The Little Bookshop On the Seine (7 page)

I said sorry to the woman, as she scrunched her face in anger, and spun on her heel. Then I turned to Beatrice and said quietly, “I feel for her.”

“Why?” Beatrice knitted her brow. “This isn’t a little fairy tale village, Sarah. This is Paris, and a
very
busy bookshop. People here will try everything they can to take advantage. You’ll see. It might sound harsh, but we have to follow certain rules or else we’ll be overrun.”

A fairy tale little village?
“I see,” I said, but didn’t really. Beatrice spoke calmly and confidently, but it was as though she was speaking down to me. Maybe I was reading too much into it, or being a touch sensitive. Of course there must have been certain rules and regulations here. Sophie was a very organized person.

Ridge’s love-red roses were almost like a hug, their half open buds like a countdown, and I only hoped when they bloomed maybe he’d be here.

The next customer approached, an athletic guy with sandy blonde hair. “I’m looking for some books about orchids.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket and read the title.

“Upstairs,” Beatrice pointed.

“Do you have that book though?” he asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Beatrice said. “Trundle upstairs and take a look.”

He frowned.

“I’ll go,” I said and brushed past her.

“Don’t make a habit of it,” she tutted. “We don’t have time for that.”

I double blinked.
No time to help them find books?
Just what kind of bookshop was this? “I’ll be fast,” I said, bamboozled by the ethics here. It was obviously busy, so if the other staff hadn’t arrived for whatever reason, why hadn’t she called for back-up? I couldn’t imagine telling a customer to go find his own book if he specifically asked for a title.

I had no idea which rooms housed what genres, but I did know the conservatory on the top floor was where the horticulture books were kept, because Sophie had mentioned it to me once before. It was her favorite room, and the place she sat at night to watch the Eiffel Tower sparkle under the moonlight.

I dashed up the rickety stairs, and went down a hallway, following hand painted arrows that pointed the way for each different room. Once we reached the conservatory, I quickly found the orchid section.

The guy ran a hand through his hair, slightly puffed from rushing up the stairs two at a time behind me. After a quick flick through dusty old tomes, I found a selection of books about orchids, including the one he’d asked for. “Thanks,” he said. “I’d never have found my way up here. This place is a lot bigger than it looks from the front.”

“It is,” I agreed. “And you’re welcome.”

He took the proffered books, and bounded back downstairs with a wave.

Hands on hips, I paused to catch my breath. My heart was hammering from the pace and the confusing start to my time here. The conservatory was aptly named, sunlight filtered in from a glass ceiling, which connected to the picture window which overlooked Paris. It was like being in a dream, the room luminescent with light, landing on the books in soft shards, making them almost ethereal, as they lounged in the glow of weak sunlight.

I started. In the corner, like a penumbra, a man sat hunched over a laptop. I hadn’t seen him sitting there, in the only spot the sun didn’t seem to shine. It was like he was trying to be invisible, back turned to the view outside of the Notre Dame in the distance, staring at his screen silently. I thought it better not to disturb him, but darted a quick glance as I edged out of the room. His side profile, blonde hair, blue eyes, full lips, seemed familiar somehow, but I couldn’t place him. Stretching his arms, he turned to me, catching me staring. We exchanged nods, and I rushed back into the hallway. With one last centering breath, I headed back into the fray, worried to see the line was longer, and that still only Beatrice was serving.

Evening fell, and I hadn’t managed to steal away for a nap. The customers eventually slowed to a trickle. I yawned and stretched, numbed from the unexpectedly long day, and ready to crawl into bed. My legs were jelly-like from exhaustion, and I longed for sleep.

I’d known Sophie’s bookshop was busy, a hive of activity, but I hadn’t expected high-pitched chatter, and incessant queues. It was more like book factory,
wrap book, take money, point them in the direction of the nearest public toilet, make change, repeat.
Some customers were surly, others awed to be in such a beautiful bookshop, and they lingered, not wanting their visit to end.

Beatrice tossed her hair, and stretched her arms high above. “I hope I didn’t come across badly,” she said, with an amiable smile. “It’s just that we have to follow protocol for things to run smoothly.”

Smoothly? That was the worst kind of chaos I’d ever stepped into. I’d wanted to ask about the lack of staff, but thought it best to tackle the big questions the next day when my brain was firing on all cylinders. I was so bone-tired, my words would probably fall out in a garbled mess. “We can chat tomorrow, properly. You can fill me in on the things I need to know,” I said.

An ebony-haired guy crept into the bookshop. He was shadow thin and fidgety. He nodded to Beatrice, and was rewarded with an eye roll from her. His black suit was crinkled and frayed at the hems, like he wore it a lot.

“Finally, he’s here.” Beatrice said, her voice sharp.

“Poor Beatrice,” he said, real concern in his voice. “Rolling her eyes to make sure her brain is still there. Find it this time, did you, dearie?”

What now? A rift among the staff? Sophie had told me that there were often petty squabbles, and I’d have to really pull them into line to make this place run efficiently. But did they snipe at each other just for the heck of it?

Beatrice crossed her arms, and said “Go write some unpublishable poetry. Oh wait…you already have.” She smirked, and tossed her red curls once more.

My shoulders slumped a few degrees south. My lofty dreams of hanging out at the bookshop chatting about favorite novels were in tatters. Where was the book lovers’ paradise I’d imagined? Us curled up on crinkly leather sofas, talking into the early hours of the morning about writers we adored, novels that changed our lives? I could fix it, I was sure of it, by injecting some fun into the monotony of day-to-day bookshop life.

“You must be TJ?” I said, holding my hand out. He had the tortured poet look perfected; mussed hair, perpetual frown, and secretive, dark eyes. His disheveled appearance was compelling, as though he lost himself in the business of living, and didn’t bother about anything else. I recognized that attribute in myself too. Many a time, I wandered from my reading cocoon, hair a bird’s nest, cheek with a thick pillow wrinkle, dazed, as my world had changed once again because of a book that had taken me on a journey, depositing me back on earth with a
bang
once I was done.

TJ cocked his head, and surveyed me for the longest time. “Sarah Smith. Romance reader. Book blogger. Owner of the Bookshop on the Corner. Twenty-nine. Loves metaphors. Hates mushrooms. Believes in love at first sight. Dates a roving reporter who resembles a Mills and Boon cover model, but that’s not the only reason she loves him. Yes?”

My eyebrows shot up. “Umm, yes…?”

His gave me an impish grin which made him look almost boyish. “How do I know? I’m a details man…”

“Stalker, more like,” Beatrice interjected.

He flicked a hand to dismiss her. “Thanks for your input, Beatrice.” His words poured out honeyed with sarcasm. He pasted on a smile, and took a notebook from his satchel. “Now if we’re all caught up, I have some unpublishable poetry to write. I’ll lock up, Sarah.”

I yawned. “That’s music to my ears. I haven’t slept since yesterday. Can you point me in the direction of Sophie’s apartment?”

TJ leaned over the counter, opened a drawer and took a bunch of keys out. “These are for the apartment, and the gold ones are for the bookshop,” he said. “Go up the stairs, third door down is Sophie’s apartment. Do you need help with your bags?”

“Thanks TJ, but I can manage.” I only wanted to shower and sleep. There’d be ample time to get to know everyone tomorrow. Though I was dead curious to find out their stories and how they found their way to Once Upon a Time, it would have to wait. “I guess I’ll see you both tomorrow?” I went to the front door, to the little gap where I’d stashed my bag and backpack – only to find my jacket in a crumpled heap on the carpet. I spun around, searching the entryway desperately, but there were only books, no bags.
No!

“What is it?” TJ said. “You’ve gone lily white.”

I rubbed my hands over my face, hoping I’d wake up from a bad dream and find my things where I left them. “They’re gone! My suitcase and my backpack. My passport!” I groaned.

TJ loped over, and surveyed the empty spot where my jacket lay like an empty promise. “Are you sure someone didn’t move it?”

We both looked to Beatrice who shrugged. “This is what I meant by people taking advantage. It’s why I’m tough with the customers. Sorry, Sarah, but this just proves my point.”

A strangled hiccough escaped me. TJ rubbed my back. This was the never-ending day from hell. It was impossible to believe it was still my first day in Paris. It had been interminable. Bag snatch, check. Heck, I hoped my mother wasn’t right. Was this a sign of things to come?

“Go upstairs,” he said. “Use Sophie’s phone. You’ll have to report it all missing, I guess. Not that you have any hope of it being returned.” His voice was soft with empathy.

I frowned. Bed was still out of reach. It was my own damn stupidity, I’d have to spend the next hour on the phone.
Way to go, Sarah.

With heavy legs, I stomped up the stairs fighting tears. Paris was supposed to be perfect. A magical, romantic city where I’d discover a whole new me. Maybe I wasn’t great at driving my own life outside of Ashford. I’d made a mess of things. Money, credit cards, passport – gone. That would make the coming weeks difficult when it came time to, you know, eat. And my suitcase, my precious books – gone. Clothing – gone. The only pair of shoes I’d have now were the borrowed clodhoppers on my feet, and the thought of lugging myself around on those all day in the store had me
and
my back at breaking point.

Why would I leave my bags right near the front door? I may as well have left a note on there saying
Steal me
! Back home we didn’t even lock our houses at nighttime, but I had to learn quick smart I wasn’t in Ashford any more.

Pushing open the door of Sophie’s apartment, I lifted a little. It was an elegant space, pretty and feminine and I knew I’d be comfortable. Grainy wooden floorboards were polished to a shine, a huge bed was made up with fresh white linen. A floor lamp lit the room from under its ruched vanilla shade. A bouquet of flowers scented the air sweet. Near the bed was a bookshelf that took up an entire wall; I was happy to note it was filled with romance books. I took in their titles, and anticipated making my way through them. Instead of diving into bed with a dusty well-read romance, I grabbed the phone and tried to sort out who I needed to call. My eyes were hanging out of my head by the time I hung up and fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter Five

The next morning, I woke groggily, forcing myself awake, fighting the need for a few more hours’ shut eye. My head spun like I was hungover from lack of rest. After a quick shower I pulled on the same wrinkled clothes I’d travelled in.

My travel insurance would replace the cost of my luggage, but it would take a couple of weeks for them to courier travelers’ checks, at the earliest.
At the earliest?
I’d cried. Another travel fail; read the fine print.

I’d contacted the American embassy about my missing passport, and scheduled an appointment. I remembered what the elderly man on the street said, embrace the drama, so I tried to think of it all as part of the journey, and not that I was a hopeless, hapless tourist.

The bookshop was due to open, and there was no time to call Ridge or the girls – with the scattered time differences, I was sure they’d be asleep. What could I say anyway…
Hey, it’s Sarah. In the first five minutes of my trip I’ve managed to lose everything you’re supposed to lock away safe! You’d be so proud! I haven’t been mugged, but the day is young! Au revoir!

Time to switch on and become bookseller Sarah. That persona, I knew well.

With a liberal spray of Sophie’s jasmine perfume, I headed downstairs, ready for another day. I was determined that I would handle things better, now that I’d had some sleep and I knew how hectic the shop floor was. Beatrice could show me the ropes, and hopefully a few more staff might materialize. There was something a little off about Beatrice, but she’d been under a huge amount of pressure in the busy shop. The back and forth with her and TJ might have been just the way they bantered. Who knew what friendships were like out of Ashford and beyond the pages of my books?

The stairs groaned underfoot as I rushed down into the maze of the bookstore. I couldn’t wait to stumble around the nooks and crannies, and find some joy between the pages. The shop was layered with dark wooden shelves, which curved and bowed with the weight of books. There were lots of little hidey holes, and I knew I’d find some treasures in amongst the disorderly piles. “Bonjour!” a sultry French voice greeted me as I made my way through the laneways.

When I stepped into the main room, the open lower level, a girl with cropped blonde hair and china blue eyes greeted me, giving me a gentle handshake. Her nails were manicured pale pink, and a spectacular diamond ring glinted under the lights. “
Desole
, I heard all about the theft! I wish I’d been here to welcome you as promised. This is my fault. Beatrice should have warned you not to leave anything personal lying around. It only takes a second for things to disappear, as I guess you found out.” She gave me a quick hug. “I’m Oceane. Do you need to borrow clothes? Money?”

She wore a tight knitted cobalt blue dress, and a cashmere cardigan. Her clothes screamed designer label, in a chic, classic French way. Compared to me, her outfit was downright glamorous, and I rued the fact I was wearing the same travel-wrinkled jeans and sweater.