“Isn’t it like the bookstore of your dreams?” Liza says, watching me take it all in.
“Yes,” I say quietly, feeling increasingly overwhelmed.
“Wait here,” she says. “I’ll go find Millie. She’s probably in the back room.”
I notice that the floor-to-ceiling walnut shelves are fitted with steel tracks for wheeling ladders. I step onto one and ride it along the expanse of a nearby wall.
I’m still sliding when Liza returns with an older woman who’s quite tall, well above six feet. Her graying hair is twisted into a bun atop her head, adding even more height to her imposing stature.
“Millie,” Liza says, clearing her throat, “I’d like to introduce Valentina, Eloise’s daughter. She recently arrived.”
Millie fumbles with the dark-rimmed glasses dangling from the chain around her neck as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing. But she gets the confirmation she needs when she finally slips them on, giving me a long look.
I step off the ladder a bit nervously. “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” I say, extending my hand.
But she doesn’t say a word. I can’t tell if she’s disappointed, shocked, surprised, or maybe some combination of all three. Millie and my mother were the same age, Liza shared, so she’s about seventy, and yet, her face is quite youthful, even if she is frowning at me.
She walks to the checkout counter and reaches for a box. When she sets it on the floor, her elbow knocks over a jar of pens. “Drat,” she says with an annoyed sigh before bending down to sort out the mess. She moves in big, exaggerated gestures, the bookseller’s equivalent to Julia Child bounding around her kitchen with a thud here, a clang there.
“Look who came over to say hi,” Liza says, breaking the awkward silence.
The cat I’d seen in the window yesterday purrs softly at my feet, then rubs himself against the side of my leg.
“What’s his name?” I ask, kneeling to pet him.
“Percival,” Liza says. “But everyone calls him Percy.” She smiles. “He definitely likes you.”
“Percival is a very agreeable cat,” Millie says, looking at me. “He likes everyone.”
“Don’t take it personally,” Liza whispers to me as Millie dips behind the counter. “She just needs some time to get used to you being here.”
I nod. “Should we go?”
“No,” she whispers. “She’ll come around.”
I follow her to the counter, where Millie is looking through a precariously high stack of books that’s leaning ever so slightly to the right. “Aha,” she says, pointing to a blue hardback in the center. Somehow, she inches it out while keeping the pile intact. It’s like the Olympic Games version of Jenga. “Finally,” she says, smiling to herself. “I’ve been looking for this copy of Rebecca all day. Evelyn Johnson will be happy.”
The bells on the door jingle as a few customers amble inside. A middle-aged man makes a beeline to Millie and asks for help finding one of the Harry Potter books for his son. She nods and leads him to a shelf across the room.
“Boys and Harry Potter,” she says, returning with a shrug. “I do wish that children would expand their appetite for literature beyond Hogwarts.” She lets out an elongated sigh. “At least it wasn’t another request for one of those dreadful Diary of a Wimpy Kid books.”
My librarian instincts kick in. “Well, the fact that his son is reading at all says something,” I say.
Millie looks up from the counter, seemingly startled by my comment.
“What I mean is”—I pause, searching for the right words—“reading only leads to more reading. As a child, I read the gamut—from the classics to the Baby-Sitters Club. If a kid can find a book that she gets excited about, it will only make her more open to experience that feeling again—in all sorts of other stories.”
Millie lowers her glasses on the rim of her nose, looking down at me curiously. “A fine theory,” she quips, turning again to the stack of books, “which is just what it sounds like—conjecture.”
“With respect,” I say. “Many literacy studies over the years have proven this ‘theory’ to be true, and I’ve seen it firsthand in my work.” I smile. “I’m a librarian.”
“Well then,” she says, a little startled. “As the expert that you are, I expect you’ll be displeased with the way I’ve been running this bookstore since your mother’s health declined. Go ahead and tell me what you have in mind. Don’t beat around the bush. What is it? A new computer system?” She presses the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically. “Online ordering? Some social media nonsense? Bookstagramming? Lord help us all.”
Clearly, she’s never seen my account, @booksbyval. I grin, deciding to take the humorous approach. “Ever considered book deliveries by drone?”
I only meant to lighten the mood, but Liza looks as if she’s either about ready to burst into a fit of laughter—or break out in hives.
“I’m only kidding,” I say. “About the drones.” Millie doesn’t laugh.
Sensing the rising tension, Liza steps in. “Now, Millie. You have nothing to worry about. Valentina is here to help. She’s Eloise’s daughter, after all.”
“Well, your mother was the bravest woman I’ve ever known,” Millie says wistfully. “She risked everything to follow her heart.”
My cheeks burn as I take in Millie’s words; before I can stop myself, I open my mouth to speak. “That’s quite an interesting definition of ‘brave.’？”
Millie’s eyes are laser-focused on mine. “Valentina,” she begins. “I don’t know what you were told, or what you believe, but I want you to understand that…what happened…you must know that it wasn’t at all what she wanted or planned for.”
Her words have only stoked the fire simmering within me. “Then what was the plan?” I say, the tone of my voice sharp and piercing but, above all, sad. “Tell me, please. Because all these years I’ve been dying to know why a mother—my mother—could leave so suddenly, never to be heard from again. You’d think she might have, oh, maybe found a spare moment to call me on my birthday, or, I don’t know, perhaps visit one Christmas? Anything!” So many long-held emotions push their way to the surface, and I know it’s too late to suppress them. “Why? Why didn’t she just come home? To me. To her family.”
Millie shakes her head gravely, the wrinkles around her eyes accentuated by the overhead lighting. “You really don’t understand, do you? You really have no idea.”
Before I can make sense of what she means, much less venture a response, the bells on the door jingle and a frazzled-looking woman in her mid-fifties bursts inside, setting a large box on the counter. “You do take used books, don’t you?”
“Indeed,” Millie says, peering into the box. “What do we have here?”
“Oh, I don’t know—they’re my husband’s. I cleaned out his office while he’s away on a business trip. Stacks of books everywhere. Really, I’m saving him from himself. He’s one step away from becoming a…” She pauses. “You know, one of those crazy people on the telly who live in heaps of junk.”