The Bookshop on Autumn Lane (12 page)

“Travel.”

“Don't military children usually want the opposite?”

“Oh, you mean like a home they'll never leave?”

“Hmm.”

“What is a home? Just a piece of land with a house.”

“I think of it as a place you belong.”

“I've felt more at home traveling in a car than I ever have under a roof.”

“Lulu? Isn't she the same thing as a home, then? A place you belong.”

“It's not the same. She has wheels and no mortgage.”

He reached out and grabbed my hand. “Sure it is.”

The breeze whipped my hair in front of my face. I couldn't bring myself to disturb the moment. I kept my hand in his and let my hair fly. “So, what about the little village you mentioned. The place where the Darlingtons are from? If it's so great to be home, why are you here?”

He let go of my hand and reached down and picked up a stick. He pulled back his arm and threw it. “I'm often gone for long periods of time. Even so, I love to know there is a home that still exists for me when I am ready to return.”

“I wouldn't have a clue what that feels like.” I shrugged and picked up a rock. I threw it as hard as I could. It didn't travel as far as Kit's stick and landed just a few yards past the shore.

“Having a home is kind of like this beach,” Kit said.

“How's that?”

“You can throw yourself as far as you want, like the rock and the stick. But you'll catch the wind and the current and find your way back to land.”

“Very deep, Professor.” As if on cue, Moby pulled a stick out of the water and brought it back to our feet.

Kit chuckled and put his arm around me. “You know, Trudy, I think you are a bit afraid.”

“What?” I pushed away from him.

“You heard me.” He turned me around until our faces were inches apart. I could feel the heat of his breath and my heart sped up. I didn't know if this new intimacy was a good thing or a bad thing. And it was so unlike me to even think about my actions. I was definitely off my game. Before I could figure out why I was hesitating, he lowered his head to mine.

* * *

Our lips met with an explosion that chased away the lingering coolness in the air, making it feel like a scorching night in July. He tasted salty and sweet, and I felt like I had been starving until now. I buried my fingers in his hair. His hands wandered underneath my shirt, making paths across my back that left a trail of fire. His hair was thicker than I thought. Like corn silk crossed with cashmere. I ran my thumb across the nape of his neck and tried to follow with my tongue. He was just tall enough that I could reach the side of his neck while his own lips moved lower.

In the distance, Moby barked.

Kit kissed the area right beneath my ear. Heat and uber-sensitivity rippled across my breasts and below. I was ready to jump his bones right there and then. And based on the way he felt against me, he would have no objections. I reached down to his belt and he stopped.

“This is . . .” His hands had stalled on my back and he pulled away from me with a shudder.

Moby barked again.

“What's wrong?”

“I can't do this.”

I tried to kiss him again. “I'm not like most girls. I don't need cotton sheets and a roaring fire.”

He turned away. “We aren't a couple of teenagers.”

Why did I have to fall for a proper Englishman?

Moby barked louder now. An angrier bark. I looked past Kit to see Moby running through the darker scrub nearby.

“Moby!”

But he ignored me and the white fur on his tail disappeared in the brush. A darker shadow nearby sent a shiver up my spine. “There's something there.”

“Where?” Kit's hands dropped to his sides. He walked toward the area Moby had disappeared.

“Do you think he's all right?”

“Hopefully. The last thing you want is him discovering a skunk.”

A shaggy collie and a skunk were not something I wanted to even consider. “Moby. Get back here!”

Before we reached him, something separated itself from a larger shadow and leaped out into the moonlight. For a moment I thought it was a skunk. But the white stripe was missing. The black cat.

Moby wasn't far behind it. He stopped a few feet from the cat, who faced him with an arched back and a straight tail. The cat erupted in a hiss. Moby didn't stick around long enough to find out what the cat planned to do with him. He ran straight for us.

“Scared of a little cat, boy?” He wove himself between my legs and back to Kit, seeking reassurance that we were there for him.

“Your dog is a bit timid.”

“I told you. He's not
my
dog. But he's not the only one acting scared.”

Kit stopped petting Moby and stood up straight. “Are you referring to me?”

“I don't see anyone else around here.” I turned and started walking toward Main Street.

“Excuse me. But in what manner is what we were just doing timid?”

It was so unfair. I picked up my pace and Moby stuck to my side. I was doomed to be surrounded by men who slipped away from me like waves on a beach. Which was why I should have remembered that I was in my self-induced dry phase.

“Hello? Are you listening?” Kit was in front of me now, walking backwards while he waited for me to respond.

“It's not what you were doing. It's the fact that you stopped.”

He slowed and I passed him. I heard him sputtering behind me. “You—well . . . Wait a minute, there, Trudy.”

“It's all right, Kit. I get it. I was having a good time. You, on the other hand, must have felt differently.”

“You don't understand.” He caught up to me and reached for my hand.

“Our incredibly romantic discussion about owning a home and dyslexia dampened the mood, anyway.”

“Hey. Just stop and let me explain.”

We were almost at the store. I turned and faced him.

He adjusted his glasses. “It's just that I'm here for only a short time.”

“So am I.”

“You don't really know me. And I don't think it would be in our best interests to have any complications that would make me—”

He paused. What was he going to say? I stomped my foot. “Our best interests? Complications? What kind of complications?”

“It's just, you know, we just met and you're trying to clean up the store.”

“I get it. You're a professor. You live for schedules and houses and order. I live in a broken-down bug.”

“That isn't what I was thinking at all.”

“Oh really?”

“Really.” He reached out with both hands and cupped my chin. “I respect you. That's why I stopped.”

I stood speechless, trying to figure out what he meant. No one ever used the word
respect
around me. Then he kissed me soundly. Not a breathless, drawn-out kiss like we had shared on the beach. But a firm, single kiss that held a promise. I felt it long after his lips left mine. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car key. “I will see you tomorrow.”

I watched him climb into the truck and pull away and tried to shake off a nagging suspicion. And an overwhelming sense of longing.

I touched the tip of my tongue to my upper lip. Something unique and pleasing tingled in my mouth. A new sensation awakened my body and rocked my insides.

Kit Darlington tasted like I imagined a home would taste.

T
he next morning someone knocked at the back door. I looked down at Mickey. He pointed to the nine with his short arm. “Let me in. I come bearing gifts.”

I met Kit at the back door and Moby practically tackled him in his excitement. So did I.

“I missed you too, boy,” said Kit. He handed me a takeout bag. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine . . .” I grabbed the bag and sat on the stairs, watching Kit take a sip from what I assumed was coffee, not tea. “Except for being horny half the night.”

He sputtered and almost sprayed a cookbook.

Last night I had dreamed of playing naked tug-of-war with Kit along the shores of Echo Lake, only to wake up at dawn, tangled in the sheets and kissing the pillow. I lay on my side and stared at the shadows of tree branches gyrating up and down like lovers.

“Hey, look.” I pulled out a bowl and a covered cup with handwritten labels. “Muesli and almond milk.”

“Mac seems to—ah, like you,” Kit said, wiping his mouth. “He prepared it just for you.”

“And a banana,” I said, pulling it out of the bag and putting it up to my mouth, licking my lip in a not-so subtle way.

Kit pulled off his glasses and pretended to wipe them on his shirttail. I gave him a break and set the banana aside. “Having breakfast with you could become a lovely habit, Professor.”

I savored the nutty texture of the cereal. And Kit. He looked good enough to eat in his faded jeans and navy crew-neck sweater. His face had the shadow of a beard that gave him a rather un-professorly look this morning. “Has anyone ever told you that when you don't shave you look like David Beckham?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your imagination is amazing.” It made him look even more like Beckham, but I knew he was tired of the admiring masses.

I poured more almond milk into my bowl. “Okay. Okay. I'll stop drooling over your macho looks and your cute little accent.”

“Who says it isn't you who has an accent?” He made himself comfortable on a stack of old coffee-table books.

I raised the spoon to my mouth and considered Kit's effect on women. At first I had been disgusted by the way the women followed him around town. But I was well aware of his charm up close. He was sweet and smart—and tolerant of everyone. I thought about the way he sat in the football stands last night, nodding as Marva asked him if he knew the queen. He shook hands and acknowledged every person that was introduced to him. I had watched closely, hoping to find some crack in the niceness facade he wore like a second skin. But I realized that Kit was the real deal. A nice man. A gentleman.

“Respect,” he had said last night. I wasn't used to men like that.

Forget respect. I wanted to ride him like a rodeo cowgirl.

“So where do we start this morning?” he asked.

“How about where we left off last night?”

Kit waved a finger at me. “Your humor takes some getting used to.”

“Who said I was joking?”

His eyes widened. But his eyes lowered to my lips. “Take pity on me. I haven't even finished my coffee.”

“All right. You want to know where we should start? How about we order a dumpster.”

“Be patient, old girl. Remember, if you get this place in order, you can hold your sale and toddle off to wherever you want to go.”

“Toddle?” I laughed. “That word just burst my David Beckham fantasy.” Not really, but I didn't want him getting full of himself. I couldn't figure out why he was so interested in helping me, but I was tired of trying to understand him. And it was nice to have company.

I looked around the back room. Things were looking better, I had to admit. After the past few days of working, I could see all the way into the front of the store. It reminded me of the way it used to look. There were still piles on the floor, but it was an organized chaos.

“The main floor is looking better.”

Kit rifled through a pile of papers and mumbled something to himself.

“What?”

He placed his glasses on top of his head to see the words in front of him. “Nothing. There is quite a bit of organizing that still needs doing.”

Although the shelves against the wall were full, books were still scattered in piles around the wood floors. We—or rather, Kit—had organized the corners of the main room by fiction and nonfiction and adult and child. That was as far as we had gotten. But there were aisles to walk down and it was enormously better than it had been. At least the store was no longer a firetrap.

“It looks fine to me.”

“Hmm. If you open for a large sale and really want your customers to find what they're looking for quickly, you should categorize some of the books.”

“You mean like romance and erotica?”

That got his attention. He readjusted his position on the books. “Amusing, love. However, something tells me your aunt didn't have much erotica.”

“Probably not. Hey, let's categorize in an unconventional way. Something fun.”

He gave up what he was reading and scrutinized me patiently. “What would you suggest, Trudy?”

“By emotion. We can have the happy section, the funny section, the hungry section, and the sexy section.”

He pursed his lips. “Where would Shakespeare fit? He is a little bit of everything.”

“I don't know. Maybe the section for people who like guys in tights.”

Kit tilted his head backward against the wall. “How about this? You eat. I'll tackle the pile of papers in the corner.”

I leaned back on the step above me and watched Kit go through the papers. He sat on his pile of books and sorted the stack around him. I enjoyed the way his broad shoulders stretched the thin material of the sweater. For a tall, lean man, he was fairly muscular. I could see the outline of his biceps as he reached across the pile. His shoulders too. I wondered what he would look like with his shirt off. I knew a little about how his muscles would feel under my fingertips, but not enough. Putting the empty spoon in my mouth, I imagined the heat of his skin sliding across my tongue. Oh God. I fanned myself with my hand.

“Something wrong?” Kit turned to me.

“Nope. It's just hot in here.”

“I'm cool. Are the windows open?”

“Hmm.” I bit the spoon and willed myself not to sweat.

“There's a lot of random papers in this pile. Your aunt seems to have kept every bill she ever received. Book orders; a set of bookshelves she bought ten years ago. Even bills from bookbinders. Did she have a safe or anywhere else she might keep important documents?” he asked in a casual tone.

“Not that I can remember. Why?”

He kept his head down. “Just wondering. Some people have secret stashes of money or jewelry that they hide from everyone else. It would be very convenient for you if you suddenly discovered a hidden bank account.”

“Believe me, all her money was already given to the Furry Friends Rescue Shelter. If Aunt Gertrude was hiding something under all this junk, she most certainly forgot about it.”

“Like what? What might she hide? And what kind of things were already given away?” He stared at me. This serious line of questioning made me feel uncomfortable, for some reason.

“Why is this so important to you?”

He shrugged and went back to the papers. “Just wanted to help. Besides, I like books. Sometimes bookstores own first editions or other important documents. Could help my research.”

“That sounds like something from a
Masterpiece Theatre
plot. Maybe we'll discover an original lumberjack diary from Paul Bunyan.”

I heard the sound of voices from outside. I leaned forward to see out the front window. The figures of three women were outlined in the glass, peering through with their hands around their eyes, blocking out the sun.

I pointed at Kit with my spoon. “Your coven is outside.”

Kit leaned out of view. “Don't tell them I'm here.”

“Oh, come on. You love being the center of attention.”

“It's embarrassing. Marva keeps asking if I am interested in selling a men's line of beauty products.”

“With your looks and all that charm, you could.” He could make a mint.

He hit his palm on his head and rolled his eyes upwards. “Women!”

* * *

Three hours later, we sat on the floor at the rear of the main room. My head was pounding again and all thoughts of Kit and sex had disappeared.

I put my head in my hands. “I've had it with books. Most of this stuff is junk and you know it.” I was whining. But the thought of doing this much longer was making me feel sick.

“Think of them as more than just paper and binding.”

“What are they? Sugar and gold? You're being ridiculous.”

Kit dropped a book in my lap. “Look, here is a book that you would appreciate.”

“Just tell me the title. My head hurts.”

“Practical Jokes and Other Nonsense
.”

I picked it up and hurled it at him. “If someone has to actually read a book about jokes, they've already failed at comedy.”

“How do you know? You haven't read it. Everything you want to throw out was crafted by someone. Each book is ideas and philosophy and imagination and . . . well, art!”

“You really think
Practical Jokes and Other Nonsense
is art?”

“To a comedian, yes.” He looked around for the book in question. Locating it in the pile at his feet he picked it up, opened it and started reading.
“The aim of a joke is not to degrade the human being, but to remind him that he is already degraded.”

“That isn't a joke.”

“Yes, it is. It's on us.”

“It didn't make me laugh. It made me feel sad.”

“Well, George Orwell said it,” he said, flipping the pages. “So he was thinking about all the dystopian philosophy.”

“Oh, great. dysto-thing. That's really funny stuff.”

I moved to stand in front of Kit. “About all the things last night . . . I was angry and I said some things about books and reading. You can say what you want about my warped views, but you have to admit, some of the books that critics love the most are super-boring.”

“I don't agree. Every book has some merit.”

I picked up a random book at my feet. I handed it to him. “Find something worthwhile somewhere in this.”

He turned it on its side to read the title: “
Gather around Me
by Gerry Stuckey. All right.” He flipped the pages of a book that looked like no one had cracked it open since it was first in print a century ago. He found something and smiled. “Here. ‘
I lifted the hair from her neck and unbuttoned the pearl buttons one by one until I could see the base of her spine. Then—
' ”

“You're making that up!”

“No, I'm not.” He held it out and continued reading.
“ ‘Her landscape unfolded in curving folds of rapture. I was lost before the journey even began
.
' ”

I was about to ask him to read more. Then I caught myself and sat back. “I'd rather watch the movie.”

“I got your attention, though. Didn't I? You, of all people, should be the last person who wants to throw out old books.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You don't? You love old things. You're sentimental. Where did you get those boots? And that old coat hanging on the back of the door?”

“That's different. These clothes are still useful. Those books aren't.”

“That is ridiculous.”

“Oh yeah? Do you see anyone else in this town banging down the door, trying to get to these books?”

“I guarantee you that once we tidy up and get this place in order, this store will be full of people.”

“You overestimate your powers. The only people I want banging down doors are the Realtors. Reeba Sweeney is coming back with another offer as soon as I clean up.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Just give me . . . give it time.”

“Time? Angkor Wat is waiting. I cleaned the magazines out of the tub and the cookbooks out of the oven. Upstairs things are starting to look normal.”

“There's still a lot that needs doing.”

“Not really. I've fixed the door, taken down the old awning. I'm going to give the front window a fresh coat of paint. As soon as I make my way to the basement I'll even be able to do my first load of real laundry. The store is almost ready to sell.”

Kit froze and his mouth dropped open. “Basement?”

“Don't look so upset. I know it's going to be an awful job. We can ignore whatever mess is down there and make a walkway to the washing machine . . . if it still works. I haven't been down there at all.”

He bit his lip and stood up, gazing around the store. “I didn't even see a set of stairs.”

“You can't see the cellar entrance unless you go around the outside of the building. It's hidden by brush and weeds. Reeba Sweeney's agency was hired by the administrator of Aunt Gertrude's trust to handle basic maintenance until they found me. They had the water and heater turned on for me. But that's it. I'm pretty sure they let squatters live here. I've been avoiding the basement since I arrived.”

Kit looked down at the floor, as if he were imagining what could be down below us. “Well, there's no time like the present.”

“I'm not finished here.”

He had the back door open and was out the door before I could say anymore.