The Bookseller(53)

I pick up a copy of the book that the two women were looking at, and one of them bought—The King’s Persons, by Joanne Greenberg. About dozen copies are lined up on the shelf. To their left, a small poster is propped up with an easel: NEWLY RELEASED! LOCAL AUTHOR! On it is a photograph of a rather serious-looking young woman, along with a glowing review of The King’s Persons from the February 17, 1963, Denver Post. I’ve never heard of this novel, nor of Joanne Greenberg, but I make a mental note to find out more about her when I return to real life. And then I smile inwardly; how entertaining it is to be able to predict the future—albeit an imaginary future—in such a vibrant, meticulous way! Perhaps if I let go more often in these dreams, simply rolled with them as I did at first, I would enjoy them more.

A large copy of a Henri Matisse paper cutout—its vivid black, blue, green, and yellow hues attracting my eyes—hangs between two tall bookshelves. I recognize it immediately; I even know its name, The Sorrows of the King. Matisse created this work in 1952, toward the end of his life, when he worked with cutouts instead of painting. I have no idea how I know this; I’ve never seen it before. It’s very to-the-moment, exactly the kind of thing Frieda would adore.

And then, suddenly, I realize that I have seen it before. A lithograph of The Sorrows of the King was displayed in the window of a gallery in Paris, when Lars and I were there on our honeymoon. I remember standing on the street with my new husband, my arm tucked into his, staring at it. Both of us were silent, overcome with the beauty of the simple figures, the colors, the blackness in the center. “It just stays with you,” Lars whispered. “Close your eyes, Katharyn, and you can still see it in your mind’s eye. You can still see the colors.”

I closed my eyes and squeezed his arm, taking it in. “Frieda would love this piece,” I said, opening my eyes. “I must tell her about it when we get home.”

Yes, I remember that.

I glance at the counter, where the shopgirl has finished ringing up the customer who was waiting earlier. I walk back over. “What a lovely store,” I say. “Have you worked here long?”

She shrugs. “A few months. It’s a nice place to work, especially if you love books.” She smiles again; she has a pretty smile, with very white teeth. “My friend who works at the Bear Valley Green’s told me about it. Said I should apply. So I did, and I was fortunate to get the job.”

“At the . . .” I shake my head, confused.

“Bear Valley,” the girl says patiently. “You know, the shopping center in Lakewood.”

I frown. “I’m sorry, I haven’t heard of it.”

The girl gives me a curious look. “Well, it’s one of our six.”

“Your six?”

“Six Green’s Books and News locations,” she explains.

What she says doesn’t register for a moment. “I’m sorry, did you just say . . .”

“There are six stores,” she says, handing me a brochure. “This one we’re in, this is the original.”

I glance at the brochure. It lists the shop here in University Hills, plus a location in downtown Denver; the one the shopgirl mentioned at Bear Valley; another one in Thornton, a Denver suburb to the north; and two in Colorado Springs. The photographs of the other stores show gleaming new locations in shopping centers or on busy commercial streets.

Of course there is no photograph of the tiny, dingy, long-closed Pearl Street store.

“This place has become soooo popular.” The shopgirl sighs. “Miss Green put out a letter to all employees last week about another store that’s opening in the spring, in Boulder. She says we’re only going to get bigger and bigger.”

“Miss Green . . . do you mean Frieda Green?”

“Yes, that’s her. Do you know her, ma’am?”

“I used to,” I say slowly. “It was a long time ago.” I straighten up a bit and tap the brochure in my hand. “Tell me, where would I find Miss Green these days? Does she work in one of these other stores?”

The shopgirl laughs. “Of course not,” she says. “She’s got a big office downtown. A—what’s it called? A corporate headquarters. It’s on the same block as the downtown Green’s. I went there for the company Christmas party.” She smiles shyly. “I felt like a church mouse; they were all so glamorous.”

I take another breath and plunge in again. “Do you know . . . maybe this is a silly question, but do you know about . . . Miss Green used to have a business partner. A Miss Miller. Kitty Miller . . .”

The shop girl’s face sours. “Everyone knows about Miss Miller.”

“Oh,” I breathe. “Oh, is that true? What do they know about her?”

She looks around. “I shouldn’t gossip like this to a customer, but okay.” She leans forward. “Miss Miller and Miss Green had a terrible fight some years ago. Miss Miller—well, she was married by then, her married name was Mrs. Andersson, and honestly, I don’t know the whole story, but I think that had something to do with it—her getting married, having a family, all that.” Her voice lowers. “Anyway, they had some little bookshop that didn’t make any money. They were in a lot of debt, and they quarreled about it. And Mrs. Andersson just walked away. Left the whole mess in Miss Green’s hands.” She shrugs. “Miss Green picked up the pieces and made a success of it, as you can see. But I heard that Miss Green never forgave her old partner.” She looks down at her book, obviously embarrassed at having said so much, then quickly returns her gaze to me. “But I have no idea what happened to Mrs. Andersson. Or Miss Miller, if you want to call her that.”