Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

Natalie frowned. “What’s that?”

“He’s acting. I can tell.”

“The guy performs all the time. Of course he’s acting.”

“Yeah, but there’s something else . . . it’s a subtle thing. Like he’s not telling his own story.”

“Well, judging by the reactions of these kids, it’s working just fine.”

Then Trevor switched gears, bringing two kids—preselected by his handlers—from the audience onstage with him, each representing an opposing view. Brother and sister. Dog and cat. Fat and skinny. To the delight of the audience, Trevor would suggest a setup and let the kids dramatize the story. Natalie leaned forward and looked at Dorothy and Peach, who sat several seats down in the middle of the row. The little girl watched Trevor with rapt attention, completely absorbed by the performance. Peach was covertly checking his phone.

When Trevor called Dorothy’s name, she was beaming as she hopped up to the stage and perched on one of the stools. Natalie leaned forward and caught Peach’s eye, giving him a thumbs-up sign. He put away his phone, then turned his attention to the stage. The expression of pride on his face made her smile.

The other girl, named Mara, was already there but was so bashful she literally couldn’t speak.

“That’s okay,” Trevor said easily. “I’ll come back to you, maybe find a way to flip your silence into noise.” Then he turned to Dorothy. “What’s your story?” he asked. “Toss me an idea, anything that’s on your mind. It can be anything at all.”

“It’s kinda hard,” Dorothy said, her voice high-pitched with nerves.

“It is,” Trevor agreed. “But you want to know something? The best ideas are big ideas that come straight from your gut, not your head. Ideas that give you big feelings.”

“Oh! Um . . .” She glanced from side to side.

“Something big. Don’t think, just toss,” he exclaimed. “Think big.”

“I hate my parents’ divorce!”

There was a pause, a sudden vacuum weighted by uncertain silence. Feet shuffled. People coughed. Then Trevor said, “All righty, then. That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Dorothy. A big idea and big feelings. So. You hate your parents’ divorce.”

She stared down at her knees and barely nodded her head.

“I bet plenty of kids feel the same way,” Trevor added.

Natalie looked over at Peach. He sat motionless, as if his daughter’s raw admission had turned him to stone. Then she noticed one of his hands was twitching.

“Sounds like a bummer. Major bummer,” Trevor said. “Now, here’s how the story works. What’s the flip side of hating that divorce?”

She kicked at the rungs of her stool, her cheeks turning red. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”

“You should . You absolutely should. Because listen. Your feelings are your feelings, and there’s no right or wrong when it comes to feelings. They just are. So is there a flip side?”

She shrugged her shoulders, lifting them helplessly up to her ears.

“There’s always a flip side. See, if I was writing the story, I’d list the things I like about the divorce. Like . . . having two different places to live. Two rooms to mess up! Am I right?”

Dorothy lifted her gaze to him and gave the slightest of nods.

“Have you ever had two birthday parties? One with Mom and one with Dad?”

“Yes,” she said. “And two Christmases.”

“Good work,” Trevor said. “You’re finding things to not hate about that divorce. Let’s think of another word for divorce. Because it’s one of those words nobody likes. We can do that, you know. Think up a new word for a word we don’t like.” He turned to the audience. “How about it? Any ideas?”

With gathering force, nonsense words rolled up toward the stage. Divnado. Pre-Nope. Bilgation. Madliness. Foligeddish . In minutes, laughter overtook the audience, and finally Dorothy succumbed to a fit of the giggles.

“My really smart mom used to say there’d be things in life I don’t like, but that’s no reason to stop liking life,” Trevor concluded. “Do me a favor, Dorothy. When you get home, write down ten things you really, really like. Can you do that?”

She nodded, now with her usual bright eagerness. Natalie sneaked a glance at Peach. His hand had stopped twitching.

“How about you, Mara?” Trevor turned his attention to the bashful girl. She’d been watching the exchange between him and Dorothy with an expression of horror, which had gradually turned to fascination. “Ready to talk story? Tell me what’s on your mind, and we’ll make a story.”

The girl mumbled something. Trevor held the microphone closer to her. “One more time, because that’s a good one.”

“I can’t swim,” she said, her voice thin and a little shaky.

Within moments, he was leading the audience through a zany story, seeming to revel in their raucous participation. He held his listeners captive, and then there was a rush for pictures with him.

Dorothy was beaming as she posed for a photo with Trevor and held up her book. It was a kindness, what he had done, but was there also a hint of opportunism? There was no disputing the delight in Dorothy’s eyes, though. Trevor was a pro. He knew what he was doing.

As they said goodbye for the evening, Trevor and Peach shook hands. “Thanks for smoothing out that thing onstage,” Peach said.

“No problem. Kids have a way of keeping things real.”

21

“You’re very quiet.” Trevor’s comment broke in on Natalie’s thoughts.

She turned to him from the passenger seat of his sleek electric car. After the signing, she’d changed into a dress with leggings and a cashmere shawl her mother had worn for years. It was fitting to be wrapped up in her mother’s shawl after the shop’s most successful event.

“I’m taking in the scenery,” she answered him. The sun was setting over the hills of Napa, creating a landscape so beautiful it almost didn’t seem real, more like an artist’s idealized conception of a flawless scene. The rounded crests and shadowy valleys formed a cradle for the cotton-candy clouds riding high above the undulating horizon.

“I love the wine country,” Trevor said. “I’m glad we get to share it tonight.”

“It’s so gorgeous,” she agreed, relaxing in the luxurious leather seat. Each winery they passed had its own peculiar character. Some were ultramodern architectural pieces. Others were rustic and fiercely individualistic, and a few were as grand as the châteaux of Europe. Her mother had designated a section of the bookstore to wine-country books. Far preferable, Mom had often said, to fighting the traffic to visit in person.

“But you don’t love it,” Trevor said, resting his wrist on the top of the steering wheel. They glided up and over a hill, its dun-colored grass swathed in evening shadows, mist gathering in the valleys.

“I …” Natalie paused. “Back when I worked in Sonoma, I never really connected with the area. It’s beautiful, but it never felt like home to me, not the way the city does.”

“So the city feels like home,” he concluded.

She gave him a quick smile. “The traffic sucks and it’s unaffordable, but it’s still my world. All my memories of my mother are tied up with the city, and when I’m there, I feel closer to her.”

“Tell me about her,” Trevor said. “A favorite memory.”

So many moments, she thought, vivid as yesterday. The scenery out the window melded into memories, and she described them for Trevor. Before school started each year, she and her mother used to make an annual trip to I. Magnin in Union Square. Its soaring main hall, the glass murals and gold ceilings, the glittering cases and Lalique crystal light fixtures ruined her for all other department stores. The dazzling marble ladies’ room had been a destination itself, and if it had been a good year, they might go to the café for a crab Louis. In leaner times it would be french fries at Kerry’s and a trip to the creepy Musée Mécanique with its clockwork toys. They always had something in their pockets for the street musicians and buskers they passed. Though her mom didn’t have a car, she sometimes borrowed one when the Blue Angels were practicing. Traffic would be stopped on Highway 101 when the perfect formation of jets came in for a landing over Moffett Field.