Repeat(21)

“I’m sure she’ll be delighted with them,” says Frances, barely holding back a grin. “But she doesn’t know who you are.”

The woman raises her brows. “What?”

She holds out her hand for shaking. “I’m Frances, her sister. Clem was attacked a month back and sustained some damage to her frontal lobe. She has amnesia.”

“No.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

I lift my bangs to flash the scar at her. It makes for great evidence.

Immediately, the woman’s jaw drops. “Holy cow.”

“That’s part of why we’re here,” explains Frances. “Revisiting places to see if anything’s familiar to her. Figuring out parts of her life. You know.”

“Goodness . . . I don’t know what to say.” She huffs out a breath, her shoulders slumping. She seems so gutted by my misfortune. So genuine. “Honey, I’m sorry that happened to you. I’m Iris, by the way. You’ve been coming here for years, ever since you started working in the bank on Spring Street. You’re one of my best customers and, well, I like to think we’re friends too.”

I lift my hand in greeting. “Hi, Iris. Nice to meet you.”

“Did they catch the son of a bitch who did this to you?”

“Not yet,” says Frances, her voice hardening. “But we will.”

“Good. We need coffee, that’s what we need.” Iris gets busy with a collection of mugs and the coffeepot sitting on a side table. “Take a seat, girls. Get comfortable. Sounds like we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Can I help?” I ask.

“No. Sit.”

I do as told and so does Frances.

The bookstore has a large arched front window, the walls lined with shelving. In the middle of the space is a big table covered in haphazard stacks of books. A comfy-looking red sofa, a couple of wingback chairs, and an ottoman. Over against the right-hand wall is a high old-fashioned counter. Lord knows how long this place has been here. The air of permanence, the scent of paper and ink is real. It’s a great shop.

“I had good taste in hangout places,” I say, looking around.

Frances laughs. “Oh you’re owning this one, are you?”

“What?”

“Please,” Frances says, her legs crossed, foot bopping. “You’ve been constantly down on the first twenty-five years of your life. Apart from Ed, maybe. You seem okay with having been there and done that.”

“Well, he’s a very pretty man,” I say. “Besides, you try having a lifetime’s worth of choices dumped on you with little to no explanation available as to why you did the things you did. I feel sorry for me.”

“I’ve noticed.”

I smile. Either my sister’s dry sense of humor is rubbing off on me or the halfhearted bitching at each other feels a lot like actual affection these days. I don’t know. But I like it.

“We were in the middle of planning a monthly romance book club,” says Iris, arriving back and setting a tray down on the coffee table. “That’s why I was so surprised when you up and disappeared on me.”

“Romance?” I ask, sitting up straighter. “I didn’t realize I read that too. I’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

“I’ll make you a list, honey.”

“Thanks.”

“And where’s that big strong man of yours? He’s a fine specimen.” Iris winks at me.

“We broke up. Before the thing happened.”

“What a pity. He was always so patient when you brought him in, following you around and carrying your books for you.”

It’s a pretty picture. Ed being my bookstore beck-and-call boy. The muscles in his arms flexing as he carries around my stacks of reading material. Sounds like a perfect boyfriend. A part of me misses him. A big part of me. Or maybe it’s just the idea of him, since it’s hard to miss something you have no actual happy memories of. Hard to tell which exactly. And what with him dating other people, it’s not like my opinion of him or our previous relationship is going to matter anytime soon.

“Oh, get that look off your face,” chides Frances.

“What?”

“The sad-girl thing doesn’t suit you.”

Iris watches us with interest. “She misses him. Sometimes our hearts are wiser than our heads.”

My sister scoffs. “Don’t get her started on him. There’s a whole world of angst and bewilderment better left alone.”

“True enough,” I say.

Frances sighs. “I agree he did always seem to treat her well. Right up until he didn’t. But either way, it’s over, time to move on.”

“Still not totally convinced he cheated,” I admit.

“Nine out of ten men will be assholes given the opportunity.”

“You’re making that up.” I frown. “That can’t be scientifically proven.”

“Experience dictates . . .”

“You’re a police officer,” I object. “Your experience is bound to be skewed. After all, you’re always having to deal with the asshole contingent of the world. That’s basically your job description.”

“No,” Frances says. “My job allows me to properly see the asshole contingent of the world that everyone else would prefer doesn’t exist. That’s my job description.”