The Bookshop on Autumn Lane (19 page)

“Why aren't you out there with them?”

I didn't have to turn around to know the owner of the voice.

“They don't need me, Professor.”

I kept my eyes on the girls who were chanting. “Go! Win! Fight!”

“How did you do it?”

“I didn't do anything. They wanted to cheer. They made it happen.”

“With a little help,” he said, moving closer until he stood next to me. I peeked at him out of the corner of my eye. In the glow of the fire I could see his suede jacket, russet sweater, and dark jeans that were cut perfectly in a European fit. On his feet were sleek boots that reflected the sparks from the bonfire.

I, on the other hand, wore a loose-fitting long skirt, a flowered blouse, and a baggy sweater that I had bought at a Salvation Army store. My hair was coming out of the loose ponytail I had tied it in before leaving the house. Together we could have been a cartoon for sleek and slouchy.

“And how did they get the uniforms?”

“Grease
.
”

“Excuse me?”

“The play.
Grease
. A friend owed me a favor. They come from a theater she worked in.”

“First the haunted house and now this. For someone who doesn't like to stay in one place, you certainly make an impression on the places you visit.”

“You do too.”

He chuckled.

“If you are looking for your lost book, I burned it.” I pointed to the fire.

“I know you don't like me right now. But I think you are great, Trudy Brown.” I ignored the way the warmth of his words spread through me.

“Not great enough to tell the truth to, though.”

He glanced down at his feet. “I was wrong. I wasn't as brave as you.”

“You were brave when you let me seduce you.”

“No. I wasn't thinking about anything but myself then. Now I wish I had. I would never want to hurt you.”

“You could have shown it in a better way than turning my dog against me.”

“Your dog? Are you going to claim him now?”

“My temporary dog, I mean.”

“Look. I didn't mean it to happen.”

I held up my hand and stared at the fire. “It's all right, I'm over it.”

“You are?” He sounded wary now. Typical man. Afraid he was off my radar.

“I've moved on.”

“Really.”

“Yes. See that guy over there by the pickup truck?”

“The one with his mouth open under the keg?”

“Not him. His friend. The cute one with the beard.”

Kit grunted. “What about him?”

“He's my latest and greatest.”

“No, he's not.”

“Of course he is.”

“That's Edge.”

“Yeah.” I had no idea who Edge was. But he was handsome and very nice whenever I saw him at the diner.

“You're not going out with Edge.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he's dating a skier who just made the Olympic team. It's all his aunt talks about.”

“Blah, blah, blah.” He was such a know-it-all.

“So, what happened after that saucy cheer at the end of the game?”

I smiled at the memory. “I'm barred from all practices in the future.”

“You? What did you do?”

“I had them do the last cheer.”

“No, you didn't.”

I put my hand on my hip. “What makes you say that?”

“The way you ran out to stop them.”

I watched a spark fly into the sky, following it until it faded. “Whatever. I could care less about football.”

The music was louder now. Several people danced in the open sandy area. I swayed to the music, wishing I could join them. Kit put his hands in his pockets and watched me. But I refused to meet his gaze. I watched the dancers instead.

“Ah, the pagan American ritual of celebrating a football victory. Kegs, bonfires, and music,” he said after a while.

“They do the same thing in England. You are deliberately trying to make it look like only Americans celebrate like asses.”

One of my favorite songs from the Cure came on the radio. It always made me happy!

Kit held his hands out. “Come on. I know you want to dance.”

“What? Are you going to deign to join an American ritual?”

He took a deep breath and started to move awkwardly. “It seems that this large island is starting to influence me.”

I laughed at the way his body jerked around. “You stink. If I'd known you danced so badly I never would have had sex with you.”

“What does my dancing have to do with my performance in bed?”

“It's my little theory. Good dancers are good in bed. Bad dancers are not.”

“Codswallop.”

“Whatever. And now that I think of it, you
were
awful in bed.”

“How was I
out
of bed? We made love off the bed several times.” His voice was low. It made my neck tingle.

He was moving around me now. The music was loud and I tried to tell myself the beat was making me swing my hips; not Kit, not my own legs. We were still in the shadows, under the trees, where no one else could see us. I watched his spastic movement and could no longer stand still. I twirled and waved my arms, letting the rhythm inhabit me. I could feel the heat of the fire and another kind of fire where Kit moved beside me.

We were in sync. Back and forth in the same beat.

I couldn't see his face, and maybe he was staring at me as if I had come from crazyville. But I didn't care. I had been standing against the damn tree for way too long wanting to do exactly this. I moved my arms in circles like a pinwheel and turned until I was dizzy and laughing. Kit caught me before I fell. I clutched his shoulders and lifted my head. Before we knew it, we were back where we left off. He pulled me deeper into the shadows and captured my mouth, his hands on either side of my head, drifting lower to pull me against him.

We were part of the music and the beat and I couldn't think anymore. It didn't matter if I was letting myself be vulnerable or losing any sense of self-respect that I never had anyway. I surrendered to the feeling that was part of the moment—part of the now, which made me happy. My own pagan ritual.

Faint laughter came from the beach. Another song started. I couldn't find the beat this time. I stepped away, faking the ability to control the shots. “You knew how to dance after all.”

My voice was calm, but I was mad at myself. Mad at the way I let him pull me into his arms.

“No, I didn't. I was just better when I danced with you, Trudy Brown.” He gasped as if he was winded, his breath coming out in clouds.

“Too late. I dance better by myself.”

Kit opened his mouth to say something. He looked at me like a dragon getting ready to shoot flames. Then he clamped his lips shut. He stepped away and moved toward the fire, leaving me in the cool shadows.

T
he dumpster arrived Monday morning. The unfriendly man who delivered it hauled the container to the back alley without a word. When I signed the paperwork, he looked around the store and said, “You doing this yourself?”

The place was tidy. But there was just so much. Hundreds and hundreds of books lining aisles of shelves. I tried not to sound overwhelmed. “Yes.”

“Good luck, lady! You need a forklift.”

I figured out what he meant in less than three hours.

Magazines by the front door went in the trash first. I made so many trips back and forth that my boots left a dirty path. Even after a good cleaning the treads underneath the dust would probably show permanent wear by the end of the week.

My height should have been an advantage as I lifted and dumped everything over the seven-foot wall of the dumpster. But in no time, my shoulders ached from the exertion of an unused set of muscles. Still, I was making some progress.

By mid-afternoon, I no longer heard the metal clanging of the books hitting the bottom of the dumpster. They landed with a dull
thud
, on top of other pages. I peeked over the side, thinking I would see the refuse rising to the top, but was discouraged by the sight of just a shallow layer of paperbacks, coffee-table books, and boxes.

Arguing came from the open back door of the house of horrors. Curious, I poked my head inside. At least a dozen people were putting the last-minute touches on the haunted house. Marva and Flo, together in the corner, adjusted a corpse that was sitting up in a coffin. The arm fell out at an odd angle and Marva attempted to stuff it back in.

Flo stepped back. “That doesn't look natural.”

“It looks just fine. How would you know what a corpse looks like when it sits up anyway?” Marva asked.

“My husband was ninety-five when he died. Believe me, all he did was sit up for the last five years of his life.”

Marva looked over Flo's shoulder. She nodded my way and Flo turned. She lost her smile and clamped her lips together. Marva joined her in a frown and crossed her arms in front of her wide girth, making her breasts bunch up in strange clumps.

“What did I do now?” I asked.

Flo maintained her icy stare, but Marva had no trouble telling me. “We saw the dumpster. You're selling out.”

“I told you I was going to sell right from the very first day I came to town. That's not a surprise.”

Several other women dropped what they were doing and came to stand with Marva and Flo. Marva took that as a sign that she was in charge and widened her stance. “We thought you were going to take more time. Sell more books. That sort of thing. But you are caving in to that Reeba Sweeney faster than we can raise money. This town is going to be ruined if that pawnshop guy buys the store.

“And the next thing you know we'll have tattoo parlors and all the undesirables who sell witchcraft and drugs and violence that corrupt our kids.”

“Who do I look like, George Bailey? The town problems are not my fault.” I didn't want to point out that an attraction filled with dead bodies, serial killers, and monsters might also corrupt a few young people.

“And the books, Trudy. What about the books?” Flo added. Her eyes were filled with tears.

Flo's words surprised me. “You took boxes of books already, Flo. And I donated quite a few to the church and the hospital. There are barely any kids' books left. You all had a chance to take your share. Why are you angry about a bunch of books no one wants?”

June stepped forward. “What about the environment? I thought you were all about being green and helping save animals.”

“Animals, yes. Books, no.” I ran a hand up the back of my neck. They were being unfair. “Being vegan doesn't make me responsible for saving the world. Besides, Flo has a bait shop that sells hunting equipment.”

Flo leaned against the corpse. “That's a non sequitur. Fishing and hunting is a controlled industry. We don't do anything that would hurt our land.”

“Non-seq—? Whatever! I'm not hurting the land. The guy I ordered the dumpster from promised to send this straight to the paper recycling.”

“He's probably going to dump it in the nearest landfill.”

After meeting the driver, I wouldn't be surprised.

I didn't want to think about landfills and pawnshops and casinos. I didn't want to feel guilty. For the first time since I had arrived in Truhart, I was finally taking action. I had been wasting time. Thanks to Dr. Darlington and his secret agenda, I had moved and sorted books for weeks. And for what? Time was my price. The rainy season was almost over in Angkor Wat. I needed to get my plane tickets. Put Lulu in storage. And find a home for Moby. Then I could . . . could be happy. Right? I moved to the corpse and adjusted his arms.

Thinking about Moby made me feel like I had been punched in the gut.

I had asked several families who came into the store if they were interested in a free dog. But one look at his graying face and his slow walk and they said
no, thank you
. Nobody wanted an old dog. A cute puppy, maybe. But an old dog was too much work.

I changed the subject. “The house of horrors looks awesome. Are you ready for the opening Saturday?”

“The ghost June made fell apart and the cobwebs are drooping. Everyone is panicking.” Marva adjusted her pink glasses. “Care to help us? Or are you too busy turning over the store to a slumlord?”

I bit my tongue and joined the final preparations, thinking about the trash pile with a halfhearted longing. I could be throwing books out. But after being targeted as a wrecking ball for the town, it seemed more important to help with the final pieces of Truhart's house of horrors.

I showed June how to make a cheesecloth ghost and pumpkins out of glue and flour. The whole process was rather messy, but oddly therapeutic. The most enthusiastic participant came by to help. Elizabeth Lively rolled up her sleeves, enjoying the process way more than the average person. She wanted to make a large ghost for the center of the room. Her attempts to lay the cheesecloth on the ghost arms without letting it stick to her skin made everyone giggle. There was more glue and glop on her than on the ghost. That seemed to make her particularly happy. When J. D. Hardy stopped by and laughed at her, she smeared glue all over his cheek.

His eyes swept the room in amazement. “This is incredible. I didn't know you all had such talent.”

“Well, we had help.” Several of the women, who had looked at me so accusingly earlier, pointed my way. Marva nodded and Flo actually smiled.

I turned my focus to pulling glue out from in between my fingers. And I wondered why I cared what they thought of me.

* * *

If I hadn't been worried about cleaning out Books from Hell, boosting my bank account, or getting Kit Darlington out of my mind, I might have had a good night's sleep. The last straw was Moby's barking. He woke me up in the wee hours of the morning.

I turned over and looked at the clock. 6:30. It was still dark outside. Where had the late nights and even later mornings from my previous life gone?

I rolled out of bed and pulled on an old pair of sweatpants and my tapestry coat and made my way downstairs. Moby sat at the back door whining and scratching to be let out. I opened the door and he let out a deep woof and ran into the alley.

“Oomph!” A muffled grunt came from outside.

The horizon was beginning to glow in a deep red color that probably meant something, if I understood the weather. Outlined in the glow was the ridiculous-looking form of a man trying to scale the dumpster like Spiderman.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Kit looked over his shoulder and swung a leg up and over the top of the ledge. “What does it look like I'm doing?”

“Dumpster diving.”

“Is that what you Americans call it?”

“Yes. And whether it is in British or American, it's illegal when you are on my property.”

“Well, here's the thing: I double-checked and the fact is, this is public property.”

“No it's not. You're bluffing.” I moved to stand at his feet. “I'm calling the mayor to find out.”

“I hope he doesn't mind your bothering him this early in the morning after the football game on the telly last night.”

“Football's on television on Monday nights.”

“It's America. Football's bloody on every night this time of year.”

“Fine, I'll call the sheriff's department. Someone is likely to be working.”

Kit turned on his flashlight and illuminated a wide smile across his face. “Suit yourself. But chances are some deputy is asleep in his car and won't appreciate the early-morning call. Or worse, it could be J. D. Hardy. Rumor is he sent a man down a counter like a bowling ball just for bothering him a few months ago.”

“That's not the real story, and you know it.”

He clicked his tongue. “Feel free to test his temper. Call.”

I hugged my arms across myself. The wind was calm, but a bitter chill was in the air. Sunrise would likely show frost on the field behind Kit.

He threw each leg over the edge of the dumpster, sitting on the top and assessing the next step. Then he jumped. I heard a loud bump and another curse under his breath.

“Sorry about the dog poop,” I yelled. “It really is the most convenient place to put it.”

“Trudy! You aren't serious, are you?”

I wasn't. But I wasn't about to tell him that. “Guess you'll find out.”

I looked at the horizon. The last thing I wanted to do was to call George Bloodworth or anyone else right now. If Kit wanted to sit out here sorting through dusty old books in the freezing cold, he could be my guest.

Moby whined at my feet, portraying a Lassie-like loyalty to Kit. That dog acted as if the professor was in the same predicament as Timmy down the well.

There was always one way to get Moby's attention. I returned to the back door and grabbed a fruit leather. “Come on, boy. Let's leave the professor drowning in doggy doo-doo and take ourselves off for a
walk
.”

That usually pepped Moby up. But I was ten yards down the alley before I realized I heard no familiar panting and scurry of the old collie. I looked back. Moby stood where I left him. I waited. Then I retraced my steps.

Moby wagged his tail and I narrowed my eyes at him. “See how you feel when I don't share my quinoa with you this afternoon.”

“Quinoa, huh?” Kit said from inside the dumpster. He popped his head up over the top. “What kind of kibble is that for a dog like you? I'll get you a big, fat steak, boy. With lots of red meat and
blood
oozing out of it.”

He said the last few words loudly on purpose. He knew that would bother me this early in the morning. I was just about to say something when he disappeared and I heard a loud bang. “Bloody hell.”

“What happened? Are you all right?”

“Bugger. I lost my footing.”

“Be careful in there, Professor. You don't strike me as someone who is particularly fr—frugal. I don't think the city has insurance for dumpster diving.”

He popped his head up over the top of the dumpster again. “Frugal?”

“Fragile—I mean . . . You know what I mean.”

He played with the words. “Fragile-fragile . . . agile?”

“
Agile
. That's what I said.”

“I thought that's what you said, love.” He grinned down at me and with his hair in disarray he looked surprisingly young. The light was getting stronger and I could see his breath vaporizing like smoke.

“I know that may come as a bit of a surprise to you, Trudy. But I am quite agile. I grew up in a very old building and I would climb all sorts of walls and turrets.”

I blocked out all the reasons why I shouldn't be standing outside in the dawn of day. He didn't talk much about himself much. I was interested. “A castle?”

“I wouldn't call it that, exactly.”

“How old was it?”

“Sixteenth century.” He disappeared and I saw a faint glow that must be his flashlight. Then I heard the dull
thunk
of books being tossed about. The dumpster served as a kind of amplifier. Kit didn't have to shout at all. I heard everything inside as if it were a soundstage.

“Was there a moat?”

“It dried up over the years.”

I sat on a small well tucked into the molding of the dumpster and crossed my legs. “So, how is it that a young man who grew up in a castle could be so interested in things in the colonies?”

“You already know that story from your research.” I heard rustling as he dug deeper into the container.

“I know some of it from a teenager's smartphone. And some from you. You were sick of all the old stuff. The scary ghosts.
Macbeth
. Things like that. You love baseball. And football. You love four-wheel drives. And a good cup of coffee.”

“What else do you need to know about me? That pretty well sums it up.”

“I know you're obsessed with Robin Hartchick. But tell me the rest. Tell me your real story.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“
Why
are you so into Robin Hartchick and finding that manuscript?”

Silence fell, and I waited.

“Did you ever have that moment when you discovered something you loved so much you knew it was your destiny?”

I thought about the travel brochure on Lulu's visor. “Yes.”

“That was me the first time I read
Spring Solstice
.” Kit was close. I pictured him leaning against the Dumpster wall behind me. “By the time I turned the last page, I felt like Robin Hartchick was speaking directly to me. He wrote about the young man who didn't belong. How he journeyed across the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to find his way in a barren forest near a rocky shore. He wrote in a voice that felt like mine.”