The Little Bookshop On the Seine (25 page)

She huffed, though she tried to mask it by coughing. “I have no idea, Sarah. It’s not my job to balance the takings, is it? If there’s nothing else?”

“Beatrice, I’m not messing around. This is happening regularly now, and from what I can gather, it’s always when you’re here.”

She shrugged, feigning disinterest. “Are you accusing me?”

Why was she so cool about it? Wouldn’t you be angry if someone suggested such a thing?

Was it Beatrice stealing? As far as I could see she didn’t live extravagantly like Oceane. But then, I didn’t know much about her, except her reading habits.

“Do you think it’s odd that it only seems to happen when you’re here?” I threw the question back on her.

“Not at all. You know staff pop in when they want books. They’re not likely to steal on their own shift, are they? Too obvious.”

I shrugged but I just didn’t trust her. “I’ll have to tell Sophie, and see what she says. It can’t keep happening. Just so you know.” Would that scare her? I wondered if Sophie would threaten them all with being fired, or if I should? But after the last time I had brought it up I knew that the culprit wasn’t going to raise their hand and take the blame.

“Good idea. And while you’re speaking to her, maybe tell her about the first edition you sold for almost nothing.” And there it was. I wasn’t imagining her hostility. The passive aggressive way in which she spoke to me. Blurting something out, and then softening it with a smile or an innocent shrug. I felt more than certain now it was her. Her masked threats made it obvious.

“She knows,” I said. “I haven’t kept anything from her.”

She did that same smug grin that I’d come to hate. “Well perhaps you should worry about what you’re doing to make the shop more profitable before you worry about some loose change going missing.”

“It’s not loose change and you know it.”

She raised a brow. “Oh?”

I narrowed my eyes, certain Beatrice was behind the so-called mistakes I’d made. When I thought back to unpacking the boxes from the estate sale with the first editions, there were no Joyce books there. I’d sold one that day, but I doubted it was a first edition. They almost hummed, those types of novels, and were hard to miss. I suspected someone had taken it, and the only person who knew it was there was Beatrice. But I couldn’t prove anything. “See you tomorrow night,” I said, dismissing her by going back to my counting.

“I can’t work tomorrow night, it will have to be the day.”

I sighed, my patience wearing thin. “We agreed on some nights, Beatrice.”

“Yeah, well it’s not as easy for some of us. And you’re lucky I even told you. No one else would have.” It irked me that she was right. The staff treated any idea of a roster like a joke, and no matter how I tried to enforce one, it always ended up the same. But for the first time in a long time I felt like I was onto something – not only were the plans for the author events and book bags coming along beautifully, I might just have solved the thieving problem too.

***

Tyler approached me, the same mutinous look on his face as the day I’d called the staff together about stealing. He was only a casual staff member, and like a handful of them only deigned work when it suited him.

I gave him a wide smile. “Nice to see you, Tyler.”

He glared at me in response. “You can’t tell me what to do!” Spittle flew from his mouth as he held a piece of paper aloft, waving it in front of me.

“Excuse me? I think I
can
tell you what to do. And if you don’t like it, Tyler, feel free to give notice and leave. I have Sophie’s permission, and I will pull this bookshop into the twenty-first century if it kills me.” I couldn’t help but feel a thrill of satisfaction as his face fell. “No more
, the roster is just a suggestion
, or,
they’ll work when they want
. I’d never heard of anything so dumb in all my life. You’ll work when I say so, or trot on down to the bookshop around the corner and apply there.” The tension was palpable, as Tyler gave me a stare that would have had me shrinking in on myself before, but not now. “Got it?” I asked him.

“Got it,” he eventually mumbled and stalked away.

Do not fist pump, do not jump for joy.

Internally, I did a kind of happy dance. Shy, reserved, mousy Sarah was a thing of the past. Even if I was talking about myself in third person. It felt damn good.

“Right,” I said to the staff who had edged closer, a willing audience to a confrontation they thought I’d lose. “Does anyone else have issues with the memo about the shifts and what’s expected of you while I’m in charge?”

They mumbled ‘no’s, and cast their eyes to the floor. The thrill of victory hit me anew, so I poured that excitement into the next thing on my to-do list. “Now, as I have you all gathered. Christmas is around the corner, and I’d love you to choose your favorite festive reads, and for you to write a little note about why you liked it, without spoilers. We’re going to display the books in the front window, with a bunch of gaudy, flashy, American-esque decorations. And you will be required to sing Jingle Bells on occasion,” I smiled, hoping they knew I was joking to soften the mood. Well, sort of joking. Who didn’t like singing Jingle Bells?

“Personally, I can’t wait to get merry,” TJ, ever the supporter, said.

“I will adopt a little American-ism if it kills me,” Oceane smiled, and gave me a wink.

“This is going to be amazing. Sales will soar, and I will throw you guys the most epic end of year party. We just have to pull together to make it all happen.”

The rest of the motley crew gave me small smiles, and I knew they’d come around. Once the basic rules of working were set in stone, we’d find some harmony. And we’d sell a truckload of books, if I could help it.

“We can start by wrapping presents!” I said, to their startled faces. “Well they’re faux presents, for under the Christmas tree when it arrives. And a couple of real presents to post home to my parents.”

Oceane picked up a book I’d selected for my dad. “The Gargoyles of Notre Dame.” She lifted her brow. “Good choice. They have an interesting history. What’d you get your
maman
?”

I opened a shopping bag, and took out the small box I’d found in one of the flea markets along the Seine. “A music box?” she asked. It was tarnished with age, and its velvet lining was worn bare, but it had so much soul to it, and once you twisted the button the music notes drifted out. “La Vie En Rose…It’s always that song,” she laughed. “Your
maman
will love it.”

She would, I think. My mother had never ventured far from her little patch of the world, and I’d been so much like her – content to stay in one place, doing things mechanically, regularly, keeping up the farce I was happy. Stepping away from my own inadequacies and coming here had been one of the best choices I’d made. And I suppose I hoped giving her the music box, burnished and bruised with age, but a treasure, nonetheless, she might understand. Instead of putting it in the dresser with the plates we weren’t allowed to use, maybe she’d wind it up and listen to the haunting song, and dream about a different sort of life. And that would be enough.

Later that night, the phone rang and I snatched it up, hoping it was Ridge.

“Sarah!” Lucy spoke loudly. “Get dressed. I have a spare ticket to the launch of a huge art exhibition! And yours truly has a couple of paintings included!”

A rush of pride hit me. Lucy had been so nervous in the past about sharing her work, she deemed it her heart on the canvas, and here she was exhibiting it. “OK,” I said, surveying my PJs. “I’ll grab a taxi to you?” Everyone caught the Metro here, but I still avoided it at every cost. Getting lost on a train to nowhere in the middle of the night didn’t appeal. What a change in circumstance! Instead of snoozing my life away I was burning the midnight oil and loving every second.

***

I’d been half asleep the next morning when I’d opened the bookshop after Lucy’s exhibition. I’d marveled at her skill with a paintbrush. She was right when she said it was her heart exposed bare on the canvas, you could see her passion, her skill, the way she captured the emotion in each canvas. She’d taken me on a tour, explaining her pieces, and those of the other artists – what the dark and murky brushstrokes meant to her, and then asked me what they meant to me. I supposed it was like two people reading the same book, we each read a different story, even though the words were the same. The paintings were like that too. We took from them what we needed.

I was putting the final touches to our Christmas plans; I had ordered fairy lights and real Christmas trees to put up in the corner near the children’s section, and one of each of the three levels. My belly flipped-flopped at the thought of a real Parisian festive season. Perhaps I could bake some gingerbread treats for customers? If we were a little more welcoming, rather than the book factory method of serving, customers might return instead of visiting only the once. Spontaneously I Skyped the girls back home – they were the experts on baking, and I was itching to clamp eyes on baby Willow again.

The call was answered and CeeCee’s shiny brown face came into view.

“Cherry blossom!” she cried. “Were your ears burning? We was just not two minutes ago talkin’ ‘bout you!”

I laughed – as always, hearing the warmth in her voice. “And what were you girls gossiping about me for?”

“Lil here was sayin’ how jealous she was about you bein’ in the city of food and all.” She hemmed and hawed. “I tried to tell her it’s the city of love and romance, but would she listen? No. That’s ‘cause she don’t read enough books.”

Lil pushed her face on screen. “I read books!”

“Cookbooks don’t count,” CeeCee said.

Lil lifted her eyes to the heavens, and gave her a shove. “They do so! Lotta love goes into each and every recipe!”

They could have talked over the top of each other all day, and I would have happily sat there and listened but a gaggle of tourists wandered in so I said, “Speaking of food, I need your best gingerbread coffee recipe, and also a gingerbread man one…something I can’t mess up.”

They bustled around, lifting their latest creations to the screen, and emailing me recipes from Lil’s phone. While I watched their performance on screen, laughing, I thought how amazing modern technology was – my friends weren’t that far away, not in spirit.

“OK, girls, I have to cut to the chase because the shop is filling up. Where’s that baby? I need a visual on her, or I won’t be able to focus…”

Lil held up a swaddled little bundle and it was all I could do not to blubber. She was the sweetest thing with her chubby cheeks, and one tuft of blonde hair sticking straight up into the air. “Aww,” I said. “I love you, baby Willow!”

She let out a little gurgle that almost made my heart explode.

Chapter Nineteen

“You’re sure you need all of this?” Oceane asked nodding towards boxes of Christmas decorations that had finally arrived. It would feel more like a real Christmas when I’d strung up fairy lights, and draped tinsel on every available surface. Baubles glittered red, green and gold, and a wreathe for the front door twinkled with little crystals, and had a huge red bow on top.

“I’m sure,” I replied doing my best to keep my face straight. “These bells will go nice by the front door, yes?” I held aloft a cluster of golden bells that made a heck of a lot of noise.

“Bells ringing every time someone blows through? I can’t see any reason why that wouldn’t work…”

I laughed. “TJ come and help!” He was behind the counter trying his best to look inconspicuous.

“Let me guess, you want me to hang the Mistletoe by the front door too?”

I scoffed. “You guys are amateur. I want it hung above every doorway! That’s what this box is.” I pointed.

They tried very hard to feign disinterest but I could tell they were excited. “Admit it,” I said. “You want to go dig out your ugliest Christmas sweater.”

TJ pulled a face. “We do. In fact we might go home now and see what we can find. What do you say Oceane?”

“Not so fast. You, my friend, are going to carry the trees up to each level for me. And if you’re good you can put the star on top once we’ve decorated them.”

Oceane pouted. “I want to put the stars on top!”

“That’s the spirit!” I said laughing.

Together, we strung fairy lights across the beams above and then looped tinsel through. By the counter we draped
Merry Christmas
bunting.

“So where should we put the inflatable Santa?” I asked and was met with their jaws dropping and total silence. I guess they were serious when they said Sophie didn’t get festive. “Kids section it is,” I trilled.

Customers strolled in, smiling when they saw the flashing lights and sung under their breath to the carols which played through unseen speakers. It struck me how much fun I was having. I lifted a finger. “Christmas sales! We need to get some banners printed and get some books sold!”

“That I can do,” Oceane said. “Leave it to me.”

***

The nights were getting shorter as darkness descended earlier. I’d survived winter in Ashford, but I’d never lived by the bank of a river. The blustering wind gathered momentum, bringing with it an icy chill as it whipped into the shop, making me shiver. I pulled my scarf tighter, bundling myself up and wishing I had a pair of fingerless gloves to pull on – at least they would keep my palms warm, and leave my fingers free to type on the computer and work the till.

We were preparing for the full Christmas rush; I had just received a special express delivery from the Gingerbread Café full of recipes and a pre-made mix for the gingerbread men I wanted to make. My own attempts had been photographed and laughed over good naturedly on Skype with the girls. I never was going to be a world class baker and now I finally had the proof.

“Well,” TJ said breaking me out of my reverie. “It’s quiet. I say we close up and head out for drinks. YOLO, right?”

We fell about laughing at the TJ’s attempt to use modern lingo. It was at odds with his ill-fitting suit, and his serious gaze and usual verbose way of speaking.