The Bookish Life of Nina Hill(71)

Liz snorted. “Of course you know that.”

Nina shrugged. “I’m shocked you don’t.”

Polly had called earlier to say she was going on a job hunt in the Valley, which Nina and Liz took to mean scouting for a porn job. They talked her out of that, and she appeared a little before lunch, dressed head to toe in black.

“Did someone die, or are you auditioning for a role as an elderly Italian grandmother?” asked Liz.

“I’m in mourning for the store,” said Polly, bowing her head, although probably just to show off the elaborate French braid she had going on. She had incorporated black ribbon, and Nina was reminded of the horses that pull hearses at state funerals. This may not have been what Polly was going for, but that’s the law of unintended consequences for you.

Liz snorted. “Get to work, you two. Make the books look pretty. Smile, but look pitiful. When people ask if we’re closing, shake your head softly and suggest they buy a boxed set.”

“You want us to prey upon the pity of our customers?”

“Yes. Exactly that.”

Liz disappeared into her office and reappeared a moment later shrugging on a jacket.

“Where are you going?”

Liz headed for the door. “I’m going to go home and change into something a little more ragged.”

Over the next few days, business did pick up quite a lot, particularly as several local celebrities posted on social media and people showed up hoping to see them in the store. Failing that, they bought books and took selfies. Nina didn’t think it would be enough, but it was nice to be busy. It helped distract her from the deafening silence from Tom.

She had texted him a day or two after the Festival, just to say hi, she hoped he was OK, she was feeling better, and had he seen that the final for the Quiz Bowl had been scheduled . . . ? Bupkes. Sound of crickets. She couldn’t blame him; she’d been pretty specific that she wanted to be left alone, and she could hardly complain he was taking her at her word. But she missed him.

Polly had calmed down and was accenting her black with the occasional pop of color. She’d also been auditioning a ton and was waiting to hear back from a national commercial for flea prevention (for once, she wasn’t up for either the part of the cat or the flea, so this was progress) and a web series about a young woman taken over by the spirit of an old Jewish guy called Morty (the series was called Mortyfied, and probably shouldn’t have made it past the stoner joke it had clearly once been). Liz had been uncharacteristically quiet and spent most of her time in the back room, clearing out papers.

On the Saturday morning after the Festival, Nina did something she rarely did: She headed west. There was so little traffic in the early morning that she was in Malibu before ten, and as she rounded a corner and saw the ocean for the first time, even she could feel her spirits lift.

Eliza and Millie lived in one of those houses that didn’t seem all that impressive from the front but that kept going once you were inside. Rooms opened up, hallways turned corners, and eventually Millie led Nina to her room at the top of the house.

“Nice view,” said Nina, somewhat unnecessarily. The bedroom had one glass wall, and the floor-to-ceiling view was of the Pacific Ocean across a canyon dotted with olive trees and native California oaks.

“Yeah,” said Millie, clearly over it. “It’s pretty.”

Then Nina turned from the view and realized the entire back wall of the room was filled with shelves. It was like walking into a smaller version of her apartment; the same organization, the same careful lining up of spines. In many cases, the same books, just less heavily read.

“That’s an even better view,” she said, walking over and tilting her head to read titles. “Le Guin, excellent; Susan Cooper, yes; Ruth Plumly Thompson, nice . . .”

“I’ve read all of them,” said Millie. “The ones I haven’t read yet are by the bed.” She looked rueful. “Mom made a rule that I can only have six ‘to be read’ books at one time, otherwise she says it gets out of hand.”

“Six is a good number. And presumably once you’ve read one you can get another?”

Millie nodded. “Is that how you do it? Six at a time?”

“Basically.” Nina nodded back, although she meant shelves, rather than individual books. “Do you read books in order?”

“Yes, if there is an order. If there isn’t an order, I read them in the order of publication.” The child paused. “Sometimes, of course, the first one I read isn’t the first one they wrote, and then I feel a bit bad.”

Nina laughed. “I’ve met lots of authors at the bookstore, and I’ve never met one who cares which book of theirs you read first. They’re just glad you read one.”

“Really?”

“Definitely.”

“Do you have a favorite book?” Millie plonked herself down on the rug. There was a beanbag that had seen a lot of leaning, and a floppy rabbit that had seen a lot of coreading. Nina suddenly thought of Lili’s daughter Clare, and her dog. Maybe reading alongside someone was more comforting than she’d considered. She thought of her mom, who’d never read with her, and of Lou, who’d read with her every night. She thought of Tom. She stopped thinking.

“I have lots of favorite books, because I have lots of moods and I have a favorite book for every mood.”