Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

—Agatha Christie, The Clocks

16

“We need to talk about your daughter,” Natalie said to Peach the moment he showed up in the morning.

He grinned, always intrigued by her direct manner. “My favorite subject.” He went around to the back of the truck and unloaded some of the gear he’d need for the day—including a saw for the attic beam he was replacing. The rotted one was downright scary, its insides powdered by termites. “What’s up?”

“She wrote a letter to Trevor Dashwood, the author.”

“Kid likes writing letters. She does that a lot, mostly to writers and musicians she likes. It’s cool, right? I’d rather have her writing letters than getting addicted to a phone and forgetting the rest of the world exists.” He paused, glanced over at her, then did a double take. She looked different today. Her eyes sparkled even brighter than usual, and her smile was quicker. She had shiny hair, polished makeup, a fitted turquoise dress, high heels. Could be his imagination, but she seemed to be upping her game.

He liked it when the sadness lifted, even briefly, no matter the reason. “So how’d you know Dorothy wrote to the guy?”

“He came to see me last night.”

Peach frowned. “Came here? The writer who’s so famous no one can talk to him?”

“Apparently he listens to Dorothy. He was really moved by her letter. She told him the store was in trouble and asked him to come for a book signing.”

“No kidding.” So that was why Natalie seemed different this morning. “What did the famous author say?”

“He’s going to do it. A book signing like this will give us a huge boost. My head is still spinning. All because of that remarkable child of yours.”

“My daughter is magic,” he said, not even trying to suppress his fatherly pride. “And good for Trevor Dashwood for taking her seriously and showing up.” At night , Peach thought. Was it weird that the writer had shown up at night? In person, rather than having his “people” call? Maybe writers were weird that way.

“No writer should be too famous to ignore a sincere letter from a fan,” said Natalie. “Especially a fan like Dorothy. Not only did she tell him about the bookstore, she included a picture of herself and a drawing she had made of him.”

“Wow. A triple threat. I don’t blame him for wanting to help. Man, she’s going to be so excited that her plan worked.” He could hang around all day talking about his kid, but there was work to be done. Other clients and other jobs were stacking up like air traffic over a busy airport, so he needed to finish this project and move on. “It’s going to be noisy in the back,” he said. “Is your grandfather up?”

“Yes, he went to the senior center for breakfast.”

“I’ll get to work, then.”

“Me too. I can’t wait to tell Cleo and Bertie. Oh, and a heads-up—a reporter and photographer from the Examiner are coming to do a little feature on the shop. The publicity machine is already kicking in.”

That probably explained the extra-pretty hair and makeup and clothes she was wearing.

“I’ll stay out of the way, then,” he said. “They won’t want my ugly mug in their paper.”

“You? Ugly?” She gave his arm a nudge. “Stop it.”

“So you think I’m beautiful?” He batted his eyes at her.

She shooed him away. “Go. Get to work, Gallagher. I’d better let Cleo and Bertie know about the reporter, too.”

Every once in a while he toyed with the idea of asking her out, but dismissed it. For one thing, he couldn’t tell if she liked him. Sometimes he felt her watching him and thought maybe yes. But most of the time, she kept her distance and he figured she wasn’t interested. Her boyfriend had died with her mom. The last thing she needed was another boyfriend. Which was for the best. Dating a client was a bad idea, something he’d learned from experience. Dating anyone was a bad idea, given his luck with women.

He was grateful for the autumn sunshine in the little back garden, a reprieve from a string of drizzly days. The attic beam had been custom fabricated, but now he had to put on a good finish and fit it with hardware. After that, he’d supervise the insanely treacherous task of hoisting the new section and seating it in place of the rotten one. He’d lined up a crane for that. Natalie had turned a bit green around the gills when he’d quoted her the cost, but one look at the crumbling wood had convinced her it had to be done.

Each time he accessed the attic to check on something, Peach had to pass through her apartment. When she’d first showed it to him, the place had been crammed with books and colorful clutter from her mother, who apparently was not super organized nor inclined to throw things away. He noticed that Natalie had been systematically conquering the clutter but managed to keep the color and charm of the place. The overstuffed love seat under the window had been excavated, and she’d turned it into a little reading retreat. There was an afghan and a couple of pillows, an antique side table with a nice stack of books, and a lamp with an old-fashioned painted shade depicting Yosemite Falls.

He tried not to snoop, but as he passed the bedroom, he got a waft of girly scent and lavender, and he noticed a Giants T-shirt hanging behind the door. He wondered sometimes if his own place—the big drafty house on Vandalia Street he shared with Suzzy and Milt—felt homey enough for Dorothy. God knew, the kid was adaptable, shuttling between Regina and Peach as the parenting plan dictated. Maybe one of these days he’d ask Natalie for advice on how to girly things up in Dorothy’s room. The kid would probably love that.

Natalie had a lot on her plate, though. Maybe not the best time to ask for decorating advice.

* * *

Throughout the workday, Peach overheard Natalie with the reporter and photographer. They seemed to be capturing a day-in-the-life of the shop. She was so damn smart, helping people find the books they were looking for—and some they didn’t know they needed. The customer of the moment was a middle-aged woman with a little white dog wearing a jacket. “Blythe’s not here anymore?” the woman asked. “Did she retire, or . . .”

“Blythe was my mother,” Natalie said quietly. Her gaze darted to the reporter, who occupied a stool behind the counter. “I’m sorry to say, she died in an accident. A plane crash.”

Peach felt bad for her, having to explain the situation over and over. And then there was her grandfather, who kept confusing her with Blythe, needing to be told yet again that his daughter was gone.

“That’s terrible,” the woman said. “I’m very sorry. But also grateful that her shop lives on.”

The reporter made some notes on a little pad.

“Blythe was always so clever about helping me find books,” the woman continued. “There’s one I heard described on NPR, but I didn’t catch the name of it. Or the name of the author.”

“What was it about?” asked Natalie. “Tell me a few details, and I’ll give it a shot.”

The customer launched into a rambling description of a book about a woman who was married and shared an illicit kiss with someone who was not her husband and had an email flirtation and got so freaked out about that it triggered a whole life reexamination.

“Okay, well.” Natalie tapped her chin with her finger. “Doesn’t sound familiar. Do you remember what program you heard it on?”

“Sorry, no. One of those podcasts, I guess. It just sounded like a good book, kind of funny and snarky but heartfelt at the same time.”

Natalie was clearly at a loss, which sucked for her, since Peach knew she wanted to look professional. She was in luck, though. He knew exactly what book the woman was referring to. His ex-wife had read that book. He could picture it on her nightstand. Even after all this time, he could still picture her nightstand. Stepping over to the memoir section, he found the book and tipped it slightly outward. Then he pretended to tap at something with his hammer.