“Never mind Cosmo!” the man called out. “He’s always racing around like that.”
That should be easy, I thought as I wandered down one of the aisles, tilting my head to the side so I could read the titles. Cosmo had absolutely no interest in me. I was sure by now he’d taken up his spot back on top of those furry dictionaries and settled in for a cozy nap.
I envied him. It must be nice to know exactly where your place in life is.
I heard another thump from the back and figured I’d better get a move on so I wouldn’t keep the poor guy working overtime. I was thinking something fun and trashy would be good, like an epic romance, or maybe a good old-fashioned whodunit—after all, who doesn’t love a good mystery? Then I remembered the whole point of buying a new book was to impress Ethan.
I rolled my eyes with disgust. There was something about having a boyfriend that had me acting like a silly schoolgirl. I reminded myself that I was a grown woman, and that here in the twenty-first century, grown women didn’t go around pretending to be smarter or prettier or nicer just to hold on to a man, even if that man happens to be a pure dreamboat gift from heaven. Myself countered, if that were true, why was I all of a sudden putting on lip gloss and mascara in the morning? Well, I snorted, certainly not because of Ethan. Myself then reminded me that my pet clients don’t care what I look like. All they care about is whether I show up on time and whether I have some tasty treats in my pocket, like little cubes of cheese or carrot slices. They don’t give a rat’s patootie how long and luxurious my eyelashes are.
Well, that shut me up. Myself had a point.
I decided to compromise and get two books, one fun, trashy book for me, and then one literary book for show, something classic like Anna Karenina or Jane Eyre—two of my favorites when I was little. As I scanned the shelf, I realized I was in the math and science section. I pulled one of the books down and read the title out loud.
“Nonlinear Dynamical Systems and Controclass="underline" A Lyapunov-Based Approach.”
I giggled to myself as I imagined Ethan discovering me in a hammock with this book propped up on my chest. I flipped it open to a random spot and practiced, stumbling over the weird mathy language. “Oh, hi Ethan. Hey, did you know that if P is a unique positive-definite solution, then the zero solution is globally asymptotically stable?”
“Pardon me?”
I nearly jumped out of my shoes. An elderly man had appeared at the end of the aisle. He was wearing big, square tinted glasses, what I call “helmet” glasses, the kind that practically wrap around your entire head and cover half your face. His cheeks were ruddy and flushed, as though the walk from the back of the store had winded him. He wore a bright red beret, with long strands of gray hair hanging down both sides of his face, and he was slightly stooped over. He looked a little bit like a bridge troll in a fairy tale, or Albert Einstein if he were an aging elf in Santa’s workshop.
I slapped the book shut and slid it back on the shelf. “Oh, sorry, I was just talking to myself.”
He nodded, patting his breast pocket and looking around as though he’d misplaced something. His gray trousers were a couple of sizes too big, held up with yellow suspenders over a red shirt with shiny brass buttons, except that he’d forgotten a couple of buttons in the middle. Either he’d been in a hurry when he got dressed for the day or he was just a wee bit absentminded. I was pretty sure it was the latter.
He said, “Terribly sorry. I didn’t hear you come in. I was doing some cleaning up in the back, trying to move some rather heavy boxes … I actually thought the door was locked.”
I said, “Oh, no, are you closed? Because I can always come back later. I was part of the pileup, so I figured while I was waiting for the police to clear the road I’d just slip in and grab a book or two.”
He stepped back a bit, and I noticed his shoes were black leather, polished to perfection, and both untied. “The pileup?”
“Yes. Just a while ago. There was an accident right down the street from here.”
“Oh my, how dreadful.”
“A man in a convertible was driving like a maniac and hit a big truck head-on. I’m surprised you didn’t hear the sirens.”
“Sirens?”
Sometimes my mouth says things it shouldn’t. Most people have a little trip switch that monitors what travels between their brains and their mouths. It filters out the moronic and tactless thoughts, rating them not suitable for general broadcast, and only lets the reasonable, appropriate thoughts through. I don’t have one of those trip switches. Or if I do, it’s faulty.
This poor old man was probably a little hard of hearing, which would explain why he hadn’t heard me calling for him. He probably hadn’t heard the bell ring when I came in either.
“Oh my,” he mumbled, “I suppose my hearing isn’t exactly what it used to be.”
I immediately thought of my grandmother’s favorite expression, “Getting old sucks.” Luckily my brain-to-mouth filter managed to stop that one in time. Instead I changed the subject. “Well, if you’re closed I don’t want to keep you…”
He nodded, but then suddenly shook his head. The idea of kicking me out seemed to utterly confuse him. “Oh, no, that’s silly. It’s my fault, and you’re already here … How long were you waiting?”
“Not long at all. I used to come here all the time when I was a little girl, so I was having fun just looking around.”
He had started toward the front of the store, but now he stopped. “Oh, you knew Mr. Beezy, then?”
“I did. He was always so nice to me. Is he…?”
“Oh my, no, Mr. Beezy passed away years ago.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
He nodded and looked down at the floor. I couldn’t see his eyes through the big, tinted glasses, but there suddenly washed over him a profound weariness. I wasn’t sure, but I got the distinct impression that he must have been very close to Mr. Beezy.
I pointed at his shirt. “You forgot a couple of buttons.”
He looked down and chuckled. “Oh my! Goodness me, how embarrassing.”
“No, don’t be embarrassed. If it were me I’d want to be told.”
He nodded with a bashful smile as he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I suppose I’d better lock that front door before we get any more stragglers wandering in.”
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll take a quick look around and be right out of your way.”
He shuffled off toward the front of the store. “Not to worry.”
Just then, my eyes fell on a smallish cardboard box on the floor at the head of the very last aisle. Inside was a collection of about ten leather-bound books. They looked well cared for and shiny, as if they’d recently been polished with Lemon Pledge or whatever you use to freshen up leather books. One was particularly pretty. It was a deep, burnished green with gold lettering across the front cover. It read The Furry Godmother’s Guide to Pet-Friendly Gardening, by V. Tisson-Waugh.
I picked it up out of the box. It felt solid and heavy, the way a good book should. I flipped it open and saw that it was published in 1887. The paper was crisp and creamy yellow, like onion skin, and printed with a floral, antique font. The introduction read:
Above all things, we must endeavor to attach as many persons to the land as possible, as I am convinced that gardening with an animal companion in mind will naturally take the place of many a desire that is much more difficult or impractical to gratify—desires that lie beyond reach of the average man or woman.
“Huh,” I muttered to myself. “I think I’ll take this one.”
The old man had just locked the front door and was shuffling around to the front counter. “That didn’t take very long, did it?”