“I have misplaced all my copies of Lyons’s earlier works, and I can’t write about this new book unless I also reckon with his backlist.”
He shrugged in a way he must have thought was endearing—and in that moment, it almost was. The weight on Merritt dissipated, and she nearly laughed. She was safe.
“Oh, okay. Did you want to see what we have available?”
“That would be lovely.”
Merritt felt positively aerodynamic as she guided him through the store.
“So,” she explained without looking back at Ian, “in most bookstores, including ours, thefictionsection is organized alphabetically by author.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice once again clipped, “I am aware.”
“Oh, I just thought, since you seemed to need... well, anyway, here’s the section with theL’s. And here are the Lyonses.”
Merritt pointed to a row of books, mentally checking them off in her head:Mission, the revisionist history of the Alamo;Saint Joseph, which imagined that the bullets meant to kill Joseph Smith missed, turning the man into a proto–Billy Graham and reshaping the next century of American religion;Blanche & Buck, about two lesser-known members of the Bonnie and Clyde gang. There were others, along with the few stray copies ofSerious Gamesthat had not fit on the special dais, and looking at them together made her angry more than anything else. She had loved these books, had readMissioneven before meeting Graydon, and the man had ruined those memories, like all those directors and producers whose films had been tainted by their loathsome treatment of women. Graydon was not Harvey Weinstein, not even close, but she didn’t hate the idea of him doing a stint in prison.
Ianhmm-ed.
“I don’t believe I see his short story collection here—the first thing he published?”
This was starting to feel like déjà vu. Merritt knew the book:Down in Texas with the Rodeo, its title taken from lyrics in a Bob Dylan song she’d listened to only once, and then only to say she’d heard it. But she played dumb now rather than further reveal her intimate knowledge of the man in question.
“Oh, is that right? Let’s go see if we can order it for you.”
“No,” Ian said, shaking his head. “I’ll need it faster than that.”
“It’ll only take a week at most.”
Ian clicked his tongue, as if deeply regretful. “No, it looks like I’ll have to resort to the dreaded Amazon.”
He waved his fingers next to his face, as if describing a scary monster.
“Ah,” Merritt said, “well, if you need it that badly.”
“I do, I do. But these”—he held up a stack of Graydon’s other books—“I’ll purchase here.”
“How generous of you,” Merritt said, under her breath.
“What was that?”
“Huong will help you.”
“Ah, yes.”
Ian lingered where he stood.
“One more question for you, Merritt, although this one is a little morefun.”
Oh God. From the look in his eyes, she knew what was coming.
“I was actually wondering whether you’d like to—”
A crash interrupted Ian, causing both of them to turn toward the register. On the floor in front of the desk lay the rotating display stand that normally stood on the counter. Complimentary bookmarks were scattered all over the floor.
“Ohshoot,” Huong said in an exaggerated tone Merritt had never heard her use before. “I am such a klutz.”
“Ohgosh,” Merritt said as she walked toward the front of the store. “Here, let me help you with that. In fact, why don’t I clean it up while you get Ian here sorted.”
