All the Beautiful Lies(28)

“Oh, so many,” said the woman looking at the mystery shelves.

“There are more in the back,” Harry said. “If you’re interested in collectibles and first editions.”

“I don’t think so. What I like is a murder story but I don’t like violence.”

Harry was about to go get John for a recommendation, but decided he could handle this himself. He was not a fanatic like his father had been, but Harry did read a lot. He found three books for the woman—two by Jacqueline Winspear based on their covers alone, and an M. C. Beaton that she thought she hadn’t read yet. He brought the books back to the register and rang up the sale himself, relieved that she was paying in cash so he wouldn’t have to use the credit card reader. Afterward, he told John he’d just managed his first customer interaction. John put one of his large hands on Harry’s shoulder. “Thank you, Harry. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do right now without you.”

The words made Harry feel wanted but were also discomfiting. How long would he be expected to help out? Was there a future plan for the store now that Bill had died? He assumed Alice now owned it, including all its stock. She’d occasionally worked in the store, although Harry didn’t know how much she actually knew, or cared, about the business.

It was clear that John had learned an enormous amount from Bill, but he was just an employee—and how much longer could he expect to work at his age? Was Harry being groomed to take over forever? The thought knotted his stomach, briefly. This is my life now. Then Harry told himself to calm down. His father had died less than a week ago, and there was plenty of time to figure everything out. He found his own cutter and began opening boxes.

Toward the end of the day, the bell sounded, the front door opening to a customer for just the fourth time that day. As John had explained, the store did 90 percent of its business online and very little from the actual physical store. Harry went to his post at the cash register. The customer was the woman from the funeral, with the short, dark hair. She was wearing the headband again. Harry felt his cheeks flush at the sight of her. She spotted him and walked right over, almost too purposefully.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi.”

“I was wondering if you’re hiring. I know there isn’t a sign out front, but I thought I’d check, anyway. I just moved here, and I love books, and so I thought . . .”

Her cheeks were flushed, as well. She was nervous, and the words she’d just said sounded rushed and unnatural.

“Didn’t I see you, on Sunday, at—”

“Oh, that,” she said. “Yeah, I was at the funeral. I saw you, too. You must be—”

“I’m his son.”

“Right, his son. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“You knew my father?”

She looked startled. “Oh, no. I didn’t. It’s going to sound strange, but I just arrived here, and I’d heard of him. I’ve actually been to the Ackerson’s in New York, and I was going to check and see if there was a potential job up here, and then, of course, I heard what had happened. So I went to the funeral. It was a weird thing to do, I know.”

“No, no,” Harry said. “Funerals are public, right? They’re not just for people who knew the person who died.”

“No, really, they kind of are.” She smiled, some of her nervousness dissipating.

“I guess so,” Harry said, smiling back. “Don’t worry about it. What’s your name?”

“It’s Grace. And you?”

She reached a hand over the counter, and Harry took it, telling her his name. Her hand felt small in his, her fingertips cold. Harry knew she was lying to him, or misleading him, about her reasons for going to the funeral, about her reasons for coming to the store. Had she known his father? And if so, then why was she hiding it?

“Why’d you move up here?” Harry asked.

“I was sick of city life, and I’d been here before, the Maine coast, anyway, so I decided to be impulsive.”

She laughed, more like a nervous punctuation mark. Her hair was auburn, bordering on black, and her eyes were blue with a little bit of green in them. She had a small nose that turned up a little at the end, and a narrow mouth with a thin top lip and a plump lower one. She had thick, dark eyebrows and faint freckles on her forehead, and Harry figured she could be anywhere from his age to somewhere in her early thirties.

“You just up and moved here without having a job?” Harry said, and immediately regretted how the question sounded.

“I did.”

“Where are you living?”

“Just up the hill past the inn. You know that large brick house with the weedy front yard? I’m in there. It’s from Airbnb, just a room, my own bedroom, but it’s actually bigger than the apartment I rented in New York. What about you? Are you working here now, in the store?”

“I’m helping out. Probably for the summer, then I don’t know. Maybe move to New York City?”

“Don’t do it.” She laughed.

“Okay.”

Grace’s cheeks darkened. She pulled at an unpierced earlobe. “No jobs here, then?”

“Oh, right. I don’t know. It’s probably too soon to make decisions about what’s going to happen here, but I can find out and let you know.”