The Bookseller(84)

It’s early, just after five o’clock on a slow night, and we have the place nearly to ourselves. We sit in a booth toward the back. There doesn’t seem to be a waiter or waitress, so I offer to go up to the bar to get us drinks. The bartender, a smiling older man, reminds me a bit of Bradley. I order Frieda’s martini and a glass of wine for myself. “On the house,” the bartender says, putting both glasses in front of me.

I raise my eyebrows. “On the house? Why?”

He shrugs, his eyes deep and tender. “Consider it my good deed for the day, ma’am.”

I shake my head as if to clear it. “Well, thanks,” I say, leaving a dollar for his tip.

Back at our table, I place the glasses in front of Frieda and tell her what happened at the bar. “Strange,” she says. “Well, no sense looking a gift horse in the mouth.” She takes a sip of her martini and closes her eyes. “Mmm, I needed that.”

I smile, but do not reply. I plan to nurse this one glass of wine. I am doing entirely too much drinking these days, both here and in the other world.

Frieda sets down her glass and lights a cigarette. “Kitty,” she says, her voice level. “We need to decide, you know. Our lease is up at the end of November. We could tell Bradley right away that we don’t plan to renew. I know we’re a few days past the first of the month, but he’ll understand.” She takes another sip of her drink. “I rang yesterday,” she tells me. “The management company at the shopping center. I telephoned them, and the space is still available.” Her eyes look dreamy. “We could open in time for the Christmas shopping season.”

Knowing I ought not, I take several long sips of wine. The hell with it. I need my courage.

“Freeds,” I say finally. “What if . . . what would you think . . . if I didn’t want to do this anymore?”

She stares at me. “What are you talking about?”

I sigh. “The thing is,” I say. “The thing is, I know it’s progress. I know it’s the wave of the future. I know that Sisters’ has no future where we are. I know all of that.” I drink more wine. “But I’ve been thinking a lot about it,” I go on. “And even though all of that is true . . . I don’t know, Frieda, my heart just isn’t in it.”

“Your heart?” She inhales, then blows smoke toward the ceiling. She looks back at me. “This is business, sister.”

“I realize that. But even if it is business . . .” I look around desperately, as if the right words will appear before me, perhaps on a cue card or something. “You have to love it,” I say finally. “You have to love what you do. And I don’t think . . . I don’t think . . .” I lower my voice. “I just don’t think I would love it there.”

Frieda finishes her drink. A waiter has materialized, leaning on the bar; he must have just come on shift. He’s a young college kid, gangly like Kevin was, back in the day—like Kevin still is, as Frieda and I discovered not long ago. Frieda signals him to bring us another round.

“You’re afraid of change,” she challenges me, as the kid nods at her and ambles behind the bar.

“I’m not. That’s not it at all. In fact, I do feel ready to make a change.”

“Oh, really? To what?”

I finger my empty wineglass. “I was thinking . . . well, two things. One would be tutoring, like I’m doing with Greg Hansen. Working with students who are having trouble learning to read. There are so many of them, and they don’t learn. But they need to learn; that’s how you get by these days. Kids can’t get by in the world anymore if they grow up illiterate, Freeds. And I could . . . I could help them. I’d be good at it. I am good at it. I could start a private service, or maybe work in the schools; they have situations now where someone—a teacher or someone else with the right background—specializes in teaching reading, one-on-one or with small groups. I could do that.”

Our second drinks arrive—I wonder, will these be free, too? Frieda takes a sip of hers. “You could do that. You could specialize like that,” she says, and I can hear that she’s trying to keep the emotion out of her voice. “You could do that, Kitty, and you would be good at it.” She sets down her glass. “What’s the other thing?”

“The other thing is . . . well, I’ve been writing these books for Greg, these books about sports, but with simple text that he can read and comprehend, not too advanced. And you know, it really makes a difference. Having something to read that he is interested in, but the writing is at his level . . . it’s made all the difference for him. I think . . .” I look away, then back at her. “I think there is a need for children’s authors who can write books like that.”

“Well.” Frieda presses her lips together. “Well, these are really good ideas, Kitty.”

I nod. Neither of us says anything for a while.

She twirls her martini glass thoughtfully with both hands. “If I tell you something, will you be mad at me?”

I laugh. “Of course not. What would I be mad about?”

She ducks her head. “I . . . I’ve met someone, Kitty. A man.”

“Really?” I sit up straighter. “Where? When?”

“Now, before you get all worked up,” she says. “I don’t even know if the romantic part is going to happen. I’m not sure how I feel about it.” She smiles. “He’s made it clear how he feels about it, but I’m not sure yet. But here’s the thing.” Her eyes are bright. “He’s an investor, Kitty. He invests in small businesses. Puts up the cash to get a business started, and helps it become a success.”