Haunt Your Heart Out

Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Christmas rush hadn’t slowed since mid-December—it was turning into the year of the Dog-Eared Café stocking stuffer. Customer after customer ordered their caffeine to go and plucked up gift certificates in tiny to giant sums. Stowe souvenirs in the form of snowboarding cow magnets and Vermont-shaped bottle openers were snapped up as well, mostly by tourists, from the look of their puffy jackets with fur-lined hoods, weekend-only lift passes tacked into place on the zippers.

I pushed coffee club memberships on visitors—with minimal success—and watched as the paperback table stacks thinned as readers discovered the little gems hidden throughout. The climbing daily totals made me look good—which would work in my favor if I got the loan and ownership landed in my court.

When. When it landed in my court.

The bank had called to clarify a few details after Charles supplied a glowing business reference. They promised a decision before December 31 at the very latest, so Schr?dinger’s Business Loan would be decided soon. Not soon enough for my nerves, but in time for me to meet Charles’s deadline at least.

I’d amp up the holiday cheer next year, when the store was mine. Secret Santa book grab bags, with five surprise paperbacks following a specific theme. Seasonal, reloadable gift cards to replace the handwritten certificates that were easy to lose—or forge. Peppermint mocha coffees, for the love of Rudolph.

Julian had invited Natalie to check out the footage from the bridge so they could fill in any gaps. She dropped everything to spend her morning with the guy. They were magnetic, the way they fell into step together. Even though Natalie had never worked in film beyond the role of my intrepid camera person, she seemed to have an instinct for what was necessary. While setting up at the bridge, his points and waves and gestures translated into something Natalie simply understood without effort, and she matched them sweep for excited sweep.

The fact that they got along so well was fantastic, but it also meant I was shelving new books without her texts or presence to keep me company.

The bell above the door jingled, which summoned me from my little back-of-the-store corner where I was shelving multiple copies of A Brief History of Time . A woman tugged her phone from her pocket and swiped open her notes app to show me a list. I’d seen her around town for the past few years, but the familiarity stopped there.

“I’m starting a book club in the area, and we are trying to track down a few copies of any of these.” She flashed the screen in my direction to reveal a list of not-quite-new mystery titles.

“I’ve got at least one of each of these in stock. I think I’ve got multiples of a few. Most of our stock is used, so it changes out quite a bit. I can order anything you’d like, though.”

“We’ll go for the title that you have most of. That will make our decision easier. This is our narrowed down list, if you can believe it.” Her rosy cheeks rounded as she snickered.

“Oh, I can. You should see my to-read pile. It’s going to become sentient and devour me alive one of these days.”

Her eyes crinkled at the corners and her cheeks turned ever-plumper at my joke. “Sounds too much like a horror novel for my taste. I’d much rather read something that’ll make me smile. We weren’t sure what to choose for our inaugural book club meeting, and these were all listed as Edgar Awards nominees, so we figured we’d find something we were interested in.”

“Would you like a recommendation?” I curled my finger, inviting her to follow me through the narrow aisles. We stopped in front of a display Darla and I had made the summer before—stacks upon stacks of books that we’d acquired en masse, with a tidy little “Book Club Fiction” sign tacked to the shelf. “I was going to start a book club here, a little lending library of our most common titles. There are question sheets taped into the backs of each book, too, to kick-start the conversation.”

“How wonderful. If we knew we’d have come to you first. How often do you meet?”

“Oh, no.” I shook my head. “Charles, the owner, didn’t want to do it. I didn’t take the shelf down, but I never went forward with advertising the group or anything. I can give you a discount if you get more than five copies of any of these, though. The spirit of the club will be alive and well through your members.”

She dragged a finger along the spines and a little squint appeared as she mouthed the titles. The passed-up titles each got a little headshake, but the more promising options were tugged from the shelf so she could skim the back copy. She sucked air through her teeth and tapped the cover of a recent romance novel. “This one. I know I want to read it, and they sent me out to make the purchase, so I’m making an executive decision. Besides,” she nudged me with a shoulder, “the man on the cover is quite stunning.”

I tugged copies from the shelf and giggled at the gleam in her eye. “How many do you need?”

She counted quickly on her fingers, paused, then counted again. “Seven. Oh, whoops, and me. So, eight. Eight books, please.”

I brought the pile to the desk, tucked a branded bookmark in each, and rang up the total. She counted cash from her wallet, rubbing her fingers against a stack of crisp ones and fives to break them apart, then she jingled the change pocket to count out coins to make exact change.

“Sorry about the cash. I’m a bit old fashioned, I suppose.”

“Cash is great, I love cash. It’s worked for how many years, and it’ll keep on working.” I dropped the change into the register and slid her books into the canvas tote bag she offered. It had the logo for a book store in New York City plastered across the front of it. “Are you from New York?”

“My daughter worked at this store.” She patted the logo. “That was while she was in college, but she’s moved on. She always says she wishes she’d stayed in the city, kept her college job instead of becoming a marketing consultant.”

“Being in marketing is probably exciting, though.”

“I think she preferred the worlds she found in books to the reality of working a job she despises.”

“I can absolutely understand that,” I said. “I’m still here because there’s something whimsical about it. I’m happy, so why change anything?”

Her cheeks raised again with another smile. “Indeed.”

“Enjoy your book club, and if you need any more suggestions just let me know. I really can order anything you want, even if it looks like we only stock twenty-year-old books.”

She looped the handles of her bag over her forearm and patted the straps. “Maybe someday we’ll convince you to join us.”

After she left, I glanced around the store, examining the cushy couch and armchairs, before shaking away the memories of all the things I had wanted to accomplish here. The poetry readings and book clubs, story times and writing group meet-ups. The activities that would have turned Dog-Eared into a gathering place rather than a convenient bathroom stop. All of the things Charles kept shooting down because a store was a place to make money, and offering free activities didn’t make money. He never listened to my logic, but if my hauntings looked as real on camera as they did in person, if everyone could fall for the fibs just a little bit longer, my dreams for the place were going to have their chance.

When I made it back to the front of the store, James was leaning against the discount paperback table by the window, a worn paperback in his hand. “Long day?” he asked.

“The longest. What are you reading?”

He held up the copy of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? I’d given him on an earlier visit and bit his lip. “Did you know they made a movie out of this?”

“You mean the cinematic masterpiece Blade Runner ?” I crossed my arms.

“I’m thrilled.”

“Please tell me you’re joking. There’s no way this is news.”

He hopped off the table and smoothed his jacket. “I’m absolutely joking. We should watch it sometime. You know, if you ever need last-minute plans or an alibi or something. I’m your guy.”

“And here I thought we’d moved beyond back-up plans and cover-ups.”

He tapped the spine of his paperback against the flat of his palm. “Perhaps, but there’s still something I desperately need you for.” He raised his chin in my direction, smug and striking. “Books. I need another recommendation.”

“I’m sorry, I saw your collection. You’re going to have to leave some books for the rest of us.”

“Maybe it’s a test,” he suggested.

“If there’s one thing I’ve always been great at, it’s acing quizzes.”

I hooked my fingertips in his, and we wandered serpentine through the aisles, hitting all the best sections. I tugged books with bent edges and cracked spines from the shelves and stacked them in his waiting arms. A pile of eight books teetered in his grip, his hands sandwiching the finds in a not-quite-cutting-it hold.

“This should keep me busy for a while.” He eyed the stack of Orwell, Bradbury, Huxley, and the handful of Vonnegut titles we had in stock. He slid the books onto the counter and retrieved his wallet from his back pocket. When his coat fell back into place, the outdoorsy scent of melting snow wafted my direction, and my mind went blank.

James slid a twenty across the desk, gathered his books, then walked toward the door. Steps before hitting the threshold, he veered to the left and settled into the worn armchair by the window. He placed his stack of books on the floor, retrieved the book from the top, and disappeared into the pages without a word.

“Really?” I asked.

“Shhh. You’re impossible.” He pressed a finger to his lips and narrowed his eyes at me, then made a show of jiggling stiff, outstretched arms, both hands gripping the book, as if shaking himself back into reading mode.

“Do you want a coffee?” I asked. He eyed me over the edge of his book, with one eyebrow hefted playfully. “Soy, no foam, right?”

“I bought a stack of books, and now you’re shaking me down for coffee sales.” He sighed exaggeratedly, then slid the book upward again, cutting off my view of his face.

“Suit yourself.” I made myself a coffee instead, with plenty of knocks and crashes, and an extra spritz of the milk steamer just to get attention.

“So, my father has an extra lift pass for our visit. I told him I’m seeing someone, and he insisted you come along so he could meet you.”

I’d have been stunned about his father knowing I existed, if it weren’t for the spike of fear about skiing that shot down my spine. “Only if we’re also riding the lift back down. I don’t ski.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Not even a little?”

“No way. Last time I went, my sister and her boyfriend left me on some trail that was way too advanced. My parents had to have the search party head out looking for me. Not my scene. Not that I’m not thrilled at the invitation to meet your dad, of course.”

He shook his head and waved away my apologies. “I’d prefer to avoid calling in the rescue squad. I’ll tell him you’re not available.”

“I’d hate to disappoint him by not coming.”

“Oh, I’ve been disappointing him since birth. Really, he’s used to it. We have dinner reservations after, if you want to join?”

“Not if I want—if you want. I won’t be offended if you don’t want to complicate things by having me meet your dad. We’ve only been … we’ve only known each other … for a couple of weeks. I get it.”

James placed a hand on top of mine where it rested on the arm of the chair. “I would love to have you there. Happier with you there, even. It’s just that my dad is, umm, intense.”

“As you’ve mentioned,” I said.

“As I’ve mentioned.” He nodded.

“I can handle it. I can sit back and ignore him. I can deflect. Whatever you need.”

He bumped my foot with his booted toes. “I need you,” he said. “Just you. However you are.”

Meeting the family wasn’t a minor event, especially considering the state of his relationship with his father. While we were hurtling toward something serious much more quickly than I’d expected when we met only a few weeks ago, I wasn’t ready to put the brakes on. It felt okay—comforting, even—to have found this connection. “Dinner with your dad it is, then.”

He tapped the brim of his dumb Yankees hat and went back to reading without another word.