He settles back down behind the counter with a book, always a Restoration play, which is when Toby feels that drama peaked, and nothing even half decent has been produced since then, or even before it—don’t mention Marlowe or Shakespeare, because he’ll pretend he’s never heard of them. Clemence takes her seat amid the books and the boxes, resuming the gathering of titles for Mrs. Yeung’s jumble. There’s an entire box of 1980s Harlequins, with gorgeous covers, all of the women wearing shoulder pads. Would Clemence herself dare to file these away in Women’s Fiction? And why not? Who gets to make the distinction?
No, these she’s taking away for donation to the church, because she knows somebody’s going to snap them up, and they’re doing no good to anybody packed away in the bookstore.
She hears the bells at the door, assuming it’s Crampton, because Clemence has never known anyone else to walk into the store, and she’s afraid to turn around because Toby seems to be ignoring her right now, and Clemence isn’t sure if Crampton will hold her accountable for that, and dock her pay, but the footsteps are heavier and she glances over her shoulder to see a tall Black man in a tailored suit. Clemence is slightly gratified—albeit embarrassed—to see that this customer gets the same service she’d received from Toby on her first visit, having to clear his throat three times before Toby lowers his play and notes the customer’s presence.
“There’s a bell,” she calls out to him from her perch. Toby and the customer glance over at her in confusion.“In case you need to get his attention,” she explains. “Imean, for next time,” and the man turns back to Toby, explaining that he’s looking for books on hats, European millinery history in particular, Toby sending him upstairs to the books about fashion, and then slouching back into his chair, exhausted from the exertion of all that.
Clemence is concerned that Toby is malnourished. He doesn’t cook; he barely eats. She’s offered to bring him an apple or a banana, but Toby claims that he hates fruit.
“How can you hate fruit?” Clemence demands. “That’s like hating ‘seasons.’ Or ‘dessert.’”
“Ialso hate seasons,” says Toby. “Ihave allergies.”
“Ijust think,” says Clemence, unpacking a box of 1970sNational Geographics that surely belong in the recycling, “that if you took better care of yourself, you might have more energy.”
“I’ve got energy,” says Toby, lowering his book again. “My problem is ennui, but that’s got nothing to do with diet.”
The customer comes back downstairs with an armful of books, and Toby consents to let him make the purchase.
“Has anybody ever come in here and not found what they wanted?” Clemence asks.
“Well, not a lot of people come in,” admits Toby, “but yeah, no.”
Clemence packs three boxesof books to take to the church, a mix of the romances, 1990s Oprah’s Book Club titles, and a bunch of paperbacks about true crime andSatanic panic, which are especially sinister with their pages trimmed in red. She’s also found a pile of cowboy novels, essentially romance for boys, and by now she’s managed to clear enough space in the bookstore’s central aisle that a person might walk down it without having to step over anything. Even Crampton is pleased by the improvement.
She leaves the store with the boxes piled almost higher than her head, although that means she can’t see what’s in front of her. The balance is precarious.
“You’re not moving out, are you?” someone calls on the sidewalk. His face is blocked by her heavy load, but she knows that voice.
Charles removes the top box from her tower.
“Hey,” she says, at the sight of his smile.
“You looked like you were struggling,” he says, but now he’s found himself unsteady, too, a bit of a wobble. He hadn’t expected the box to be so heavy. “What have you got in here? Lead weights?” he asks as he regains his balance.
“Iwasn’t struggling,” she says. She wonders what it might be like if they were to meet, both of them unencumbered. If fate is trying to tell her something, setting obstacles in her way.
“Come on, you were about to drop it,” says Charles.
Clemence says, “Iwas fine.” She was. But she also says, “Thank you.”
“You’re notreallymoving out, right?”
“Iguess if Iwere, I’d be going in the wrong direction.” This is the way toward home, and they’re walking side by side, taking up the entire sidewalk.
He says, “You want me to get that one?” He’s got the one box, and she’s still carrying two, but she’s fine now. He asks her, “Where you going, anyway?”
“The church.”
“So she got you.” Charles is shaking his head. “Iknew she would. She saw you coming. My mother is indefatigable. You know, Itold her about your book.”
“My book.”
“Eat, Pray, Love.”
“Ididn’t write that book,” says Clemence, feeling her face getting hot. What was going on here? Who uses words like “indefatigable”?
“Well, shit.” Charles puts the box down. “And here Ithought you were Elizabeth Gilbert. Itold my mom that she had Elizabeth Gilbert living up in her attic, and she’s been trying to impress you ever since. You know, she lovedCoyote Ugly.”
