The Bookseller(37)
I shrug. “Things are changing, aren’t they?” I ask her quietly. “The world is changing.” I step closer to Frieda, feeling the heat of her body next to mine, smelling her smoke-and-perfume scent. Stinky, but familiar. “We have to keep up,” I say. “Or else get out of the way and let someone else pass us by.”
That afternoon, Frieda and I close early and take a little excursion to University Hills. We have to ride two buses to get there, and it’s still raining, so we are both soaked by the time we arrive. Stepping off the bus, we scan the large parking lot. “All these cars,” Frieda says, shaking her head in wonder. “Where do they come from?”
I point to the west, the south, where new neighborhoods and houses are cropping up like dandelions in a garden plot. “Out there,” I say. “You wouldn’t believe it if you saw it.”
Frieda glances at me. “Have you seen it?”
I nod, hoping she won’t ask more. The rain is letting up, and the sun is starting to poke through. We turn and begin walking along the pathway. The shopping center is exactly as I remember it from my dream. The outsize concrete planters, the piped-in music. The strolling mothers and children. I half expect to see my own self, with Mitch and Missy in tow, walking toward us.
There’s a shopping center directory posted next to one of the planters, and Frieda and I scan the listings, looking for a bookstore. We find none. “Let’s see if there are any available spaces,” Frieda suggests, almost in a whisper.
As we walk along, she suddenly takes my hand. “Kitty,” she says. “Thank you for doing this with me.”
I shrug. “I know it’s what you want.” I gently squeeze her hand. “And we’re just looking, right? Don’t get your hopes up.”
Frieda nods slowly, but I see the sparkle in her eyes. “Just looking,” she says dreamily. “We’re just looking.”
Chapter 13
I wake up alone in the sage-green bedroom. Lars’s side of the bed is empty, the covers rumpled. Putting my hand out and feeling the warmth under the sheet where he was lying, I guess that he arose not long ago. I leave my hand there for what seems like a long time.
After rising and putting on my robe, I enter the hall and turn into the living room. To my left, I can see the dining room. It isn’t a separate room but rather an extension of the living room, the way it was at the Nelsons’ house and the way it so often is in these modern houses. Both the living and dining rooms have pale, faintly golden-hued walls and coved ceilings. The low-pile aqua carpeting matches the color of the front door, I note with self-approval. The dining room features a lustrous oak table; six chairs surround it, upholstered in nubby turquoise fabric. Near the head of the table, under the window, is a small wooden school desk, not unlike those that filled the classroom back in my teaching days. There is a faintly sour smell in the air, but I cannot make out what it is.
Along the back wall of the dining room are several sets of dark wood, shutter-style doors; two are cabinet-height with a counter jutting out below them, and the other is a saloon-style doorway, leading, presumably, to the kitchen. The cabinet-height shutters are closed, but I can see that when opened, they would provide access from the kitchen to the dining room. Quite handy, I think, should the cook be preparing a meal in one room and serving it in the other.
From behind the shutters, I hear a man’s cheery whistle—off-key, just like Frieda’s. The thought makes me smile. I cross the room and push through the swinging doorway. Lars is there, with all his brightness and his blue eyes. I walk quickly to him and embrace him, my body pressed against his. “Well, hello, there, beautiful,” he whispers. “Feeling better this morning?”
“Feeling just fine.” I tilt my head up to receive his kiss. It’s a long, lingering, full-mouth kiss, one that I don’t want to end. I can tell that Lars doesn’t, either; it’s with reluctance that he finally draws his lips away from mine.
“Wow,” he says breathlessly. “That was quite a welcome.”
“I just missed you,” I replied. “I just . . . wanted to . . . feel you.” I give him another squeeze. “Feel how real you are.”
He laughs. “I’m real, all right.” He turns back to the countertop and lifts an olive green electric percolator. “Ready for coffee, love?”
“Yes, please.” While he pours it, I look around the kitchen. The countertops are orange Formica; the stove and refrigerator are both beige. A window over the sink lets in morning light; on its sill is a large mason jar, half filled with coins. The curtain over the window exactly matches the wallpaper; both show a cheery pattern of fruit slices—bananas, apples, oranges, limes—on a taupe background. The cabinetry is dark brown, very simple, with sleek brass handles and no ornamentation on the wood. My first thought is how easy it must be to keep it clean. I am forever scrubbing the ornate trim on the kitchen cabinets in my Washington Street duplex, and no matter how I try, I can never get the decades-old gunk out of the crevices.
I wander back through the swinging doors, cross the dining room, and enter the living room. My eyes are drawn to the large picture window that faces the street, and I step over to take a look outside. It’s a bright, wintry morning. Why is it winter here and autumn in the real world? I cannot reconcile this. The clean white snow against the dark of the leafless trees, the startling blue of the sky, the mountains in the distance, and the long, lean houses—all together, they make me take a deep breath, relishing their freshness.