The Library of Lost and Found(34)

“No. I came alone.”

Rita peered over the top of her glasses. “Ah, well, it doesn’t matter how you got here, or who you came with. It’s wonderful you stopped by.” She grinned. “I expect you’ll want to take a peek at my copy of Blue Skies and Stormy Seas.”

Martha nodded.

“Follow me through to the back room, my lovely.”

Martha’s stomach flipped a little with guilt as she followed Rita behind the counter and through a beaded curtain. Perhaps she should have told Owen that she’d made contact with Rita, after everything he’d helped her out with.

I hope he doesn’t think I’m ungrateful.

The office in the back of the bookshop was neat and tidy. There was an old oak rolltop writing desk, and shelves full of books covering each wall. As she peered closer, Martha was pleased to note they were all in alphabetical order by the surname of the author, just as she was used to in the fiction section of the Sandshift library.

The books seemed to assure her that she’d done the right thing, searching for Zelda, and her shoulders relaxed a little.

“Take a seat,” Rita said and pulled on the back of an old wooden chair with six wheels and a cracked red leather seat.

Martha’s nerves were still on edge and static crackled through her skirt as she sat down. “It’s like Aladdin’s cave in here.”

“So it is.” Rita laughed. “I can’t imagine my life without books. I grew up with my three sisters and we always read together, under the covers and at the breakfast table. We had to share a bedroom, all four of us crammed in. Reading allowed us to escape, to imagine that our bunk beds were tree houses or flying carpets. Each Sunday, we read under the monkey puzzle tree in the park, and I named my shop after it. We loved books more than we loved boys. Which probably explains why I’m still single.” She laughed throatily and ran her fingers across one row of books and then the next one down. Peering at the titles, she slid a handsome burgundy-and-gold book off the shelf and presented it to Martha. “Here it is. Isn’t it a thing of beauty?”

Martha’s head felt floaty as she reached out to take it. The book looked regal in all its finery. She settled it on her lap, where it felt reassuringly heavy. She touched her nana’s name and read it out loud. “E. Y. Sanderson.”

“Your grammy?”

Martha nodded. “I traveled here to follow your lead, about the ladies who read aloud in the village square. The old woman you described, in the wheelchair, turned out to be my nana, Zelda.”

“Oh, how marvelous is that?” Rita clamped a hand to her chest. “You must be ecstatic, my lovely. And does she still have the most wonderfully clear reading voice?”

Martha wasn’t sure. Zelda had looked rather frail and tired in her chair. She couldn’t imagine her reading aloud to a crowd of people, but she nodded, anyway. She leafed through the book, her eyes falling once more on the illustration of the blackbird.

“You stay and look at it for as long as you like.” Rita nodded. “I’ll return to my shop in case I have any customers. And my Bertie is a little bit poorly today, poor old boy.”

Martha nodded. She touched the blackbird’s beak and wondered who drew him.

The more she looked at this intact version of the book, the more she remembered bowing her head down over her notepads as her characters came to life. She’d listened to the princesses, mermaids and birds in her head and wrote down their words.

But what she found most incredible was how Zelda had remembered these fairy tales, many of them Martha’s stories, and captured them within the yellowing pages of the small book.

Why are they here?

She also recalled how her stories used to flow so easily, until Zelda’s passing stopped them like a dam.

“I have so many things to ask her,” she said to the blackbird. “It’s hard to know where to start. It’s been so long.”

Martha felt warm and content in the back of the shop, surrounded by books, and time slipped away. She could hear Rita making enthusiastic phone calls in the shop and, through the beaded curtain, she saw her arms waving, just as she imagined they would do. Martha read Blue Skies and Stormy Seas, cover to cover, relishing holding and reading this proper, intact version.

When she next looked at her watch, she saw that almost an hour and a half had passed by. The bell above the shop door rang and when Martha heard Owen’s voice, she sat up straighter in the chair. It was warm and rich and made her toes twitch in an interesting way. She found that the glow she usually only experienced from people’s gratitude began to trickle over her body. For a few moments she closed her eyes, savoring the sensation.

With some reluctance, she put the book down and stood up. Pushing her way through the beaded curtain, she reentered the shop.

“Martha, I didn’t know you were here.” Owen’s wide smile slipped into a small frown. “Did you tell me you were coming and I forgot?”

Rita finished her phone call and placed the receiver down. “I thought the two of you had traveled here together,” she said. “But Martha said she came alone.”

Owen looked from Rita to Martha. “I could have driven you here.”

The tips of Martha’s ears felt a bit hot, another strange feeling that she attributed to shame, for not telling Owen that she was coming here. “It wasn’t a planned journey, more of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”