“Um… would you like some help?”
“Oh, thank you.” She lets me take her arm and I guide her up the stairs. “You’re a lovely young lady,” she says. We reach the top and she turns to me. “I’m Agnes.”
“Nice to meet you, Agnes. I’m Alex.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy your stay. If there is anything you need, let me know. It’s an odd bunch in there, but I’m always happy for visitors.” Her gray eyes light with a smile.
I grin in return, pleased that I stopped to talk to her. See, this is what neighbors should be like: friendly and kind, ready to lend you a cup of sugar and all that. Not grumbling because you offered their son pizza or, you know, dared to wait in the lobby.
And then a thought occurs to me. If she’s lived here for so long, maybe she knows Michael. Maybe she knows why he’s so, er, unpleasant.
“Thank you, Agnes. I wonder—” I hesitate, glancing into the building to make sure we are alone, then turn back to her, lowering my voice. “Do you know the man who lives on the second floor, Michael?”
“Michael.” The wrinkles around her eyes deepen. “Oh yes. Wonderful man.”
I frown. We must be talking about two different men.
“No. The man with the son, Henry?”
“Yes, Michael. He’s a very nice man. And Henry is a sweet boy.”
Wow.
“He’s had a rough time of it,” she continues. “Went through a divorce a few years back. I never did care for his wife.”
I stare at her.
“It’s a shame,” Agnes says with a shake of her head. “A lovely man like that without a wife.”
I’m speechless. Alovelyman? How is it possible we are talking about the same guy? A thousand questions flood into my brain and I’m desperate to ask more but I don’t know where to begin. After a moment I realize that I’m just gaping at Agnes, and I quickly pin on a smile.
“Well, I should probably get to work. It was nice to meet you.”
“And you, dear.”
I head back down the steps, processing what I’ve learned as I walk the few blocks to work, my head a cloud of confusion.
* * *
I love my new job!Well, in my previous job I had to brave the elements in a wedding dress that smelled like B.O. while dodging garbage thrown at me from passing cars, so the bar was pretty low.
But it’s more than that. It’s a bookstore, which at the very least isrelatedto writing. And yes, I know this is what I did back home, but it’s not the same. For one, it’s in the West Village inNew freaking York, so that makes it a million times cooler. And two, Geoff isawesome. I haven’t sorted out a working visa yet, and when Geoff brought it up I thought my chance at the job was gone. Instead, he agreed to pay me in cash until I get it sorted. How nice is that?
The more I get to know Geoff, the more I like him. He’s friendly and kind, intelligent and quick-witted, with a dry sense of humor. I can see why his shop does so well. People love him.
The store isn’t huge, but it has a great selection of both new and secondhand books. It’s at street level, with windows where the sun streams in for a couple of hours around midday, and narrow aisles where shelves of books stretch up to the high ceilings.
But the thing I love most is the atmosphere of the store. It’s cozy and welcoming, with that indescribable smell of books, and soft music playing—Sinatra, I think. Even if Geoff didn’t hire me I’d be happy to hang out here all day.
I spend most of the morning learning about the cash register, how they organize and shelve books, as well as how to add new inventory into the system. Geoff talks me through locking up and gives me a set of keys. Then I putter around the counter, tidying and rearranging the bookmarks we have stacked next to the register, greeting customers and generally loving every moment. Not just because I’m warm, in my own clothes, and no one is shouting obscenities at me from a car window—but also because, for the first time in ages, I’m feeling inspired to write.
The afternoon is quiet, and Geoff tells me to take some time to browse the store and get familiar with everything. He says that I’m welcome to borrow books if I see anything I like, and I decide that’s the perfect invitation for me to check out the writing section, to see if I can find some books on how to write a romance novel. I’m delighted to find we have a few, which I flip through eagerly. There’s lots of information about structuring a novel and creating the characters, and while some of the books are geared towards writing tender, sweet romances, there are also some that show how to write the naughty bits. Perfect.
I grab one of each and just as I’m about to go and pop them behind the counter, I spy a small section of erotica. Come to think of it, some erotica could be helpful. Not forme, of course—for my writing. I’m going to need to be able to write sex scenes without using words like “throbbing manhood” and “lovestick” and all that, right?
With a quick glance over my shoulder—Geoff, thankfully, is pricing stock a few aisles away—I tiptoe over and pull a few titles off the shelves.
Wow. These things are hot and heavy, and while I don’t think I’ll be writing with such graphic detail, I could learn a thing or two. I should probably borrow them. For research purposes, obviously. No other reason.
