The Bookseller(10)

“Katharyn?”

“Yes?”

“Is that all right? That I didn’t serve?”

I didn’t say anything for a few seconds. And then I replied, “Well, it hardly sounds like you could have done anything about it.” I laughed lightly. “Tell me more about being an architect.”

“I tend toward commercial projects,” he said. “Office buildings and the like. Not as glamorous as residential work, but there is more demand for it. So many houses are prefabricated these days, the same layout over and over. I’d love to design and build my own house someday, make it one of a kind.” He sighed, and I could hear the longing in his voice. He went on to tell me about the architectural firm he was thinking of starting on his own. “I know as much as the bosses at my current firm,” he explained. “The only difference between what they do and what I do is the name on the doorplate and the amount on the pay stub.”

“Well, good for you,” I replied, and I meant it. I admired him for wanting to branch out on his own. I knew from my own experience, mine and Frieda’s, that even thinking about going out on a limb like that is not the easiest thing to do.

The conversation went on for over an hour. Finally, I said it was getting late. “This has been truly wonderful,” Lars said. “I’d love to speak with you again, Katharyn.”

I hesitated a moment, and then I said, “Oughtn’t we just to meet? It seems silly to keep talking on the telephone. We ought to just meet in person and see how things go.”

“Really?” He seemed surprised.

“Of course.”

“Well, then, Katharyn, let’s make a date.” We made a date to have coffee two evenings hence.

“All right, then,” he said after our plans were finalized. “I guess this is good-bye for now.”

“I guess it is.”

“Katharyn . . .”

I paused, and then said, “Yes?”

His voice was soft. “Nothing . . . I just . . . I’m really looking forward to meeting you.”

“I’m looking forward to it, too.”

He didn’t answer. I could hear his breathing; it sounded a bit rapid. “Is there anything else?” I asked.

Slowly, he said, “No, I . . . no, I suppose not. Good night.”

“Good night,” I replied. And we both hung up.


I hold the letters, the papers, the file folder. I sit in my desk chair, staring out the window. My lips are pressed together. A little hot burst of anger forms under my skin.

Because that was it.

He never showed up for our date.





Chapter 3


Of course, it’s all just silly. I imagine things like that happen all the time. Dating through the personal ads was a bumpy business. I learned the hard way that there are a lot of strange birds out there—men who might sound perfectly normal in letters, even on the telephone, but get in the same room with them, and you realize that something is off. Maybe they have no notion of what it means to be a gentleman. Maybe they have a girl already. Maybe they think they want to be attached, but what they really want is to be able to tell their mother or sister or whoever that they are trying. But deep down, they just want to be left alone. The last thing they want is a steady gal—or, heaven forbid, a wife.

So I was disappointed, but not all that surprised, when I sat alone in that coffee shop eight years ago, dutifully drinking my coffee, waiting it out for fifteen minutes, twenty, thirty-five. Through the plate-glass window, I people-watched. Couples strolled by, old ladies with little dogs on rhinestone-studded leashes, mothers with chunky infants in prams. I wondered if Lars was sitting in his car across the street, hunched down, watching me. I guessed that he could be deciding based solely on my looks—which weren’t all that bad, I told myself rather contritely; just that afternoon I had gotten my hair done, and I’d spent extra time on my lipstick—that it wasn’t worth squandering an hour of his time to have coffee with me.

Finally, two refills later and my coffee cup again empty, I stood. I pulled on my coat and walked out the door with my head held high. I put a bright, brave smile on my face. If he was watching, I wanted to be sure he knew that I didn’t care.


After dinner, I spend an hour stripping the masking tape from my bedroom’s windows and baseboards. I pull up the newspapers from the floor, rehang the curtains and shades, and consider moving the furniture by myself, ultimately deciding that it’s not worth the effort. Instead, I climb into bed and fall instantly into a dark, initially dreamless sleep.

And then I am there. In the green-wallpapered bedroom. Grayish morning light filters in, and through the patio doors I can see that again small flakes of snow are falling. Does it always snow in this place?

Lars and I are spooning, his right arm around me. I can feel the solid weight of his forearm on my waist, his warm breath on my neck.

I turn slightly to look at him. Who are you? I ask him in my head, afraid to speak aloud and wake him. What am I doing here with you?

As if I have spoken, he opens his dazzling blue eyes. “Good morning, love,” he says, turning my face toward him so we can kiss. His kiss is warm and instantly familiar. I feel as if I have been kissing him daily for years.

“Good morning,” I murmur. It feels so good; I want to enjoy this for as long as I can.