This Book Made Me Think of You(12)
“I guess I imagined you might think of this place as competition,” Tilly replies. “You do realize all the books in here are free.”
He presses his lips tighter together. “Ah, so that’s what a library is. I’d been wondering. Actually, I’m just dropping off some old stock. Books that are readable but we can’t sell. Sun damage from the window, that kind of thing.” He shifts the box in his arms again, and as he does, Tilly realizes the box must contain about fifty books.
“Ah, Alfie dear,” comes a voice behind them, the librarian greeting him warmly. “More books for us? Thank you, sweetheart.”
It feels strange to hear anyone call someone quite as tall and bearded as the bookseller “sweetheart,” but he seems to take it in his stride. Once he’s handed the books over, the librarian thanking him again effusively, he turns back to Tilly, shoving his hands in his coat pockets.
“Your February book is waiting for you at the bookshop, you know.”
“Right. I’ve been busy.”
There’s a silence as the excuse hangs in the air between them like a limp balloon. Tilly isn’t sure why he cares so much whether she collects the book or not. If she never visits the bookshop again, he could surely resell the books, even if the thought makes her feel slightly sick.
“I’m heading back there now,” Alfie says. “I can get it for you if you’re done here?” He glances down at the books held in her hand, and then in that same hushed but rough voice adds, “Green Eggs and Ham is one of my favorites too.” His eyes meet hers, and she notices flecks of amber among the brown, touches of light in the dark.
She can feel her cheeks growing hot as she slips the books back onto the shelf.
“OK,” she says, suddenly unable to think up an excuse not to return to the bookshop and realizing that she doesn’t want to. She hadn’t thought she could finish a book, and yet somehow Joe knew exactly what to pick to get her reading again.
What might he have picked for her next?
Seven
Like so often in life, Alfie has no idea what to do with his hands. They feel awkward hanging at his sides as he walks next to Matilda Nightingale back to the bookshop, so he thrusts them into his coat pockets.
“I want to apologize for the way I acted last time.”
He turns at the sound of her voice. Her rainbow scarf is wrapped tightly around her neck and chin, her nose poking out and bright pink from the cold. There are pink patches on her cheeks, her freckles standing out against her pale skin. Alfie isn’t sure if he’s ever seen so many freckles on one person before.
“You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
Her forehead creases as she replies. “But I shouldn’t have snapped like that. You were just doing your job. I’m sorry.” There’s a softness to her voice that wasn’t there when she visited the shop last time. She sounds so defeated and tired that he’d rather she were snapping at him.
“It must have been a shock for you. If I knew my dad had left me a gift like that, I would have wanted to open them all then and there too. I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself…”
His words come out before he can stop them, and he is aware of her turning to look at him, her eyes studying his face. They are a striking shade of gray tinged with green, reminding Alfie of verdite, not that he’s sure she’d particularly appreciate having her eyes compared to a microcrystalline metamorphic rock. Women haven’t seemed to in the past.
She is still looking at him, so he says, “He died seven years ago. Not that it feels that long ago.”
A ripple of something spreads across her face. “I’m sorry. Although you were right last time—I wish there was something better to say.”
“There isn’t really, though, is there? And I really am sorry about your husband. That must be a whole other realm of shit.”
There’s a noise beside him, something that sounds halfway between a cough and maybe…a laugh? He sneaks a glance at her, and her lips are curved upward in a small smile.
“Yes, that’s about right.”
They have reached the bookshop now, the two of them standing opposite one another outside the window. Seeing it like this, Alfie experiences a little rush of pride. The street around them is dull and gray, the trees lifeless, the road’s window boxes filled with nothing but dirt and ice, but the window of his shop shines brightly. Despite the promise of warmth inside, Matilda Nightingale doesn’t move, so Alfie doesn’t either. There’s a biting breeze, and it tugs at her hair, tangling marmalade strands around her face.
“I’m sorry to insist on the whole one-book-per-month thing,” he supplies when she says nothing. “But Joe really wanted you to have books to look forward to opening for the whole year.”
“That’s really sweet,” she replies, her voice tight.
“I thought so too. And hopefully this month’s book will be worth the wait?” He holds open the door for her. She doesn’t even have to duck to pass under his arm, and as she does, he catches a brief snatch of the smell of apples and a hint of what might be tea.
“Let me introduce you to the rest of the team. Prudence, Blue, Matilda Nightingale is here for her February book.”
Prudence, a gray-haired white woman who has a bouquet of floral clips in her hair that change with the seasons, looks up from behind the counter. Today they are stems of snowdrops. She is dressed in several layers of cardigans and her usual array of jangly jewelry. She has worked part-time at the bookshop for several years, ever since she decided retirement wasn’t for her. Prudence likes to tell people she is sixty, but he knows from her employment documents that she is seventy-five. He doubts if retirement will ever be “for her.”