This Book Made Me Think of You(3)

A man wearing an oversize cable-knit sweater and navy chinos leans over a box of books, eyebrows furrowed and thick dark hair sticking up wildly. He pauses to push a pair of tortoiseshell glasses up his nose, and as he does, he looks up at Tilly for the first time, warm brown eyes meeting hers.

“Hi, sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he says as he straightens, his mouth set in a neutral expression and framed by scruffy facial hair that sits halfway between stubble and a beard. “I’m just getting the shop back in order after the holidays. Can I help you?”

There’s a somewhat overweight tabby asleep on the counter, and the man reaches out to run a hand through its fur, the cat letting out a deep purr. Both of them look so at home in here that it makes Tilly shuffle awkwardly on the spot. She used to feel the same way in bookstores, but now it feels as if she’s wandered into a shop that sells fishing equipment or scuba gear.

“I’m not sure. I’m Matilda Nightingale. Are you Alfie Lane? I just received a phone call…”

“Oh, right. Of course. Yes, that was me. Thanks for coming in.” Tilly recognizes the gravelly voice from the phone, but she’d imagined someone older when she spoke to him. Although it’s hard to guess his exact age. While his eyes are bright, there is a deep crease between his eyebrows and a few more at the corners of his eyes. If she had to guess his profession from his outfit alone, she would have said someone who restores old manuscripts or works in the archives of a museum. He looks like he might own both a typewriter and the knowledge to keep it running smoothly.

“As I said on the phone, it must be a mix-up. Joe can’t possibly have ordered a book.”

The bookshop manager runs a hand along his jaw, his fingers scraping against coarse hair. “I’ll be honest, it was one of my more unusual order requests,” he says, nudging his glasses up his nose again with his thumb. “And we’ve had some pretty weird orders. Like the nice old ladies who came in looking for books about Satan, or the middle-aged male barrister who preorders every Colleen Hoover.” He clears his throat and adjusts his face as if grabbing back on to his train of thought like the tail of a kite. “Your husband came into the bookshop about a year ago…”

“A year ago?” Tilly interrupts, her heart catching on memories like splinters.

“Yes. He came in and explained his situation and placed this order. He said that if he hadn’t come in before the following Christmas, I was to know what that meant and should call you on the fifth of January. I kept hoping he would come in. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Tilly nods, accepting the words like someone mindlessly taking a leaflet for something they have no interest in but are too polite or simply too exhausted to refuse.

“Not that those words mean much, do they?” the bookseller adds, fixing her with a steady gaze. “But it’s hard to come up with an alternative, isn’t it? I make my living out of words, and I still haven’t come up with anything better.”

Tilly falters slightly, surprised to hear someone express the thing she has thought so often over recent months. “That’s true…”

“I should also say happy birthday,” the bookseller adds, making Tilly wince slightly. Before she can say anything in reply, he turns to search for something on a nearby shelf, returning with a parcel wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with a white ribbon.

“This is the book I called you about. Joe wanted you to have this today. And there will be another book next month. It’s his gift to you. A year of books.”

Tilly’s heart squeezes. She has spent the day determinedly trying to forget the date. When the postman rang the doorbell and handed over a parcel from her parents, she tried not to think of the huge bouquet of flowers Joe had sent to her office on her birthday the first year they were dating and every year after that. She knew that there would be no flowers this year, but now here she is, staring at a parcel from Joe containing a book, of all things, feeling as if her world has just been shaken like a snow globe. As she is about to reach for the parcel, it hits her that there isn’t just one parcel for her to collect.

“Can I have the other books now too?”

Alfie Lane’s face twists. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“What do you mean? I’m here now, and you said Joe placed an order for twelve books. I don’t see why I can’t just collect them all now.”

Because despite the cozy atmosphere in the shop and the soft purr of the cat asleep on the counter, Tilly doesn’t see herself coming back here anytime soon.

“Joe wanted it to be one book per month,” responds the bookshop manager. “That was the gift.”

“Are you serious? So, I have to wait a whole month to find out what the second book will be? And twelve months to receive them all? Even though you know what they are and could easily just give them to me right now?”

“That was what I agreed with Mr. Carter.”

“But Joe is dead! He’s not here anymore!”

The cat startles, leaping off the counter and darting to hide in a half-empty box of books. The bookseller glances in the cat’s direction, then back at Tilly. His expression is soft, but when he speaks, his words are surprisingly firm.

“I’m really sorry. But I made a promise.”

“Right. Fine then. Thanks for your help.”