Halfway to You(39)
“We don’t?”
“I told you: it’s mellow.” Keith handed me a small McDonald’s bag. “Here, dinner.”
“You sure know how to spoil a girl,” I said, plucking out a fry. The salt awoke my hunger, and I crammed more fries into my mouth.
Weeks ago, in New York, had been the first time I’d seen Keith since Greece. I’d worried it would be awkward between us, but the book had long ago broken the thin layer of ice that had frozen between us after my departure from Santorini. He hadn’t come along on the full tour; his visits coincided with other in-person client meetings—the brilliant but alcoholic debut author in San Francisco, the stony mystery writer in Boston, the odd essayist in Charlotte—but Denver was different. Like me, he had been raised in Colorado.
After devouring the burger, I asked, “Where are we headed?” He’d merged onto the highway, and it was clear we were leaving the city.
Keith confirmed my suspicion: “My childhood neighborhood. It has a charming bookstore. You’ll love it.”
In a slight panic, I asked, “You couldn’t just show me this bookstore, rather than forcing me to read there?”
“Why miss an opportunity to sell books?”
“You sound like Kim,” I said, crumpling my McDonald’s bag. The greasy food was quickly turning sour in my stomach. “I’m not about to meet your whole family, am I?”
Keith chuckled. “No, I wouldn’t spring that on you.”
“Then—”
“No more questions. You’ll see when we get there.” He reached for the radio. Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” came through the speakers, and we both hummed along. I could practically feel the Aegean breeze on my face, when the three of us had sung the same lyrics while gazing out over the caldera. The memory sat in the car as tangibly as a person in the back seat.
An hour later, we pulled into a parking space along a sleepy street lined with cute shops and quaint restaurants. Humid July air clung to my arms and thighs, the thick wind lazily wafting the hem of my dress. A chiseled mountain—or rather a hill, by Colorado’s standards—loomed over the walkable main drag. We were in some suburb of the Springs, though I didn’t recognize it. Too middle class for my childhood. I shouldered my bag and walked beside Keith down the clean sidewalk.
The bookstore was not far. A black awning with scalloped edges shaded the storefront, and a sandwich board boasted my name:
ANN FAWKES BOOK SIGNING TONIGHT!
The doorway was framed by bay windows. Behind the warped glass, old library ladders had been repurposed as display bookshelves, one on each side. High in the left window hung a delicate lantern painted like the sun, with yellow swirls and a serene burnt-orange face; the right window featured a moon lantern and many string lights. A small decal on the front door announced DREAMER BOOKSTORE. A dream, indeed.
Keith turned the doorknob, and I forgot all my woes. Antique chandeliers provided buttery light by which to read, with plush chairs tucked into gaps and corners. The walls were adorned with beautiful murals: a book-shaped boat riding a tempestuous sea swell, a small girl reaching toward a star from atop a massive stack of hardbacks, a leafy jungle with vines spelling out words like wonder and journey. The bookshelves were not the standard cheap-looking uniform frames but sturdy repurposed wood in odd shapes and heights. The bookstore was a place of whimsy and adventure. A book lover’s dream—the opposite of the major chains that had been the backbone of my tour.
I veered away from Keith, following a narrow aisle of literary fiction that led to the back of the store. A cluster of folding chairs had been set up in a half moon around a podium painted to resemble newsprint. People were already filtering in, chatting quietly in their seats. A modest display of Chasing Shadows had been set up on a side table, prominent but not flashy.
My spirits lifted. This was the first place at which I truly felt excited to read—and how could I not? It was all bookish charm.
“Ann,” Keith said, waving for my attention at the far end of a row.
I backtracked, heading his way. “I hate to admit it, but you were right. This place is wonderful.”
Keith smiled—not smug, but knowing. “I want you to meet the owner before we get started,” he said, leading me toward the checkout desk.
When the man behind the counter turned around, the grease of my fast-food dinner clambered up my esophagus. I made a garbled noise, half gag and half gasp.
“Copper,” Todd said. “I’m so glad you came.”
ANN
Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA
July 1987
I despised how easily the sight of Todd could electrocute my calm. It had been years—years—since I’d last seen him. How far had I traveled? How many men had shared my bed? Somehow time had no effect on my shame and desire. It all came rushing back in an instant.
Todd produced a bouquet of flowers from somewhere behind the front desk. “These are for you.”
I took them, my senses still short-circuiting. Up close, Todd appeared better than ever: bigger muscles, brighter complexion, new frames for his glasses. He stood a little taller too. I glanced at Keith, my breath stolen by shock; he was grinning like an idiot.
I couldn’t process it.
I swung my attention to something more palatable: the flowers. I leaned into the bouquet, the petals kissing my cheeks as I inhaled. The fragrance was a pleasant, sweet green. For a moment I felt safe with my head buried in the stems.