The Bookseller(36)
Missy shakes her head. “Silly, silly Mama,” she says, reaching forward and affectionately patting my shoulder. “Did you really forget? Daddy came home from work early today, so you could take Mitch and me shoe shopping.” She releases my shoulder and leans back in her seat. “Everything is fine, Mama,” she reassures me gently. “Michael is safe at home, with Daddy.”
Chapter 12
Heavens, how disturbing,” I tell Aslan when I awake. “It’s nice to be back here, where everything makes sense.” Aslan looks at me blankly, then stands, turns twice, and settles back into the covers, purring loudly.
It’s raining lightly but steadily. A rainy morning in Denver generally means it will rain all day. More common here are abrupt afternoon thunderstorms, especially in the summer and early autumn, but those are sudden and violent—brief downpours that sluice off the rooftops in buckets and occasionally cause the South Platte River and some of the neighborhood gulches to flood. A gentle, all-day rain is a rarity here. We get so few of those days, I actually find them to be a bit of a treat.
I get up and pull on my cotton robe, which is quite a bit more threadbare than the blue quilted number of the dreams. But it is also more colorful, bright purple with a fuchsia cherry-blossom pattern all over it. In the bathroom, I untie the kerchief I’ve been wearing over my head at night to protect Linnea’s exceptional work. It’s only been a few days since my wash-and-set, but I plan to call and make another appointment soon. I am beyond a doubt going back. I am a Linnea Andersson Hershall convert.
Going out to get the mail, I am saddened to find there is no postcard from Mother. I fetch my damp Rocky Mountain News from the welcome mat and shuffle through it as I step back inside. I have taken to reading the sports page before anything else. Greg was right; the Giants did win the pennant, beating the Los Angeles Dodgers last night with four runs in the ninth inning. The World Series, which will pit the Giants against the New York Yankees, starts immediately. This surprises me. I would have thought they’d give the players some time to rest first. But what do I know of sports? I’ve learned more about baseball in the past few weeks of talking to Greg than I’ve ever known before in my life.
Going into my kitchen to make breakfast, I think dreamily about the stories I can write for Greg, once the World Series is under way. Mitch, Missy—and the mysterious Michael, whoever he is—are erased from my mind.
At the shop entrance, I shake out my umbrella. Once inside, I take off my slicker and rain bonnet and hang them in the back room. Glancing in the mirror above the restroom sink, I admire my hair once more. I brush a bit of rainwater from the hem of my indigo-blue skirt, which I have paired with my favorite chartreuse sweater and a long string of blue and yellow glass beads; a bright outfit to cheer up a damp day.
Frieda is at the counter, drinking coffee and smoking. I wave my hand in front of her. “I really wish you wouldn’t smoke in the shop.”
She inhales, then puffs out. “And a good morning to you, too.”
“Honestly.” I pour myself a cup of coffee, deliberately place my stool beyond the reach of her fumes, and sit down. “It turns away customers, Frieda.”
She lets out a laugh. “Since when?”
“Since always.” I don’t know why I’m picking a fight with her. I just feel irritable. And uneasy.
Frieda has the newspaper spread in front of her on the counter. She is scanning the help-wanted section. “Looking for a job?” I ask, glad for an excuse to change the subject.
She shakes her head. “Looking for inspiration.” She glances around. “We have to do something, Kitty. We barely made the rent this month; I don’t see how we’re going to make it in November. And if we’re not staying, we ought to tell Bradley immediately.”
She’s right. We did make the October rent, but we had to scrape to do it. Frieda says we will have to delay our loan payment this month, hoping to see a little capital come in before the loan is past due on the fifteenth. But I’m glad we at least paid Bradley. I always feel bad when we are late on our payment to Bradley.
Even so—even though we sometimes pay late and a few times we did not pay at all—I know Bradley would be disappointed to lose us. Chances are, another tenant would not come along easily, not with the lack of business on Pearl Street these days.
“Maybe we can negotiate a lower rent,” I suggest. “That would be better for Bradley than having us leave, wouldn’t it?”
Frieda shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says snappily. “And anyway, what good would that do?” She looks around again. “How long can we stay here, anyway, with no business? Ask yourself that, Kitty.”
I think about University Hills, the shopping center in my dream. Except, of course, it is not made up. That shopping center actually exists. “Have you ever been to University Hills?” I ask Frieda. “The shopping center way down south, on Colorado Boulevard?”
“Once,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette. “It seems so far out of town.” She looks thoughtful. “But everything is far out of town, these days, isn’t it?”
I nod. “May-D&F has a store there, and they probably carry books. But I wonder if there is any other bookstore in the shopping center.”
Frieda looks at me carefully. “Would you even consider it?” she asks. “You’ve shot down the idea of moving to a shopping center—you’ve shot it down numerous times, Kitty.” She stands and looks out at the rain. “Why the change of heart?”