The Bookshop on Autumn Lane (4 page)

The old collie had taken to Kit. He sniffed his private parts.

“Hi girl.” Kit patted his head and tried to redirect his nose.

“Boy.”

“Sorry.”

“Everyone does that because he is so pretty.”

“What's his name?” He stroked an apparent sensitive spot behind the dog's ear. I was almost jealous as I watched the dog melt in his large hands.

“He doesn't have a name.”

“That's odd.”

Kit returned his attention to the books. He reached down, stacking them into neat little piles. He seemed on edge as he straightened the books at an inhuman speed. Maybe he really was a librarian.

“Are you looking for something?” I moved closer and kicked a large book—with a picture of Martha Stewart on the cover—out of my way.

“No. No—yes, actually.” He stopped and adjusted his collar. “Sorry. I should have explained earlier. When I saw the books littered in the alley, I couldn't help myself. Are they yours?”

“Not if I can help it.” I tilted my head and read the spine of the book he held. It took me a moment to make out the words.
“Naked Birds and Antelopes?”

“You mean
Native Birds of North America
?”

I felt heat creep to my face. “Hmm. You like that stuff?”

“Yes. Especially books on literature . . .” He blinked. “And uh . . . things about the region. Logging. Local customs . . . famous authors.” He searched my face. “Even ornithology like this,” he added weakly.

A long, tangled strand of hair was dripping down my neck. I flipped my head back and forth to get rid of the excess moisture. “Or-nith—what was that?”

“Ornithology. The study of birds.” He said it as if I should know the word.

“Oh.” I couldn't hide the disappointment in my voice. Nothing like a discussion on birds and books to cut off my estrogen.

He was handsome in a very Britishy sort of way. But a bit of a weeny, after all. I wasn't one to judge, of course. But my personal preference ran to cars and engines and anything that I could explore without the need for a manual. Usually men who liked that stuff came with tattoos and bulging muscles.

His eyelids lowered to where my towel had slipped. Was that fog on his glasses? Or maybe he was trying to figure out if he would make it out of this place alive. Since it was clear there was no danger of him being a serial killer, I nodded my head toward the stairs. “Come on upstairs. You can take anything you want. I'm guessing Aunt Gertrude saved the best books for her own apartment.”

He followed me up the wooden steps. My towel wasn't the fluffy kind that reached the knees. It was the standard “one size fits all” from the dollar store. I was well aware that I was somewhat exposed to the man behind me. I didn't care about my nudity, but goose bumps broke out on the backs of my arms anyway. I was probably just cold. Still, was he peeking? I turned my head sharply. The top of his head and the back of his neck were all that was visible as he concentrated on each step.

I waved my hand when we reached the top of the steps. “Here we are.”

He stepped in front of me and took in the view. He passed his hand over his eyes. His cheeks were ruddy and red. I'd never seen someone so excited about books. Yep. I was definitely safe with him.

“I'm pretty sure I saw several books with birds on the cover near the window. Go ahead and look. Take anything you see. I'll finish getting dressed,” I said, unwrapping my towel and grabbing my suitcase. I was bothered by my virginal reaction on the stairs. Just to prove I was still the same “Anything Goes Trudy” my San Francisco friends called me, I left the door to the bathroom open as I changed. I heard Kit Darlington clearing his throat and then the unmistakable sound of books and clutter being moved about.

“What brings you here?” I pulled on my dollar-store panties with pink pandas all over them. There was a pause and I wondered if he heard me. “What are you doing in Truhart?”

“Research.”

“Really? On birds?”

Another silence. “Ahhh . . . that and more.” He sneezed.

“Are you allergic to dogs?” I stepped into my leggings.

“Dust.”

“Sorry. Everything in this place is dusty. It's been sitting for almost a year.” I slipped my arms into an oversized olive-green tunic I bought at a secondhand shop in New York a few years ago. He sneezed again.

“If you want, I can see if Aunt Gertrude has some apple cider.” I combed my fingers through my damp hair and moved into the main room.

He wasn't where I had left him. He was scrutinizing a pile of books under the table in the living area. He jumped and turned with a guilty look on his face.

“I thought I saw another bird book.” He had nothing in his hands. “Apple cider, did you say?” His tone was so polite I wanted to offer him tea and crumpets. What was it with the English? They were so proper it made you lift your pinky finger and straighten your posture when you were around them.

I smoothed the front of my shirt. “Apple cider. You can mix it with water and drink it three times a day. It helps all the mucous and stuff that come with allergies.”

“I have an antihistamine for allergies.”

“Those aren't good for you, you know. All those chemicals are bad for your body. At the very least you should use a neti pot.”

I moved close and turned my back to him. “Do you mind?”

“Mind what?”

“Can you button that top button in back? It's so much easier when I have someone to help me.”

I lifted my wet hair and felt his warm hands at the base of my neck. That same rush I felt on the stairs traveled down my back. Only this time it didn't feel like goose bumps. It felt like velvet.

I stepped away and turned toward him. I could see a smattering of blond hair on his lower arms where he had rolled up his sleeves in perfect folds that must have taken many years of practice. I shouldn't be attracted to him at all. He was way too clean-cut. But he wasn't totally nerdy. The deep blue eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses and the square jaw that needed a shave proved that. I giggled. I was being ridiculous. I mean, he was into birds!

An old boyfriend of mine had been into birds too. Our last day together he told me he was going for a walk in the woods. He returned holding a gun and a half-dozen sparrows upside down as if they were weeds. He made fun of my horror and claimed they were the rats of the sky. It still made my blood run cold to think I had slept with the man.

I narrowed my eyes. “What exactly do you like about birds?”

“Birds? Ah . . . I am fascinated by birds. Specific ones that are . . . native to this area.”

“Really? You mean like where they can be found so you can shoot them or like their mating rituals and stuff?”

“I don't own a gun or shoot anything. And I always find mating rituals fascinating.” His eyes wandered to the front of my sweater. I hadn't bothered with a bra. There was nothing there. I was almost as flat as he was.

He coughed.

“You better be careful with those allergies, Kit.” I pulled my hair into a loose knot.

He moved to the back window and cleared his throat. “Is that your car outside?”

“Yup. That's Lulu.”

“Lulu?”

“She's a classic.”

He put his hand over his mouth, but I could see a smile. “You named your car but not your dog?”

“Well, he's not really my dog. And Leo named the car. A long time ago.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Brother.” Leo had been gone for several years and thinking about my only sibling still made my chest hurt.

“What are you going to do with all of this?” He studied every piece of junk in the room. Even a basket with papers falling out. He lifted the stack and peeked between the sheets.

“When I first saw this mess, I briefly considered calling that TV show about hoarders to come over and check it out. But I'm pretty sure that will take more time than I actually have.”

“Time?”

“Yup. It's all going in the trash as soon as I get a dumpster here.”

His head jerked up.
“What?”
He backed up against a large pile of books, almost falling over. “Do you mean you are throwing all these books away?”

“That's the plan.”

“You are going to take them by the handful and toss them?” He uttered each word separately. His tall frame blocked the sunlight from the window. With the light coming behind him, he reminded me of my father when I left vegetables on my dinner plate.

Out of habit I stood up straighter. “Yes.” The word
sir
had been on the tip of my tongue.

But the mirage ended when Kit sank down until he was sitting on a book stack. “Let me understand this, Trudy. You want to throw all the books in this bookshop away?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I had the urge to apologize for disappointing him. “I know it isn't PC. That's
politically correct
, in case you don't have that term in England. Everyone loves the idea of bookstores and the nostalgic memories of getting lost in the stacks and reading Nancy Hardy or the Drews or”—his face was blank—“or whatever kids liked in England when you grew up. And I know how romantic bookstores are in movies. But I can't afford the walk down memory road.”

“Because?”

“Because I have a building to sell. And a trip to Asia to plan. Books don't sell anymore. Everyone knows that.”

“That isn't technically true.”

“I spent the summer here fourteen years ago. We had no more than ten people who regularly shopped in this place.” I paused and thought about it. “I guess I should be fair. I never hung around long enough to take notice. And this town isn't exactly Boston. Have you seen the other buildings on Main Street? Nothing sells in this town unless it has an engine and runs on dirt, snow, or water.”

“I hear they're trying to change things.”

“Are they still talking about a community center? They were talking about that fourteen years ago.”

Adjusting his position, he pulled a book from beneath him. He checked out the title and opened the first page, then set it aside. “Exactly what do you have against books?”

“Nothing. They make great seats.”

He stood up and grabbed a book from an overflowing laundry basket. “Why the rush? I mean, there are probably some splendid books in this space.”

“I thought about that. But most of these books are used. There isn't much value in this place except for the property it sits on.” Even that was sketchy, judging by the empty buildings on Main Street.

His gaze floundered around the room, as if he were having a panic attack. Poor guy. A sensitive type. He ran a hand over his chin. “Wasn't there a—a famous author who used to live around here?”

“Who cares about that old dude?”

“A lot of—” He lowered his chin and stopped himself. “You should consider other options. Charities are always looking for books. And there are surely other uses for them.”

“Finding a home for everything here would take months.”

“Not really. It's all the things that aren't books that are causing the biggest eyesore.” His voice was husky now. He had moved closer as we talked. A hint of cologne mixed with something else was making me want to lick him. If heat had an aroma, that was the other ingredient I smelled.

I shook my head and stepped away. “No. I want it cleared out quickly. Then I can sell it.”

“What's the rush?”

“Travel. Life. It's all waiting for me.”

He didn't respond. His glasses were in his hand and he was scanning the disintegrating volume that had broken apart in his hand. He rifled through several loose papers, the smile gone from his face.

“Everything all right?”

He mumbled something to himself.

“Earth to Kit?” I said again.

His blue eyes darted my way and I was struck by their intensity. A gust of wind sent the curtains billowing and knocked over the broom. As suddenly as the breeze came up, it disappeared.

Kit blinked, coming back from where he had been a moment ago. He walked over and righted the broom.

“Thank you. I'm going to get settled this afternoon and start cleaning out again tomorrow.”

Kit gazed around with the same hungry expression the dog did when I unwrapped my fruit leather earlier. I took pity and offered him a crumb. “Feel free to stop by any time before I empty this place. You see a book you want? It's yours.”

He put a finger to his lip. “I might do that.”

He was almost at the bottom of the stairs when I called down to him. “Hey!”

He turned around.

“You forgot your bird books.” I held out several that he had put aside earlier.

“Oh yes, of course.” He ran up the steps and took them from me. “I almost forgot.”

The sound of his footsteps going back down the back stairs were slow and deliberate. He took his time leaving. When I heard the back door close, I peeked out the window and caught him looking in the trash again.

Academics were such obsessive sorts. In love with the written word. Too bad. The dog leaned against my leg. His companionship was much more my style. Limited vocabulary. Simple needs.

Beyond the alley came a sweetly captivating melody. A tiny yellow-breasted bird flapped its wings from where it was perched on a low-lying jack-pine branch. It was beautiful with its bright-colored breast and a dark mask around its eyes. I checked to see if Kit had seen it. But he was looking down at the books at his feet.