Afterglow (Brotherhood of the Blade Trilogy #2) (18 page)

He laughed, but his ray of hope faded at the mention of a husband. “There are a lot of Smiths in the world. You had millions from which to choose a husband.”

Her expression changed. After a fleeting eye flicker away and back, she said, “I should tell you that I’m a widow. My husband was a firefighter—he died on September 11, 2001, in New York.”

He was startled. “I’m sorry for the tragic loss of your husband. I hope you are doing all right now.”

“I am. I still miss him sometimes, but I have places to go and things to do. Books to covet, buy and hoard. And sell, if I can bear it.”

To her inquisitive eyes, he offered, “I’ve never married. I’m convinced that it must be all of the books in my house. No room for hers. You know?”

“Yes. So, now you know my name. What’s yours?”

“
I’m Sam. Sam Gold. My name is not as interesting as your name, Jessie Willcox Smith. The only story I have about my own name is that it used to be something unpronounceable, like Guildersteinhemwallenfoot when my great-grandparents arrived on Ellis Island in 1881. The immigration officer, shortened it to Gold.”

“
Guildersteinhemwallenfoot?” she said in perfect imitation of the way he had said it.

He laughed. “Not precisely,” he admitted. “It was something like that. It’s easier for my customers to remember that a guy named Sam Gold sells books than some fifteen-syllable name.”

“True. What’s in a name?”

“
All of one’s personal history,” he said.

“
Indeed.” She cringed like she’d been struck.

He searched her face for a clue as to what he had said wrong. “What’s your book specialty?” he asked gently.

Her face cleared of whatever had upset her. “I collect vintage children’s books. I sell them—the ones I can bear to part with—at many of the New England flea markets.”

“
I do all of the flea markets around here, but I haven’t seen you around.”

“
I’ve seen you,” she piped up. “You were in New Hampshire, last summer, at a roadside flea market with a table of first edition John Fowles, Eudora Welty, and some Sylvia Plath.”

“
Yes! I did go to that.” Never one to forget a face, he wracked his brain and could find no memory of seeing her. Ever. “You should have said hello. I thought I knew everyone on the circuit. How could I have missed you at my tables?”

“
When I had a free moment, I walked over. But suddenly, you were talking to a customer and haggling over the price. I didn’t want to interrupt and then someone walked over to my own tables, so I ran back to tend them. And the moment was lost. Whatever clever thing I planned to say to you, I lost it.”

“
Sounds like something I would do. What a shame we missed each other. Do you come often to Port Sapphire?”

“
I’m in and out of the area,” she said. “Perhaps we would have met last summer if you had stepped away from your table to see mine.”

“
I don’t do that too often. I tell myself that someday, I hope to sell more books than I buy.”

She laughed. “We are both prisoners of our book lust, it seems.”

Say anything to keep this going, advised the angel on his shoulder.

He couldn’t bear the thought that she might end their conversation and walk away. “What was on your table that day?” he asked, talking shop with her, just to keep her talking. 

“Let me think. That day, I had a first edition of George MacDonald’s The Light Princess, a smattering of Beatrix Potter, some Book House sets and firsts of Winnie-the-Pooh.”

“
Nice children’s inventory,” he said. “It’s difficult for me to get away from the tables. I don’t socialize all that much at the flea markets. It’s my business, so I am pretty serious about it. I also choose my friends carefully at flea markets. People do steal books, you know, even other vendors, so I rarely chat while I am at the flea market except about the books on my table—I try not to get distracted from that.”

She’s quite a distraction, isn’t she? remarked the angel on his shoulder.

“So, what kinds of friends do you have, Sam?”

“
I have just a handful of friends, mostly from college and beyond, and my next-door neighbor, the grandmother of Cindy. We all have common interests in fine American literature, good poetry, politics and the last vestiges of the American peace movement. I also have friends who share tickets to live local music, and ones who like to go look at IKEA bookshelves with me.”

She laughed. “I like everything in IKEA.”

“The Swedish meatballs, too?”

“
Yes! So, whose poetry do you appreciate?” she asked.

“
Pablo Neruda. Especially, The Captain’s Verses: Love Poems. Robert Frost. Walt Whitman. Others.”

“
Impressive. Novels?”

Keep going, you’re on a roll, said the angel in his ear.

“Writing or reading?” he said.

She looked surprised. “You do both?”

“Yes. I write and self-publish mystery romance novels. I have moderate success in ebooks, less in print.”

“
How wonderful. I’ll have to read them. What an age we live in.”

“
It is. From my point of view, there isn’t much to talk about with other people unless they are interested in books and ebooks, music, peace, politics, and technology. I might be an introvert, but I’ve become comfortable in my own skin, by this age.”

She assessed him with her eyes. “You’re not as old as you pretend.”

“I’m fifty-seven but thank you.” He looked at her with a question in his eyes.

She digested this for a moment, her eyes measuring his face.

Ladies rarely discuss their age, said the angel in his ear.

She glossed right over the age issue and said, “I’ve been a bookworm since I learned to read and never wasted much time on anyone who didn’t want to read books. And except for buying and selling books, I really don’t have a social life. Our type of work is not conducive to being the life of the party.”

“Your focus on bookselling, like mine, probably explains your single status for the last twelve years.”

“
Twelve?”

“
Since your husband died on September 11th.” Now he was confused again. Isn’t that what she had just told him? He scratched his head.

“
Right.” She directed the conversation back to him. “What about your stories of singlehood?” Her blue eyes were curious and an almost-smile quirked at the corners of her full mouth.

“
Oh, please! Adventures of a lifetime bachelor? Another time, perhaps. If you ever get insomnia, call me and those stories of an utter yawn fest will put you out like a light.”

“
I do get insomnia sometimes. I’d call you for that cure.” She briefly touched his arm and his heart skipped a beat. “Then tell me about your book inventory and personal collection.”

She was a woman after his own heart. Perhaps she wouldn’t cringe when she found out that he lived in an old house with ten thousand books and almost no room to move. Where other women failed to find him interesting for more than an hour, maybe Jessie was his last chance—he clung to hope that he would someday find true love. With a rabid book lover.

She’s almost too young, you know, not that it matters much to her, said a tiny voice in his ear.

He almost said shhh aloud to the invisible angel on his right shoulder.

Sam looked at Jessie for a moment, suddenly uneasy. “I feel pretty silly standing out here on the sidewalk talking for so long. We’re in the village fishbowl, so to speak, here on Main Street.”

“
So, where should we go to sit and talk?”

Jessie just moved things to the next level, said the angel on his shoulder.

He looked down the street. It was awkward for him to ask her out on a real date, even though she was clearly leading him down a primrose path to that very thing. He was usually shy with women and this one was young and pretty, very much out of his league. Mostly, if a woman was interested in him, she did the talking and he did the listening until one of them would find a chance to politely withdraw.

“
I’ve never been in that one, but there’s a little coffee shop down the street,” he suggested. “It got good reviews in the newspaper.”

“
Perfect!” she said.

He had a feeling that any place he’d suggested would have been deemed perfect at that moment. She looked up at him with stars in her eyes. What the heck?

“Would you like to go there and have a cup of coffee or tea?” He paused, not used to such rapt attention from women. “We could talk books, our favorite subject. Or about something else if you prefer…” He left that option hanging like a lobster trap full of chicken necks.

Her turquoise-blue eyes widened with interest. “That sounds wonderful. But let’s make it lunch instead. I’m starved.” She measured him with her eyes to see his reaction at her bold upgrade of their spontaneous date. “It’s only fair that I pay for your lunch after the debacle I caused,” she offered.

He started to shake his head and she interrupted the gesture with a hand to his sleeve. A warm tingle ran up his arm when she touched him. And spread.

Mercy.

“Please allow me to pay, Sam. After all, you paid for the book.”

“
All right. Tit for tat,” he agreed. “I can’t remember if I’ve ever turned down a free lunch with a smart, bookish woman.”

She held up the two ruined halves of The Princess and the Goblin. “I don’t know how smart I am. Greedy and impulsive is more like it, but thank you for the compliment.”

He clucked his tongue over the damage to the lovely old book. “Please put that away in your handbag. I can’t bear to look at it like that. After you buy my lunch—I’ll get the tip—perhaps you can swing by my house so I can mend the spine for you.”

“
Really?”

“
Sure.” He scrutinized the book carefully. “I know it won’t be worth as much with a spine repair, but it might be easier to read if it weren’t in two pieces. Alas, with a spine repair, I can’t give it to little Cindy as a gift. So, you may keep it.”

“
That’s kind of you. I’ll take you up on that repair offer, too.” Her eyes twinkled. “I don’t think I’ll ever sell this book. I would like to keep it as a memento.”

He chuckled. “Of what?”

“Of how we met,” she said.

Oh my! Something’s starting here, blurted the angel in his ear.

A quickening went through him as if he was a young man. He wondered how old she was. There was not one line on that classic New England face. And not a speck of makeup that he could see. Thirty-two, he guessed and then inwardly cringed. That was probably about right. Compared to him, she was a baby.

Jessie put away the halves of the book in her handbag, took his arm as if she had known him all her life, and nodded at him to get going.

They set off down the frost-heaved sidewalks to where the warm cafe awaited. The feel of her graceful hand poised on his forearm was a sweet weight. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so hopeful. He even had butterflies cavorting in his stomach.

The angel on his right shoulder whispered again in his ear: After lunch, then what are you going to do with her?

The truth was, he had no idea. Unless she really did come over to get the book mended.

Sam turned to steal a look at her while they were walking, but saw she was not watching where she was going. Her eyes were on him! She was relying on him to steer her safely to the coffee shop. As they walked, she measured him intently with those startling blue eyes, as if he was not the type of man to whom she was accustomed.

Suddenly, he felt a lot warmer and tingling in places that should never be tingling in public. He tried not to look down at himself. How long had that been? Months? Certainly, he had been alone the last time this had happened.

He turned his eyes to hers and couldn’t stop looking at her eyes. Jessie had a dozen questions in them and a half-smile on those moist, curved raspberry-colored lips that had no need of cosmetics. Her lush red hair bounced like a storybook princess. Her step was so light that it was nearly inaudible on the pavement, compared to the heavy clomping of his giant winter boots.

The angel’s voice said in his ear, Once you go in the coffee shop with her, you’re approaching the point of no return.

He took the angel’s warning as a challenge, one that could go either way. Sam was intrigued by what was turning into a lucky day. He hadn’t had one in decades.

The two of them almost bumped into a wrought iron light post, so engaged were they in staring at each other as they walked.

“
Whoops! That was a close one. I’m relying on you to look where we’re going,” Jessie teased.

Sam suddenly felt the shards of a cynical life begin to melt away under a cascade of what he identified as hope. The possibilities that might extend from lunch with her thudded against the door of his heavily guarded heart as they walked together, arm-in-arm, down the streets of the bustling port city that he loved.