Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

“It’s different from the stuff gathering dust in the back of your parents’ liquor cabinet.”

“For the record, we didn’t have a liquor cabinet,” Natalie said. “I didn’t have parents, either, just a single mom. And that sounds pathetic and really, it’s not.”

They sampled a vermut rojo—spiced fortified wine—which they drank neat with a slice of orange. The rich, botanical flavor was remarkably soothing. Trevor ordered a selection of simple, insanely fresh plates of tapas—local olives, nuts, and cheese, all served on tiny platters.

“This is wonderful,” she said.

“Glad you like it.”

“I have a confession,” she said, relaxing over her second sample of vermut. “I’m intrigued by your ‘About the Author’ page.”

“You like it?”

“It’s intriguing.”

“And that’s bad?”

“No, but there are ambiguities. You grew up in the Desolation Wilderness?” She had seen it once on a scenic plane ride with Rick, swooping across the south end of Lake Tahoe over what looked like impenetrable woodlands. “I didn’t think anyone lived there. Is that even allowed?”

“Right near the boundary. My folks were early advocates of living off the grid. The house had a full solar power array, battery storage, propane generator, everything needed to survive miles from nowhere.”

“And you were homeschooled and wrote a novel at age seventeen and attended Oxford. Your folks must have been so proud of you.”

“Let’s drink to that,” he said, lifting the small glass. “Better yet, let’s listen to the opening set. Looks like they’re just warming up.”

Okay, so he didn’t want to discuss his bio. He had probably been asked the same questions a million times. Natalie turned her attention to the corner area of the bar. The band had been busily setting up mixers, speakers, mics, and amplifiers in a darkened alcove. Sound checks and tuning mingled with the house music. Then the piped-in music went silent. A guy in a kitchen apron stepped up to the mic and made a few introductory announcements about upcoming events. Then he said, “Please welcome one of our local favorites, from right here in the heart of the city—Trial and Error.”

Track lights came on over the dais, illuminating the four-person ensemble—a woman with long blond hair and a fiddle, a bass player, a guy on acoustic guitar, a drummer.

“Hey there, thanks for joining us tonight. My name’s Suzzy Bailey, and we’re Trial and Error. Welcome to the Chalk Bar.” The blonde adjusted the mic, the way performers tended to do. “We’re glad we get to spend a little time with you, here at one of the best spots in the city. Let’s start with a tune I wrote last summer about the weather. And some other things.”

The piece started out with a waterfall of guitar riffs, played by a tall guy in a tight black T-shirt with long hair and—

“Holy crap, I know that guy,” whispered Natalie, nudging Trevor’s arm.

He leaned over and put his lips close to her ear. “Yeah?”

She nodded, feeling the strangest leap of her heart. “He’s . . . his name is Peach. He’s working on repairs at the bookstore.”

“Small world.”

“It gets smaller. Remember our mutual friend, Dorothy?” she asked.

“My pen pal. Indeed I do.”

“That’s her dad.”

She had to adjust to seeing Peach in a wildly different context. His hands delicately teasing the strings of the guitar were the same hands that had been ripping plaster and lath from the walls of her building.

“This next one’s something new from my buddy Peach,” Suzzy said. It was a duet, and his voice was utterly surprising—perfectly on key, with a slightly gritty texture that somehow made the lyrics ring with sincerity. It was a romantic song, and he and Suzzy seemed connected as they traded lyrics back and forth.

What about your heart?

It’s the last thing on my list.

Natalie tried to figure out if Peach’s wife was in the room, watching and listening. Probably not. She was probably home with Dorothy.

The music fell like warm rain, and Natalie stopped speculating. For a few moments, she forgot entirely that she was sitting with Trevor Dashwood. She forgot that her grandfather was losing himself and the shop was failing and the building was falling down. Those several minutes took her somewhere else, and when the song ended, she was in a better place—just for a couple of seconds more.

Trevor nudged her shoulder during the applause. “See what I mean? They’re good.”

“They’re good,” she agreed.

“And your drink?”

“It’s . . . oops. I finished it.”

“I’ll get you another.” He left the table and went over to the bar. Natalie looked over at Peach, trying to readjust her thoughts. So many things were surprising about him, but his artistry on the guitar and his soulful voice were probably the biggest surprises of all.

Trevor set a fresh drink in front of her. “This one is con sifón —with a little carbonated water.”

“Thank you.” She smiled across the table at him. “It’s all so delicious. I’d better pace myself.”

After several more numbers, mellow and sincere like the first, the group took a break. Natalie said, “Let’s go say hi.”

Peach had set his guitar in a holder and was guzzling a glass of water.

“Hey,” she said.

He put down his glass, and his eyebrows shot up. “Hey, yourself.”

“You didn’t tell me you were Eddie Vedder.”

He checked out the dress with a sweep of his eyes. “You didn’t tell me you were Audrey Hepburn.”

She flushed, stepping aside and gesturing at Trevor. “This is Trevor Dashwood, Dorothy’s favorite writer.”

“Good to meet you.” Peach stuck out his hand. “Peach Gallagher. My kid is crazy about your books, man.”

“I hope I get to meet her,” said Trevor. “She’s coming to the book signing, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. She’s going to go nuts when I tell her I saw you tonight.” The drummer motioned to him. “Gotta go,” he said.

Trevor steered her away for a final tasting of vermut, this one a sweet, herbal concoction from white grapes. The next set was so good, featuring another duet with the earthy, bohemian, beautiful Suzzy. Then Peach sang a solo he’d written about a guy delivering a package. He didn’t see it coming, but things like that escaped him . . . She didn’t quite get the metaphor, but the melody and emotion of the piece were unexpectedly moving.

By the time the set wound down, Natalie was feeling the pleasant effects of herbal vermouth and good live music. She smiled at Trevor, and it felt good to smile. “I should get home,” she said. “Saturday’s a big day at the shop.”

He went over to the end of the bar and paid the tab, and the guy with the chalk wiped out the markings on the wooden surface. “Every transaction should be that simple, right?” he said, holding out his hand as she got up from the table.

“I wish.” She glanced over her shoulder to see if Peach was still around, but he was busy helping break down the set. She wondered if his wife liked his performances, or if they were old hat to her. Did he sing to Mrs. Peach?

Lost in thought, she didn’t realize Trevor was speaking to her. “Sorry, what?”

“Walk slowly,” he said, his lips close to her ear. “I want to make the evening last.” The night was chilly, and with natural ease he slipped his arm around her and held it there for a long moment.

Coming from someone less polished, his line would have sounded impossibly cheesy. Yet Trevor said it with humor and sincerity, and she was charmed. They took the stairs down the side of Lombard Street, which was decently quiet and smelled of dry leaves and eucalyptus. The amber streetlights created a dreamy atmosphere, adding to Natalie’s sense of wonder about the whole evening. They encountered the occasional dog walker or jogger, and on one landing, a musician scratched a tune on the fiddle while his feet played percussion on a digital foot drum. Trevor slipped a bill into his violin case as they passed.