Love, Death & Rare Books by Robert Hellenga

Author:Robert Hellenga [Hellenga, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504061155
Publisher: Delphinium Books
Published: 2020-02-21T15:41:07+00:00

I’d made the mistake of telling Anne-Marie—pillow talk—about the estimates from the auction houses for Grandpa Chaz’s Americana, and Anne-Marie told Reverend Sarah—the “dynamic” priest at St. Anne’s Episcopal—and Reverend Sarah told others, and by the end of the summer, Anne-Marie was not the only one who thought it was my civic obligation to open a bookstore in the old depot. Space was still available.

Mayor Toni proposed a dinner at Stefano’s—three formidable women and one formidable man, and me. Toni, Ruth MacDonald, the head of special collections at the college library, Reverend Sarah, the dynamic priest at St. Anne’s Episcopal, and Ben Warren, the former chair of the Chicago Board of Trade. Ben was a family friend, a member of the Caxton Club, and someone who knew a great deal about the rare book business, so I was sorry to learn at the last minute that he wouldn’t be able to make it.

On my way to the restaurant, outside a bar on the corner of Marquette and Indiana—the Corner Connection—I heard a woman cry out: “You can’t always get what you want.” I thought she was shouting at me, taunting me about Olivia. Her voice was high pitched but not quite a screech. “Speak for yourself,” I shouted through the open door.

Reverend Sarah was standing in front of Potts Hardware, next to the restaurant, looking at something in the window.

“Reverend Sarah,” I said. “Reverend” didn’t sound comfortable. What I knew about her, I knew from Anne-Marie, though she had paid a pastoral visit back in April to invite me to become a part of the St. Anne (Episcopal) family. “May I ask you a personal question?”

“Go ahead.”

“How did you decide on ‘Reverend’ Sarah?”

“As opposed to what?” she said. “‘Father’ Sarah? ‘Mother’ Sarah?”

“How about ‘Sister’ Sarah. That has a nice ring to it.”

“I’m not a nun. Actually, It was a choice between ‘Reverend’ and ‘Pastor.’ I chose ‘Reverend.’”

I wasn’t sure how to move the conversation forward. “I planted eight tomato plants back at the end of May,” I said. “They already have a lot of blossoms. My grandfather always said that the sandy soil in Michigan was good for tomatoes. Sandy and acidic.”

“We’ve got about twenty plants at the church,” she said.

I had a feeling that something was wrong.

“I buy all my nails and screws here,” she said, nodding at the display window. “I’m looking at the rolling tool chest. It’s beautiful, isn’t it.”

“You have to do your own repairs?”

“My father was a carpenter,” she said.

“Doesn’t the church have a custodian?” I asked.

“Yes, we’ve got one, and we’ve got a sexton too, but I like the physical work. I feel that I know what I’m doing when I’m patching drywall or changing sash weights, or putting a new door on a kitchen cabinet. I’m in my area of competence.”

“And your mother?”

“A seamstress. Made all my clothes. Now I have to do my own repairs and make my own clothes.”

“I thought they had special stores for priests’ clothes.”

She laughed. “Not if you want a blouse with breast darts or curved panels.

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