Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

Natalie saw a pretty girl in the mirror. Not beautiful, like Mom said, but pretty enough. The zit was invisible, the hair was okay. A tiny smile pulled up the corners of her mouth. “Thanks, Mom.”

The downstairs doorbell sounded, and Natalie ran to the window and looked down at the street. Parked at the curb was an old beige sedan that looked like a rejected police cruiser. “It’s Louis,” she said over her shoulder.

Mom came to look. “Right on time.” Something must have shown in Natalie’s expression, because she asked, “Now what?”

Natalie sighed. “That car.”

“It’s fine. We don’t even have a car.”

Natalie stared at the floor. “Kayla Cramer’s parents hired a limo for tonight.”

“Trust me, limos are overrated. Come on. Let’s go meet Prince Charming.”

As they went down the stairs, Natalie hissed, “Please don’t embarrass me.”

“I thought that was my job.”

“Mom.”

Blythe flung open the downstairs door, and there was Louis Melville. When he saw Natalie, the expression on his face exploded into a smile that made her feel warm inside. And with his crisply pressed white shirt and fresh haircut, he looked totally cute.

“Hiya,” she said and introduced him to her mom.

“I brought you this,” Louis said, holding out a plastic container. “It’s a corsage.”

“Oh!” Natalie opened it to find a fragrant starburst of a flower. “That’s really nice. Thank you.”

“I got the wrist kind. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to.”

“Sure, I’ll wear it,” Natalie said, holding out her wrist so her mother could attach the corsage.

“You two have a great time tonight,” Blythe said. She offered a wave to Louis’s dad, who was behind the wheel of the hideous beige car.

When they got in the car, Natalie looked out the window and saw her mom alone in the doorway, brushing her cheek with one hand and waving with the other.

* * *

“Jesus Christ, Mom, I miss you so much right now,” Natalie said to the empty room. She tried to stave off a wave of grief by staying busy. She took a shower, then did her hair and makeup with special care, and put on her favorite—her only—little black dress. Then as she stood in front of the cheval glass in the bedroom, she realized it was the same dress she’d worn to the memorial service for Rick. Ah, Rick , she thought.

She wished she hadn’t noticed that, because it was a good dress. If she went with bare legs and heels and a flash of jewelry, it would look totally different, she told herself. Right? Don’t overthink.

Briefly, Natalie considered culling through her mother’s closet to find something to wear, but she wasn’t ready for that.

She put her keys, cards, and phone into a small blingy bag. Added a twenty-dollar bill—something her mom would call mad money. In case you get mad at your date and need to get yourself home.

Get mad at Trevor Dashwood? Highly doubtful, Mom.

He showed up right on time, wearing casual but expensive-looking slacks and a Paul Smith sweater. She knew it was Paul Smith because the designer’s bio, with the signature colorful pinstripes on the cover, was a steady seller at the bookstore.

“You look terrific,” he said, holding the door for her. “Are you okay to walk a few blocks?”

She glanced down at her shoes. “No problem. They only look dangerous.”

“Okay, then. I’m glad you said yes.”

“I imagine you’re used to hearing yes.”

He didn’t deny it. “Just so you know, I’ve heard plenty of nos in my life. Any writer who tells you getting published was easy is pulling your leg.”

“I didn’t mean about the writing,” she said. “I mean women.”

“I like women.” He grinned.

She inhaled the city scents, so familiar from her growing-up years here—cable car brakes, ocean air, the occasional whiff of weed. “How is it that you’re still single?”

“I’m complicated.”

“How so?”

“I don’t really know.” He chuckled. “It just sounds like a good thing to say.”

“Seems like a good way to tell me very little.”

“Hey, I’m an open book. And I could ask you the same thing,” he said. “You’re lovely and smart and interesting . . .”

“Maybe I’m complicated, too,” she said. “And not because it sounds good to say so.”

“Because of the way you lost your mom so suddenly and found yourself running her bookstore,” he said. “I swear, I’m not making light of that.”

“I know you’re not.” She decided to tell him about Rick. All of it, including the fact that she had wanted to end the relationship at the precise moment he was planning a surprise proposal.

“Damn,” said Trevor. “I’m sorry about that. It’s a lot to handle. Are you . . . maybe getting help for all this stuff?”

“Therapy, you mean?” She shook her head. “Not covered by my health plan. It’s kind of you to ask, but please don’t worry. Mom raised me on books, and I’ve been doing more reading than sleeping. There’s no shortcut through grief and guilt.”

“Bibliotherapy—I can relate. I hope you figure out a way to move on. When you do, I want to be the first to know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She steered the conversation to something safer, something that made her feel less vulnerable—books. Despite the stress of trying to get the business on track, Natalie loved talking shop. It was such a contrast to her former job, that steady, predictable safety net she’d inhabited until her final screw-you to wine inventory management.

“Sounds like you’ve found your calling,” he commented.

“I don’t know about that. The goal is to keep going. I hope I can. I’ve always believed there’s something magical about a book. A bundle of paper and ink that can change your life. It must be so exciting for you to think about all the readers who love your books.”

“I try not to think about that too much,” Trevor said. “Messes with my head. I write stories for the kid I used to be—a misfit, looking for a way to be comfortable in my skin.”

“You? A misfit?”

“I still feel that way,” he said. “Insecurity doesn’t go away just because my books are popular.”

“Well. Your event is going to be a huge shot in the arm. I appreciate it so much, Trevor. We all do.”

“Here we are.” He stopped at a cozy-looking place called the Chalk Bar. “One of my favorite spots. And one of my favorite groups is playing tonight.”

He casually placed his hand in the small of her back as he held the door for her. A few heads turned as they entered, but unlike the last time, they didn’t encounter fans wanting a selfie. Still, Trevor had a presence. He exuded a sort of energy that captured people’s attention. He was noticed . Not just by people who recognized him but by people in general. The hostess. A girl at the bar as they took a seat. The bartender. At his side, Natalie felt slightly exposed, though she knew it wasn’t his fault.

The rustic interior of the bar was modeled after the vermouth bodegas in southern Spain, Trevor told her, where different spirits were stored in casks along the wall and served de grifo in slender tasting glasses. The bartender kept a chalk tally directly on the wooden plank bar itself.

“This is nice,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to go to Spain.”

“You haven’t been?”

She shook her head. “Never had the time or the money. I spent a semester abroad in China when I was in college. Then it was right back here to finish my degree and get a job.”

“Sounds like you were in a hurry.”

“I had student debt,” she corrected him. She still did, but she didn’t want to appear even more lame. “Anyway. I never thought about sitting around and sipping vermouth. My knowledge of vermouth is of giant cases in the inventory I used to manage in my old job. Not these cool old barrels.”