The Lost Bookshop(29)

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, and meant it. ‘Like walking inside a fairy tale.’

He regarded me strangely and it seemed for a moment as though I were looking into the face of a young boy. Gone was the harried man with the hat and overcoat. It seemed he was wearing a disguise also.

‘I’m glad you think so.’

Such few words, yet they were imbued with so much meaning. It was as if I had passed some sort of invisible test for him.

‘Look, I know you came here to work for my father, but how would you feel about running the shop yourself?’

‘Me?’ I squeaked. So much for trying to impress him.

‘You could rent it. On a trial period. I had considered the idea, but couldn’t find anyone suitable. Until today.’

I looked around the shop and felt a ripple of excitement.

‘I’m not sure I could afford it, on top of my lodgings,’ I said.

‘Well, as it happens, the flat is included in the rent. Here, let me show you,’ he said, leading the way down the stairs.

I watched the back of his neck, where his blonde hair grew darker. He had to duck as we came to the last step to avoid a beam and he stood back to let me go first. His soft lilting accent as he pointed out the bed and the tiny kitchenette couldn’t conceal the myriad questions he must have had about my hasty arrival from Paris. He must have thought me strange; there was no doubting that. And yet, if anything, he seemed intrigued by my presence. It suddenly felt quite intimate, standing there with him, and so, as if in agreement, we both decided to cut the tour short.

‘It’s perfect. I’m sure I will find everything I need,’ I said with a competence I hoped would appear from somewhere in the very near future.

‘I don’t doubt it. I’ll have a tenancy agreement drawn up.’

As we ascended the narrow wooden staircase shining with a high varnish, I noticed that there was a word painted on the riser of each step.

found

are

things

strange

lost

called

place

a

In





‘He built it himself, so you’ll have to forgive the slightly eccentric nature of the building,’ Matthew said, placing his hand on the newel post with a tender look of pride on his face. ‘Had the wood shipped over from an old library in Italy. A strange story actually – he took my mother on their honeymoon to a little village in the mountains and they found this abandoned library. It was going to be demolished and my father was the kind of man who couldn’t let something that held so much history go to waste. So he bought the building, had it dismantled and put it back together here.’

‘Didn’t any of the locals wish to keep it?’

‘Ah well, that was the thing; many of the villagers believed the library to be inhabited by spirits.’

‘Good grief!’

‘But of course, that was just superstition,’ he assured me.

‘I wish I could have met your father. He must have been such an interesting man,’ I said, looking with new eyes at the interiors that resembled a puzzle pieced together.

Matthew smiled to himself.

‘Eccentric, that’s how most people would have described him.’ His features failed to conceal the bittersweet memories of his father.

‘Some people have no imagination, that’s all.’

He seemed pleased with this assessment and presumably felt safe to open up a little more. ‘He used to say that he would like people to open this door in the way they would open a book, entering a world beyond their imaginings.’ He gave a wry smile, an expression formed by grief and loss.

‘He sounds a little like my own father.’

‘Is he a book dealer also?’

I shook my head and continued shaking it until I had to shut my eyes tight to prevent the tears from falling. Why had I mentioned Father? It brought reality crashing down around me. Everything that had happened: Lyndon, Armand, escaping on that horrid boat. Truly, I still felt at sea myself. Who was I now? I felt ashamed of my night with Armand and how my father would be so disappointed in his little girl. I must have been in shock. Try as I might, I could not contain it and my shoulders began to shake until I let out a desperate gasp.

‘Miss Carlisle, Opaline, whatever did I say?’

Words failed to form. He took me by the shoulders as if to keep me steady, but I fell into his arms and sobbed for what seemed like a very long time. He held me fast and absorbed all of the grief and pain without saying a word. When I finally felt wrung out and my ears throbbed with the sound of nothing but my own ragged breathing, I hastened to pull back from his embrace.

‘Please forgive me, Mr Fitzpatrick. I have embarrassed us both with this unbecoming outburst.’

He made no reply but handed me a handkerchief from his pocket. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose before attempting to hand it back. Our eyes met and we both smiled.

‘Perhaps I shall have it laundered first,’ I said and released an unfortunate snort of laughter. The giddiness after such an impromptu intimacy.

There didn’t seem to be much else to say and I was too worn out to think. He saved me the trouble by acting as though nothing problematic had happened at all.

‘I will stop by in a few days to arrange the particulars, if that’s agreeable to you?’