“Heading to your store, actually. I heard you’ve got in a new collection coming in this week.”
“Of course you are.” Something in her voice made the back of my neck prickle with instinctive unease. “Julia mentioned you might stop by. She always knows when you’re coming. Has a sense for it, apparently.”
“She’s very attentive to her regular customers.”
“Is that what you call it?” Mrs. Winslow shifted her shopping bag to her other hand. “Walk with me, Doctor. I’m heading home, and it’s on your way.”
It wasn’t a request.
I couldn’t imagine what she’d want with me, but I went along with it. I offered to take her bags, and after a brief, measuring look, she passed them over. We fell into step together, her shorter stride forcing me to slow my usual pace. For a block, we walked in silence.
“Julia is a good girl,” Mrs. Winslow eventually said. “Smart. Talented. She has a bright future ahead of her—college applications are going out next month. She’s been accepted to three schools already. Full scholarships.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, genuinely meaning it. “She’s always struck me as exceptionally bright.”
“She is.” Mrs. Winslow stopped walking abruptly, turning to face me on the sidewalk. A couple had to navigate around us, shooting irritated looks that she completely ignored. “Which is why I don’t understand what’s happening between the two of you.”
The words hit me like cold water, shocking in their directness. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Doctor Hayes.” Her eyes—sharp and assessing behind wire-rimmed glasses—fixed on my face with uncomfortable intensity. “Do you think I can’t see what’s happening? I see the way you talk to her. The way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching. Those late nights where she never comes home,‘Studying at a friend’s house,’she says.”
Julia.My mind spun through our interactions like shuffling cards, searching for anything that could be misconstrued. The girl from the bookstore who couldn’t have been more than seventeen, eighteen at most. Who helped me locate obscure medical texts and out-of-print book editions. Who was intelligent and curious, reminding me vaguely of students I’d known in medical school—eager to learn, hungry for knowledge.
Who was also completely off my radar as anything more than a helpful clerk.
“Mrs. Winslow, I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”
“I may be old,” she continued, swiftly cutting through my attempt at explanation. “But I’m not blind. I’ve raised three children. I know what it looks like when a young girl develops an infatuation. And I know what it looks like when a grown man encourages it.”
“I have never—” I started, but she held up a hand.
“Shetalks about you constantly. ‘Mr. Hayes said this.’ ‘Mr. Hayes recommended that book.’ ‘Mr. Hayes thinks I should consider this program.’Tell me, what am I supposed to think?”
The mere suggestion of impropriety, the implication that I might be the kind of man who preyed on teenage girls, made me feel something close to rage. I tried to keep my voice level, however. “Mrs. Winslow, I promise you, nothing inappropriate has happened between Julia and me. I’ve never touched her. Never suggested anything beyond casual conversation about books and her academic interests. Our interactions have been entirely—”
“She’s a child, Doctor Hayes. She may be eighteen, may think she’s all grown up and ready for the world, but she’s still achild. And you’re a grown man—a doctor, for God’s sake—who should know better than to encourage whatever this is.”
“I haven’t encouraged anything.”
“Then why is she lying to me?” The question came out raw, stripped of the controlled anger that had colored her previous statements. “Why is she sneaking around, making excuses, hiding her phone from me? If there’s nothing happening, why all the secrecy?”
I didn’t have an answer. Because I genuinely didn’t know what Julia had been doing with her evenings, who she’d been texting, what secrets she was keeping from her grandmother. Our interactions had been limited to the bookstore—brief conversations about literature and book recommendations, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes at a time whenever I happened to stop by.
“Mrs. Winslow,” I said, carefully choosing each word. “I can only speak to my own actions, and I assure you that I havenever behaved inappropriately with Julia. I don’t have her phone number. I don’t follow her on social media—I don’t even know if shehassocial media. I’ve never contacted her outside of your bookstore.”
She studied my face for a long moment, and I let myself meet her gaze, allowing her see the truth there. Let her read whatever she needed to read to understand I wasn’t lying.
As I’d hoped, it seemed that she was starting to believe me.
She nodded, deflating slightly, exhaustion settling over her features like a veil. “I’m sorry if I accused you unfairly, Doctor Hayes. I’m just… I had to be sure.”
It was understandable. I would have done the same thing if I were in her place.
“I should get these groceries home before the ice cream melts,” Mrs. Winslow said, gesturing to her bags. “Thank you for listening. And for being honest with me.”
“Of course.” I watched her walk away, her small figure moving down the sidewalk with careful steps that spoke of age and weariness.
I stood there for several minutes after she disappeared around the corner, my mind replaying the conversation, examining it from every angle. Julia. The girl I’d barely thought about beyond our brief interactions at the bookstore. Who apparently thought about me considerably more than I’d realized.
