”

“That’s really great. Thank you.” When they were out of earshot, he added, sotto voce, “For making me feel older than rock itself.”

Others nearby checked him out, but just then, the elevator arrived and they stepped inside the bullet-shaped glass car.

“I guess you get that a lot,” said one of the passengers, a guy holding hands with another guy.

“A fair bit,” said Trevor. “I don’t mind.” He gifted them with a grin and another selfie.

“Hey, thanks for being cool about it,” the guy said.

As the elevator rose, Natalie studied the view, a magical panorama of glittering lights and flickering reflections off the water. The penthouse bar had an even more commanding view, and craft cocktails named after local or formerly local writers and their books—the Anne Rice blood orange martini, the Tsukiyama Samurai, the Christopher Moore Demon, the Joy Luck Cocktail. The walls were lined with well-curated volumes from Ferlinghetti, the Bohemians, and a host of Bay Area bright lights.

“How’s your drink?” he asked as they settled together at a cozy window table.

“The Lemony Snicket? Amazing,” she said. “This whole night is amazing. I feel like Cinderella.”

“Excellent. My plan is working,” he said.

“That’s your plan? This is your plan? You had a plan?”

“Guilty as charged. True story—I wrote the flip side of Cinderella when I was in fifth grade,” he explained. “I illustrated the hell out of it, too. I named the stepsisters Grace Slick and Janis Joplin, and they kicked ass.”

Natalie laughed. “So you’ve been at this for a while.” She studied him across the table. He was so good-looking, she nearly drowned in him. “Why do you say guilty?”

“When I got Dorothy’s letter, I looked up your shop online and read about your mom.”

“Oh.” The constant ache inside her flared up. “Yes, the story made the rounds.”

“Unfortunately, human tragedy has a way of doing that,” he said. “I’m really sorry, Natalie, sorry as hell.”

She kind of wished he hadn’t pretended earlier not to know what had happened. Maybe he didn’t want to scare her off by admitting he’d looked her up. “Thanks. It’s been . . . I don’t even know how to describe it. Like having the whole world pulled out from under me.”

“That’s pretty descriptive. I’m sorry,” he said again, and he touched her arm. Briefly.

She liked his touch. It gave her a shiver.

“So before the cocktails take effect,” he said, “let’s get down to business. Can I add Emily and her assistant to your phone?”

She took it out and handed it over. “Of course.”

Trevor started tapping the screen. “Emily is my assistant, and hers is Edison, and he is incredible. He’ll work with the event planner and publicist to set everything up. How does sometime this month sound?”

“This month . . . ? You’re kidding, right?”

“Not even. It’s true that these things usually need a lot of lead time, but I have a break in my schedule, and a crack team. Edison can do it all—organize the online ticket sales, book the venue, coordinate with the publisher, everything. Each ticket sold is good for two seats at the event—an adult and a kid—and a copy of my latest book, so the sales should be pretty good.”

Pretty good? Her head was spinning. Pretty good.

“What do you say, Cinderella?”

“You are Prince Charming,” she said.

Part Three

It was clear that the books owned the shop rather than the other way about. Everywhere they had run wild and taken possession of their habitat, breeding and multiplying and clearly lacking any strong hand to keep them down.