Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

“Where am I going to have it altered on such short notice?” asked Natalie.

“Please. It’s the family business.” Cleo found some bulldog clips to cinch the dress where it needed to be taken in, and marked the hem. Then she whisked it off Natalie. “I’ll take it to my aunt right away. Are you okay finishing on your own here?” She gestured at the piles on the bed.

“Sure.” Natalie gave her a hug. “Thank you,” she said. “I literally could not have done this without you.”

She put on some music to keep her company and worked until the closet was empty, finding a rhythm and decisiveness that got her through the ordeal. The sadness flowed through her, but it was a cleansing sadness, as though her grief had finally burst through a dam.

She took stock of the discarded items— Don’t overthink —making her peace with them. Then she stood in front of the closet and regarded the empty space. There was one long, deep shelf up high, and a rod that sagged in the middle like a sow’s belly, hangers swinging like bird bones.

Natalie selected her mom’s favorite dance party song—“Yertle the Turtle” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. When she was little, they’d play the song on Blythe’s boom box and dance themselves silly. Even now Natalie could feel her mother’s hands on hers as they whirled around, laughing. Closing her eyes, she danced alone, imagining her mother dancing along with her.

“That is one funky song,” Peach said, standing in the doorway.

Natalie jumped, then turned off the music. She swiped her sleeve across her face. “It was our song. Mom’s and mine. One of them, anyway.”

“Glad you had a mom who liked to dance with you. She sounds cool. I wish I’d known her.”

Natalie nodded, grabbing a tissue. “We had our moments. But damn. I miss her.” She dabbed at her eyes. For some reason, she didn’t feel self-conscious around Peach. Maybe because he’d already seen some of her worst moments. She thought about the morning he’d shown up, expecting to start on a job and finding out the person who’d hired him had gone down in flames. “She was really something,” Natalie said.

“I can fix this closet for you,” Peach said.

“It’s not broken,” she said.

He paused, his gaze soft as he studied her face. “You could use a better design—open shelves, double racks, maybe a light fixture. Sliding doors instead of these flimsy bifold things.”

She could instantly picture it, neat shelves and cubbies, the space perfectly organized. “That’s tempting, but it’s not in the budget.”

“On the house, Natalie.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know. And you don’t have to let me, but I’m doing it anyway. And trust me, you want this closet.”

“I trust,” she said quietly.

He unclipped a tape measure from his belt and quickly made some measurements and calculations, jotting notes with his flat carpenter’s pencil. “You missed something here,” he said, reaching deep into the back of the shelf.

He pulled out a flat portfolio box made of marbled paper stock and tied with twine. She grabbed a rag to wipe away the dust. There was a sticky note in her mother’s handwriting that read Colleen/Hearst letters—for scanning .

“Colleen from the Ten-Foot Ladder days. And Hearst?” Natalie untied the twine. “There’s only one Hearst I’ve ever heard of. But letters?”

“More pieces of your puzzle.”

She opened the box, causing the dried paper to crumble. “Looks like some journals in here as well. I thought maybe Grandy had imagined this. He said they were going through old papers and letters, but I never dreamed he was talking about something like this.” She opened the top journal to the first page. There, in ink that had faded to brown, was a carefully lettered phrase in a girlish hand. My Book of Days .

My name is Colleen O’Rourke. I am fifteen years old, and all alone in this world. This is a record of my days, as I live them.

“Amazing,” said Natalie. “And look at her drawings. She was talented. I can’t wait to dive in.”

“That’s really cool, Natalie. You’ll get to know your great-grandmother.”

“Great-great-grandmother,” she said, counting off the generations on her fingers. “Colleen O’Rourke. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

* * *

The Heritage Society sent a car. It was the second time in less than a week someone had ordered a car for Natalie. She leaned out the window of her apartment and saw the liveried driver and Bertie loading her grandfather’s wheelchair into the trunk.

“He’s early,” Natalie said to Cleo, who had come up to help her put the final touches on her outfit.

“I’m sure he’s used to waiting.” Cleo came to the window to have a look. “My whole family is super impressed that I get to go to this shindig. It’s like getting an audience with royalty. Everybody knows who the Tangs are. Just everybody.” She drew Natalie over to the mirror. “Now, let’s check you out.”

Cleo was like those little bluebirds of happiness in Cinderella, flitting around until Natalie had been transformed into a princess. A fraudulent one, to be sure, but a princess nonetheless.

The silk dress from her mother’s closet had been transformed into a couture masterpiece by the sartorial skills of Cleo’s talented aunt. The sheath now fit like an extremely flattering glove. Its color, and the bright handwork accents, echoed the colors of the precious vase—jade green, turquoise, marigold, and fuchsia with veins of cobalt blue. She paired it with the gold-heeled sandals, the vintage watch, and a gold snake belt borrowed from Cleo. Earlier in the day, Natalie had splurged on a salon that had groomed her like a show poodle, coordinating her makeup and polish with the colors of the dress.

Cleo was radiant in the yellow chiffon Valentino, and she sported a glorious fresh streak of hot pink in her hair. “Look at us,” she said. “We look incredible.”

Natalie opened the closet to find her one bag that would pass as an evening bag, a small clutch with paste jewels. As she slid the new doors apart, she heard a gasp from Chloe. “I know, right?” she said. “That was my reaction when I saw it.”

“Were you up all night working on it?”

“It’s all Peach. He took away the donations and discards, and rebuilt this closet, just to be nice.” He had worked late, whistling and humming. The interior of the closet glowed with lights that came on automatically when the door opened, illuminating the new custom shelving, racks, and drawers. Even with Natalie’s fairly ordinary things, the display resembled a high-end vintage boutique.

“That is a glory to behold,” said Cleo, testing a clever pullout shelf. “He’s really something.”

“Peach is like my mom’s last gift to me. She contacted him right before she died.”

“He’s really good. I wish we could keep him.”

“I can’t afford to keep him. I’m just hoping he’ll be able to stop the place from falling down.” She put her keys, invitation, lipstick, credit card, and phone in the small bag. “Let’s go see if Bertie and Grandy are ready.”

They headed down to the foyer. Bertie was there, checking the shine on his dress shoes.

“Oh my God, you look fantastic,” Natalie said to him.

“Yeah?” He straightened up and tweaked his bow tie. “Not too Pee-wee Herman?”

“Hardly. That’s a wonderful suit. And those shoes.” Natalie stepped back, beaming at both Bertie and Cleo. “I swear, if there were an award for best-looking bookstore staff, we would win it.”

“True,” Bertie said. “You’re beyond gorgeous.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”