“I apologize,” she said to the waiting customers. “We’re experiencing some… technical difficulties today.” Her gaze fell on Emery, who was still kneeling among the books. “More than one, apparently.”
Emery opened her mouth to apologize again, but was interrupted by an older gentleman with a cane who'd just shuffled in.
“Morning, Eveline,” he called cheerfully. “Redecorating, are we?”
“Abe,” Eveline sighed, her tone softening slightly. “Not now.”
“Who's this, then?” Abe asked, peering at Emery with cheerful blue eyes.
“Nobody,” Eveline said at the same time Emery said, “Just leaving.”
But as Emery tried to stand, she realized she'd been kneeling on the tail of her loose shirt. She toppled sideways, sending another stack of carefully arranged books tumbling across the floor.
“For the love of—” Eveline began, but cut herself off as the phone rang again. With a glare that could have incinerated paper, she stormed back to the counter.
“You've got yourself in a proper pickle,” Abe chuckled, leaning on his cane as he watched Emery scramble to re-collect the books.
“Story of my life,” Emery muttered, feeling her face burn with embarrassment. She could hear Eveline's voice rising in the background, something about a discount and unacceptable service.
“Sounds like McKeefe's on the warpath again,” Abe commented, lowering himself carefully onto a nearby chair. “Always complaining about something, that one.”
Emery nodded absently, trying to figure out how to escape this disaster without causing further damage. The signing was definitely a lost cause now. Domi was going to murder her. She'd probably already sent out a search party, complete with bloodhounds and Emery's dental records.
“Let me help,” said a young woman who'd been browsing the poetry section. She kneeled down beside Emery and began collecting books.
Emery smiled gratefully and between the two of them, they managed to pick everything up. Then a shadow appeared, looming over them. The young customer hurried away, Emery found herself alone with Eveline, who was pinching the bridge of her nose as if warding off a migraine.
“Look,” Emery began, standing carefully (after double-checking her shirt tails). “I am genuinely sorry about this. Let me help you clean up properly, at least.”
Eveline looked at her suspiciously. “Don't you have a signing to get to?”
Emery glanced at her watch and winced. There was no way she'd make it now. “I think that ship has sailed.”
For a moment, she thought Eveline might throw her out anyway. But then the French woman's shoulders sagged slightly.“Fine. Since you've managed to single-handedly destroy my bestselling display, you might as well help restore it.”
As Emery moved to rearrange the books according to Eveline's precise instructions, she couldn't help noticing how other customers were approaching the French woman with questions. Despite her obvious stress, Eveline answered each one knowledgeably, recommending titles with a passion that surprised Emery.
“Have you read 'The Secret History'?” an elderly woman was asking. “My book club suggested it, but I'm not sure.”
“Ah,” Eveline's eyes lit up. “Donna Tartt. Yes, it's excellent. Dark academia at its finest. If you enjoy complex characters and moral ambiguity, you'll love it.”
“If you like likeable characters, you’ll hate it,” Emery put in. Eveline scowled at her.
The woman looked doubtful. “I usually prefer something lighter.”
“Then perhaps this instead,” Eveline suggested, leading her to another section and pulling out a different book. “Still beautifully written, but with more humor.”
Emery watched, impressed despite herself. This woman really knew her stuff. And when she talked about books, her whole demeanor changed, softening from ice queen to passionate advocate in seconds.
Eveline left to answer the phone that was ringing yet again as Emery hastily began piling books up. But when a harried-looking mother stopped by and asked for recommendations for her teenage son “who hates reading,” Emery couldn’t help but suggest three titles that had the woman nodding enthusiastically.
“You're good at this,” Abe commented, still ensconced in his chair, watching the proceedings like they were better than television.
Emery shrugged. “I read a lot.”
“So does everyone who comes in here,” he replied. “Doesn't mean they can match a reader to a book like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
The books were finally arranged in something like order. Emery looked down at her watch and pulled a face. 10.45. Domi would be on the warpath. She was about to sneak out when she heard a crash from the back room, followed by a string of French curses. She hesitated for a second, then moved toward the sound.
