Fuck this shit.
Deflated, I stick the antique key into the lock of my formerly pristine glass door. I step inside and shake the morning fog off of me. I turn on the heat and fill up my trusty pail full of hot soapy water. Apparently, the local kids think it's funny to egg my business every Friday. And apparently, it's difficult for the local police to find out who keeps doing it in this town of 1500 people.
I can feel the muffled giggles of the passing cars as I'm once again found on my hands and knees in 35 degree weather, scrubbing egg yolks off my little bookshop's glass windows. It seems like I'm the only one who doesn't find this funny.
Once I'm finished, I step back inside and relish in the warm air. I flip on all the lights and watch my little store glow to life. I go about my opening tasks: fluff the pillows on the leather chairs, set the coffee maker brewing, count the money in the register, etc. Finally, I'm ready to open. I flip the sign and resign myself to another empty day.
After reading at the front register for 2 hours, I head back into the office to take another look at my finances. I don't need to. I already know what they are going to say. I only have enough funds to keep this going for another two months. After that, I have to close.
I'm not sure what I expected when I moved here. I think the romantic idea of opening a bookstore in a seaside town had a stronger hold over me than my good sense.
As I finish up the last of the coffee pot that I technically brewed for customers, I hear the door bell chime and the muffled sound of footsteps on my welcome mat. A customer? Here?
I walk out of my office and find an empty main floor. I look upstairs and see the silhouette of a real life human being browsing the shelves. I stop dead in my tracks, hesitant, like they're a skittish horse and if I make any sudden movements they'll disappear.
"Let me know if you need anything!" I say in my best sing-songy voice, sitting down at the register. Nobody likes a hovering sales person, as overwhelming as my curiosity may be.
After about twenty minutes of browsing, an elegant older lady drifts down the stairs carrying a book. I stare at her, smiling, waiting for her to say something first.
"Thank you for opening this darling bookshop. This town has needed something like this for a long time." She says to me, putting her graceful hand on the register's glass counter.
"It's truly my pleasure, it's been my dream for a long time to open something like this."
"I can tell. You truly put your heart and soul into it." She smiles at me and then continues to browse the main floor, picking up books, reading the back, and then placing them gingerly back in their spot. After about 20 more minutes of this, she gives me a radiant smile and walks out the door.
I'm so dazzled that it takes me far longer than it should to realize that she still held a book in her hand as she left. In a panic, I rush out the door and look around. She's long gone.
Of course. The first customer to ever walk through my door isn't a customer at all, just an old kleptomaniac who tricked me.
I lock the front door and flip the sign to closed. My accountant may say I have two months more of remaining open, but do I honestly have it in me? Do I even care anymore? This town doesn't want me here. The real estate agent even seemed to roll her eyes when I closed on my house. Why am I even bothering?
I trudge up the stairs and inspect the area. I browse my depressingly full shelves. I run my fingers along the spines of some of my favorite books and tears begin to roll down my face. When I reach the back of the upstairs loft, I crumple to the ground sobbing, feeling the weight of my wasted dreams upon me. I lay back against the shelves, my knees tucked in as my sobs rock my whole body. Eventually, my body has no more tears to give and I lay down on the ground, emotionally exhausted. I wipe my nose on my long cotton sleeve, too upset to actually care about how disgusting that is and finally sit back up. As I massage my eyes, I notice the empty spot where a book once sat.
My curiosity gets the best of me and move to see what book it was. It was in the local history section on the very bottom shelf. I remember inheriting these books from the attic, cleaning them off and flipping through the pages before putting them in the pile for sale. I try racking my brain for the book that used to live there, before I remember. It was about the local fishing industry, the past and present ways this area made its living off of the sea. I couldn't begin to understand what was so compelling about this book that would warrant a woman like that to steal it.
With an anxious kind of curiosity, I stand up and dust myself off. I grab the hook from behind a shelf and pull down the ladder to the attic. Pushing away ancient cobwebs from the 1860’s, I find where I left the pile of old books and check to see if I had another copy. Sure enough, right on top was the book I was searching for: Seafaring in North Farrisland 1725 to Present. It was written by a man named Norman McLarney, a local historian teaching at a regional college, about 20 miles inland from here. It was one of those books no one expects to be read. It had small font, rough pages and pixelated black and white photos (when it bothered to have any at all). Holding the book in my hands did nothing to ease my confusion and I decided to just give up on the day.
I walk downstairs, grab my coat and lock up, noticing the comforting feel of the key turning in the old lock, relishing in its soft click. I knew I didn’t have much longer with it. Halfway to my car I decide to head to the local diner and grab some food instead. It was probably only 3pm, so it had to be quiet. I never got the feeling I was welcomed by the patrons, but the waitstaff were always at least neutral towards me. As I step through the threshold, I contemplate leaving my coat on, to avoid the embarrassment of people seeing my mascara and snot filled shirt, but in the end decide to get comfortable. I won’t see these people ever again in a month, so who cares?
I sit down at a booth as far away from the fray as I possibly can and look at the menu conveniently waiting for me at the table.
“What do you want?” A teenage boy asks me gruffly.
“What?” I ask, affronted.
“To eat? That’s why you came in here, right?” He rolls his eyes.
“Oh. Yes. A cheeseburger with onion rings, side of ranch and an iced tea.”
“Cool.” He finishes scribbling it down on his notepad and walks away, somehow managing to convey boredom just in his walk. One of those teenage feats I haven’t been able to replicate since I turned 20. Ten minutes later, a woman who looks about my age comes over with my order.
“He wasn’t too rude was he?” She asks me, setting the plate in front of me.
“Oh. He was fine.”
“You’re lying, but I appreciate it. He doesn’t like that I make him work on Saturdays.” She gives the same eye roll he did, but hers has a hint of mischief.
“Do you own this place?”
“Sure do, for my sins.” she gives an exhausted laugh that I was more familiar with than I want to be.
“How? I mean…” I start attempting to explain myself, but she stops me with her hand. She gives me a sympathetic look.
“Oh honey. You look exhausted. That bookstore is really taking it out of you, huh?”
“Is it that obvious?” She looks at my shirt and raises her eyebrows. I let out a resigned giggle. “Fair enough.”
“It’ll get better. People are really resistant to newcomers from Boston trying to change this place. We’ve dealt with it a lot, especially in the last couple of years. And in fairness to the rest of us, I think this is the most I’ve ever spoken to you.”
I sit with that for a moment, my normal instinct to argue tempered by exhaustion. I smile at her and she walks away with a soft pat on my shoulder. I feel like I should be bristling more, but I’m not. Probably because she is right. I start to munch on my onion rings, relishing in their crunchy, oily goodness. It had been awhile since I had allowed myself to eat something so greasy, the voices of my past typically ringing in my head to stop. I take a slow bite of the burger before allowing myself to tear into it. Before I even realize, the whole meal is gone. Normally, I’d feel bad about that, thinking about how my mom had taught me to always chew each bite a thousand times, or how Nathan used to sneer at me if I ate too much. My old life demanded perfection, this empty plate and stained shirt is the embodiment of the opposite. I prepared myself for a self-hatred that never came.
“Did you enjoy that?” She asks as she balances the plate on her arm.
“It was so good.”
“I’m so glad, I hope you come again sometime.” She turned to walk away.
“Hey, wait. I had a woman come into my shop and take a book from me. I assume it was a mistake, but I was curious if you knew anything about it?” Her eyebrow furrowed.
“Can you describe her?”
“Oh yes. She had grey hair, put up in a french twist, a long black wool coat, modest black pumps, a camel toned cashmere scarf. Honestly, she looked like Kim Novak in Vertigo, but older. Maybe 70. She was really nice too.” Her eyebrow furrowed even more. “I take that to mean you don’t recognize the description.”
“No, I do. But it’s impossible.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She sounds exactly like my grandmother, Helen. But, she died a year ago, about a month before you arrived. No one else in town matches that description.” Now my eyebrow furrowed.
“Well that’s impossible. This woman was definitely alive.”
“Must have been a tourist. Do you know which book was stolen?”
“Yes, a local one. Seafaring in North Farrisland 1725 to Present, I have it with me.” Her eyebrows furrowed again. I pulled the book out of my bag and showed it to her. She put the plates aside, sat down and flipped through the pages until she landed on a chapter towards the back of the book. She skimmed it and looked back up to me.
“That's weird. This chapter talks extensively about the accident in the 1970’s.”
“Accident?”
“Yeah, it sort of marked the end of viable commercial fishing here. The town was already changing to a more tourism based economy, but it was the shock that finished the job. A fishing trawler went out and a freak storm came through. No one knows exactly what happened, but it’s assumed the boat sunk. It basically destroyed the town. One of those moments where everyone was impacted somehow. My grandfather’s brother was out there, he never really got over it.”
“That’s awful. Why would that be weird though?”
“My grandmother was obsessed with figuring out what happened. If she were going to steal a book, it would be this one.”
“Huh.”
“It must all be a coincidence though. Probably just me wishing she could come back. I miss her.” I gave her a soft smile and put my hand on top of hers. She looked up at me and I could tell she was holding back tears. She pushed the book back towards me. “Good luck figuring out who stole this though.”
“I think it’s a lost cause. I don’t think I would even care if she weren’t the first person to come into the shop.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
“We’re going to have to change that now, aren’t we?” And with that, she was back: her dazzling diner owner persona shining through. I notice the resemblance between my thief and this woman. It is difficult to shake the idea that maybe, just maybe, the woman who stole the book actually could be the same woman who brought tears to this kind woman’s eyes.
---
When I arrive home, I quickly settle in front of my laptop to see if I can make sense of the puzzle pieces. After trying a few search terms, I finally happened upon a digitized 60's news clipping of a wedding announcement. The included photo looked eerily like the woman I met: Helen Leady, née Winnebaker. She was wearing a bridal gown, smiling radiantly next to a man named Colin Leady. I recognized the last name from the town, there was a Leady Street and the library was named the Leady Memorial Library. After digging into the name, I learned that they had been the owners of the fishery before it shut down in the 80’s. The family lost most of its fortune, but were still respected in the town, having invested in shops and restaurants to serve the new economy. More clippings talked about the loving couple: birth announcements, christenings, the weddings of their children, etc. It painted a story of a lovely life.
It was her death announcement that stopped me though. The picture next to the obituary was the exact description of the woman who came into my bookstore, right down to the scarf. I briefly questioned my sanity: it was almost cliché to move to a New England seaside town and then start seeing the ghost of an old rich lady. But, I was prepared to accept it. I came here broken, I wasn’t surprised there was evidence of that break. I shut down my laptop and decided to try to sleep.
---
In the morning I went back to my bookshop. I smiled at the clean glass as I put the key into the lock. As I turned to close the door behind me, I see Cynthia, the diner owner, wave at me from across the street. I smile widely and wave back. Instead of my normal opening routine, I just flip the sign to open and go back up to the loft, curious if there are any other books that might offer up a clue to yesterday’s mystery. Sitting on the floor, I flip through the other history books until I land on another book by Norman McLarney: A Self-Indulgent History of the McLarneys. I giggled and opened to the introduction:
It is not lost upon me the absurdity of writing and publishing the history of one’s own family. Perhaps the idea of giving a history professor access to a university’s printing press is a foolish one. We’re not known for brevity. Or making logical career decisions. But bear with me for the time it takes to finish this book. Because I believe my family’s story is an interesting one. But also, a boring one, since it is similar to everyone else’s stories. Perhaps that’s what makes history so fascinating. The similarities in our differences. If you finish this book and still marvel at the buffoonery of this self-indulgent drivel, I respect that. But, maybe you’ll see something of your own past in this, and will appreciate how our stories can tie us all together.
I read the whole thing while sitting in the spot, held fast to his engaging writing style. This is nothing like his previous book: it is light, funny, and emotional. His grandfather was a fisherman in North Farrisland, a hardy man unlike many we see today. Norman had never gotten to meet him, but the book revered his legacy. He had died in the sea that fateful day, alongside an older brother figure to Norman’s father. His grandfather was the only person to get a message back to the mainland, a mayday call answered by Norman’s father: “Tell Helen I’m sorry. I failed. I failed her. I failed him.” Norman’s father didn’t get a chance to respond before the line went dead. Norman had this to say:
My father wasn’t sure what was meant by this message or who Helen was supposed to be, but he knew enough to keep this message from his mother. My father almost died with this secret. I have since figured out who Helen was, but her story is not mine to tell. I’m not sure how all the pieces fit, but I’m comfortable with understanding that I’m not meant to. Loved ones don’t always need to be understood. In fact, as long as we’re comfortable with the love we have for each other, maybe its better we don’t. What we can infer is that we should live freely, for too many have sacrificed their own truths so that we can have the freedom to live ours.
I sit with the book open for a moment and then softly close it. As the pages finally come to a rest beside each other, I hear the door open and the bell chime. I smile, dust myself off, and get up to greet them.
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