The Bookstore by Deborah Meyler

Author:Deborah Meyler [Meyler, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Adult, Contemporary
Goodreads: 16058645
Publisher: Gallery Books
Published: 2013-08-20T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It is Thursday, three forty-five. I am at The Owl prior to going on my first book call with George. The shop is full to bursting with customers. It is as if they’ve all been released in here for some sort of browsing competition; they are up the ladders, balancing on the little stools, crouching down looking at the piles on the floor. I catch sight of George; he is opening up the best cupboard for someone. It is usually kept padlocked; George and Luke are the only ones with keys. George sees me, and raises his eyebrows to show his astonishment at all this unlooked-for bounty.

He takes two or three books out of the cupboard, places them on the desk, and then takes the top one up carefully. He treats good books with as much reverence when he is alone as when he is with a customer. His solicitude for the books is genuine; I think it imbues the purchasing process with some charm. He looks down at Luke from the mezzanine.

“Luke—can you get David?”

Luke yells for David at the top of his lungs, and David appears from the back, with a pretty girl in tow who isn’t Lena.

“You getting a lot done back there?” asks Luke.

“Enough,” replies David, with an irresistible grin.

George comes down the stairs. “I have to stay here. Luke, can you go with Esme to this book call on West End? David can take over from you at the front.”

Luke glances around. “It’s fine, George. I can handle it when it’s like this. You go on the call.”

“No, I would feel happier staying here at the moment.” He makes big eyes at us to indicate that the customer upstairs might be a serious one.

“But—can Luke do this? Does he know anything about it?” I ask.

“Thank you,” says Luke.

“Luke is great at it,” says David. “You don’t know anything about him.”

George fishes in his pocket for the name and address, and goes back up the stairs. Luke and I go outside together. We wait at Broadway for the light, without speaking, and then, when we get to the other side, I say, “So—that was Mitchell. The other day.”

“Yeah,” says Luke. “That was Mitchell.”

We walk down 81st Street and turn the corner without speaking.

We get to the apartment building. The lobby is black and white tiles; the rows of mailboxes are pale gold. In the time we stand there waiting for the lift, three elderly people converge at the boxes to check their post. They greet each absently and yet formally, the one because they have obviously done this every day for years, and the other because the acquaintances began in a different age and have never developed. Mrs. Eliot, Mr. Bedel, Mrs. Begoni.

“I hope this doesn’t take long,” says Luke, when we’re in the lift.

“Didn’t you like him?” I ask.

“Who? Mitchell? I saw him for two seconds. I don’t have an opinion.”

“Right. He was upset because I wasn’t wearing my engagement ring. We’ve just got engaged.

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