“Get it out, there’s nothing wrong with showing you’re hurting.”
Her voice was so sweet, so absolutely hers, that I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. I hiccupped and looked up at her.
“It’s just…Mom left me, and now Grandma’s gone, and you’re going to Winnipeg.” I knew that was mean, but I couldn’t help snapping.
She dried my tears, ran her hands over my hair, combing it with her fingers from the roots to the tips so gently that I started sobbing again.
“You’ll be all right, Harper. You’re stronger than you know. And this isn’t a goodbye.” She smiled at me, and I tried to smile back. “I’ll always come running if you need me.”
She hugged me, and I tried not to drown in the knowledge of how much I would miss her. She had always been there for me, her smile as warm and comforting as hot chocolate on a cold day.
I let her baby me until the door flew open and the store filled with the soft jingling of the bells hanging from the doorframe.
2
Facing an Unexpected Encounter
For the next two hours, the bells kept ringing as regulars came in and out and strangers peeked in to see what was on sale. On a table by the door there was always a pile of cards with the name of the shop on them in gold ink. I set out more and tidied them up, along with the bookmarks the publishers often sent us for free.
Then I dusted off the heavy walnut shelves that reached up to the ceiling. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of books in there in all shapes, sizes, and colors: deluxe editions with beautiful illustrations and engraving on their covers, new releases, classics, and paperbacks. Oscar Wilde rubbed elbows with Paul Auster on the bottom shelf, while Charles Dickens sat next to Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë. Gabrielle Roy, Marie-Claire Blais, Danielle Paige… My grandmother had always had a weird idea of what order things belonged in.
I rubbed my forehead. I still had a headache, and my mind was tired. But I needed to be present.
“You feel like a coffee?” I asked Frances.
She nodded and smiled as she helped an older woman choose a book about submarines for her nephew.
I grabbed my bag and went outside. As usual, the Montrealsummer was noisy and full of movement. The scents took me back to special moments, reminded me of people who seemed to have been there forever: Beth, famous for her mint cakes and chocolate brownies, which disappeared from the shop window every day as soon as she lifted the blinds, or Percy, a street musician who’d played trumpet on the same corner as long as I could remember. I waved at them as I passed by and exchanged pleasantries with Meg, the florist.
Our bookstore was on Mont-Royal Avenue, on the Plateau, a neighborhood in downtown Montreal full of students, artists, and bohemians. When I lived there, I used to love walking its narrow, tree-lined streets with their pretty, colorful Victorian houses and their exposed spiral staircases. I was fascinated by the unique, multicultural mixture of stores and restaurants.
I walked slowly to Rue Saint-Denis. The sun shone through a thin layer of white clouds that were starting to darken the horizon. As I looked up, I prayed. The wedding was going to be held in my father’s gigantic gardens in Léry. The rain could ruin everything, and Hayley didn’t deserve that. She’d been planning the perfect wedding for months.
I turned right and walked on up the sidewalk to Café Myriade, my destination, which was on the next corner.
It was bustling. There wasn’t a free inch on the terrace, and inside, people were lined up in front of the counter. I almost turned around and went elsewhere, but I had gone that whole way dreaming of their muffins of cheddar cheese and cranberries, and I wasn’t going to leave without them and one of their wonderful lattes.
My caffeine addiction was one of the few things that gave meaning to my life.
I got in line and looked at the email on my phone. I had several messages from Ryan Radcliffe, the editor who was my direct superior. He wanted to know if I’d gone through the last manuscripthe sent me. I ran my hand over my face, feeling guilty, and made a voice memo to remind myself I needed to download and print the document. I’d take care of it as soon as my sister’s wedding was over.
I started feeling uneasy and wondered whether my stress about my job might not be an unequivocal sign that I wanted my life to continue as it had been. And then the opposite occurred to me: if I hadn’t even looked at the manuscript, it might mean I didn’t care about it as much as I thought. Or maybe, since my grandmother had just died, I simply didn’t give a damn about the rest of the universe.
A voice broke through the fog, asking for my order.
I looked up and smiled at the barista apologetically.
“Two lattes and a cheddar and cranberry muffin, please.”
I looked, distracted, at the people at the tables, and at a little boy who was eating a pastry with his hands behind his back, pretending to be a bird picking at it. I smiled when I saw his mother’s desperation.
Scenes like that awakened my imagination. A wicked witch, a boy turned into a bird, and a moral… That was one more idea for the long list of books I’d probably never write.
“Harper?”
In that eternal second, as my name echoed in the air, the entire world slowed down and finally stopped. Well, that sounds nice, and it’s probably a metaphor for something, but it isn’t actually true.
In fact, in that eternal second, as my name echoed through the air, the entire world was engulfed by the worst natural disaster you could ever imagine.
