Page 106 of Enzo

“Where are we going?” she asks, staring out of the window. “We could have just walked around the block.”

“So you keep saying.”

“But … don’t you have to work?”

I glance at my watch. “Not right now. But I have a meeting in about an hour.”

Molly didn’t hear me tell the driver where we were going, but I’m secretly excited to bring her back here. I can’t wait to see her reaction.

In a short while, we reach our destination. I pay the driver, then climb out, holding the door open for Molly. I watch her intently.

She stares at the bookshop, her mouth turning into a big “O.”

No sound comes out.

She gazes up and at the window display. I move her away from the curb and she rushes to the window, stares at it for a few seconds then turns around and throws her arms around me.

“The bookshop! Oh, Enzo.”

She holds me a moment longer and I savor the moment. The feel of her, her soft cheek barely brushing mine, her hands slowly trailing down my arms and clasping my hands. Her scent reminds me of wildflowers.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

I scoff, like it’s no big deal. Because it isn’t. No one has ever hugged me for bringing them to a bookshop before. And I suspect no one ever will. There’s only one Molly. The smallest things bring her so much joy.

She moves away, and I tap my watch. “I’ve only got an hour,” I remind her, but I’m secretly pleased with myself for doing this. For wearing disguises, for coming here. For making more of her New York stay than she expected.

It hasn’t turned out anything like I thought it would.

Seeing how happy this makes her feels better than anything I’ve done all week.

We go in. It's so much bigger inside. There are narrow aisles and stacked books, and lots of small round tables with warm amber lamps, and comfy leather armchairs dotted around.

The elderly owner looks up as we walk in, pushes his metal-framed reading glasses up and stares at us. My insides harden.

We look odd.

Its obvious that Molly isn’t old.

And me? I must look odd.

I stroke my fake beard. The owner nods then gives a friendly smile, before going back to his book.

Maybe we don’t look as odd as I thought.

Molly walks around, her fingers trailing and tracing along the bookshelves. Every now and then she picks up a book, flicks through it, then sets it back into the shelf. A few times she’s holds the book up to her face and inhales.

I caught her doing it once and she blushed and put it away quickly.

I have a vast collection of books at home, but I buy mine mostly online. If I do venture into a bookshop, it’s to look at a book, decide if it’s something I want, and then I buy it.

What Molly does is something else. She inhales and absorbs, and lovingly touches these books as if they are precious.

A couple of times I notice people staring at her and but Molly doesn’t notice them at all. The clothes are doing their job because people are looking at the weird outfit instead of looking closely at the woman inside it. Right now, she has her head in a book and is oblivious to everything else.

How strange is it that I’m in a bookshop with a woman dressed like Mrs. Doubtfire, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else?

I walk around, looking at books, then putting them back. After a while, I notice that I can’t see Molly anywhere. It sets off an unexpected jolt of fleeting panic inside me. I rush along the narrow aisles, looking for her in all the nooks and crannies, but I don’t see her.