The Bookseller(96)

“Well, then.” He rose from the sofa. “We should all get together and talk—you, Frieda, and me. Let’s have her over for dinner sometime soon. After the kids are in bed, we can talk business.”

I’d smiled gratefully and put my arms around him. “Thank you,” I whispered in his ear.

The next morning I woke early and dressed quickly, eager to get to the shop and tell Frieda what Lars had said. I remember getting ready to leave the house, an animated smile on my face as I impatiently searched for my keys and gathered a few books and some office supplies into my arms.

And then I’d felt a small, tentative tap on my shoulder. It was Alma.

“Por favor,” she’d said softly, glancing furtively toward the stairway, toward the children’s rooms, where Jenny was with the triplets. “Por favor, Se?ora Andersson, there is something I must tell you.” She’d tightened her fists, pressing them against the sides of her body, against her clean, crisp uniform. “I can keep silent no longer. Se?ora, I must tell you about Jenny.”


Now I stare at Frieda, sitting in her big office on the eleventh floor, the telephone pressed against her ear. “Yes, I agree,” she says into the receiver. “Yes, but I think we need to talk further about that.” She pauses, glancing at me. “Look, can I call you back in ten? I have someone in my office.”

After she hangs up, I say quietly, “I remember now.”

She laughs. “How very convenient,” she says drily.

I bite my lip. “I’m sorry!” I cry. “I’m sorry this sounds so ridiculous to you.” I feel a bitter taste in my mouth. “Though I also remember now why I have no reason to apologize to you.”

“Oh, really?” She leans forward and presses both hands against the desktop. “You were the one who walked away. You were the one who left me in all that hot water.”

“I had to walk away,” I say to Frieda. “My child needed me. My family needed me.”

She shakes her head and reaches for the pack of Salems on her desk. “You made it all sound worse than it was. The truth is, you welcomed an excuse to leave. You weren’t happy. All you could think about was the time you were spending away from them. You said—” She pulls a cigarette from the pack and tightens her lips around it as she lights it. “You said the store was a waste of your time.” She blows smoke in my direction. “Do you remember that, Kitty?”

Yes. I remember that, too. And I remember why I said it. Because Frieda was the one who’d found Jenny for me. Frieda was the one who’d convinced me that Jenny, with all her credentials, was the right person to watch the children.

I remember telling Frieda that it was her fault that Michael was the way he was. “If I’d been at home, he would have been just fine!” I shouted. “If I’d never hired Jenny—that awful woman that you found, Frieda—if I’d never done that, everything would be different now. But you—you convinced me to stay here at the shop, you found Jenny to watch my children, and I trusted you, I trusted you, Frieda. I trusted you to help me do the right thing. But it was all wrong. And now look at what’s happened to him.” I sat down on my stool behind the counter, flushed and trembling. Then I took a breath and looked up at Frieda.

“I want out,” I said firmly. “I don’t care what you do, but I want out. This isn’t working for me—and let’s be honest, it’s not working for you, either. You figure this out, Frieda. It’s your fault, not mine. So you get out of this mess, if you can. Go on and do all the big things you want to do with this business. I don’t care.”

“How can I do that?” she challenged me. “I have no money, Kitty.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “That,” I told her, “is not my problem.”

It wasn’t my problem—I made sure of it. I got out, and I stayed out. I remember it now. The money I inherited, not long after Frieda and I quarreled—in this world, that money did not go toward saving Sisters’ Bookshop. What did I do with it? I shrug, and then it comes to me. I used it to hire a lawyer to get me out of the Sisters’ mess—that’s where most of it went. And the remainder? I smile wryly. That nice sofa and the other fine furniture in the living room on Springfield Street—that’s where the rest of my grandfather’s money went, in this world.


Frieda had strode to Sisters’ front windows and looked out on empty Pearl Street for a few seconds. Then she turned back to me. “What will you do with yourself?” she asked. But not nicely, not like she actually wanted to know. Her tone was mocking. “Mrs. Housewife, huh? Well, fine. It’s what you always wanted, anyway.”

“It is not what I always wanted. It’s just what happened. It’s just how things turned out.” I stood up, wringing my hands. “It turned on a dime, Frieda. For God’s sake, I almost didn’t even meet him. The poor man could have died.”

She snickered. “Yes. Quite a tale. You ought to call the newspapers. It would make a charming human-interest story.”

“With what ending?” I asked softly. “How would it end?”

“Well.” She turned away again, refusing to look at me. “I guess we’re finding that out, aren’t we?”


Now, seated across from me in her office, Frieda glares at me. “You left me with nothing,” she says. “Next to nothing. A pile of bills. A few hundred books in our inventory. Some miscellaneous store equipment. And not a dime to move forward with.”