Millie nods. “Down the street—Café Flora—the owner was one of her dearest friends.”
Before I can thank her, or ask for more, a couple enters the store—the man and woman make a beeline to Millie.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the woman says, frowning. She’s about my age, and her tone is pressing, urgent. “I need your help.” She’s very pretty, but has the air of someone who knows it, with her coifed blond locks and razor-sharp features. Her black leggings and cropped hoodie accentuate her svelte figure.
Millie smiles placidly, like a retail veteran who has survived many a battle with the public, though I know the bulk of her thick skin was built in the courtroom, not on the bookstore floor. “Yes, of course, what can I do for you?”
The woman sighs—clearly, this has been a very hard day. “I need to find a book for my niece—a particular copy she wants. Today’s her birthday and if I can’t find it, I…well, it wouldn’t be a good thing, if you know what I mean.” She forms her hand into the letter L and holds it to her forehead. “You know, total auntie fail.”
Her husband, or boyfriend—a tall, dark-haired man in a gray sweater—nods at Millie as if they’ve met before, then shrinks into the historical fiction section. They’re attractive—each of them—and yet, somehow, they seem like an odd couple together.
“I tried to order it online,” the woman continues, “but I got an email last night saying the delivery would be delayed until next Tuesday. I mean, seriously? I paid for overnight shipping, and now I actually have to get in my car and drive to a bookstore? At first, I was like, do bookstores even exist anymore? Didn’t the Internet put them all out of business?”
Millie and I exchange knowing looks.
“But what do I know? My boyfriend, Eric, is a bookworm, and he knew about this shop.” She smiles sweetly. “He said you could help.”
“Yes,” Millie says calmly, although I can tell she’s boiling over inside. The woman’s comments were infuriating. Ignorant, even. But to Millie and me, these were also fighting words—and our common ground. How dare she. I glance at the boyfriend nearby, and he’s either oblivious to her ramblings or he’s trying his best to ignore them—judging by his uncomfortable expression, I’d put money on the latter.
Somehow, Millie is as cool as a cucumber. “I assure you, Miss…？”
“Easton. Fiona Easton.”
“Miss Easton, yes. You see, my dear, you’re quite mistaken. Bookstores are far from dead.”
“Well,” Fiona says, “I didn’t mean that, I only meant—”
“Now, now,” Millie says. “Let’s not waste our time on nonsensical things. What’s the name of this book you’re in search of?”
Fiona sighs. “You probably don’t have it in stock.”
Millie is undeterred and, clearly, up for the challenge. “Try me,” she says.
“It’s called The War That Saved My Life, or something like that…maybe The War That Saved Me?”
“Kimberly Brubaker Bradley, yes,” Millie says immediately, pointing to a nearby bookcase. “We have it right here.” She lifts a paperback from the shelf and hands it to her dubious client. “You see, Miss Easton, we booksellers are neither extinct nor incapable.”
“Right, of course,” Fiona says, stunned. “Thank you.”
“I told you they’d have it, babe,” her boyfriend says, leaning against a nearby bookshelf. He runs his hand through his dark, wavy hair. “Millie can find you anything.”
“Hello, Eric,” Millie says warmly as if they’ve had many previous literary chats. “How nice to finally meet your girlfriend.”
“Yes,” he says. “I’ve been trying to get Fiona up here for ages, but now that she’s doing some design work for a new boutique down the road, I was finally able to twist her arm.”
Fiona forces a grin. “I’m an interior designer,” she says, reaching into her purse and placing a card on the counter. “Just in case you ever need any help”—she pauses, looking around the store—“sprucing things up.”
Millie smiles politely, then covertly tosses the card beneath the counter—directly into the recycle bin. “How nice. An interior designer. You know, Eric’s been coming here since he was in grade school. If I’m not mistaken, you were one of our first customers, weren’t you?”
He nods. “My mum would bring me to Eloise’s read-alouds. I must have been twelve at the time, but something about the way she read was just…magical.”
My heart seizes when I hear the mention of my mother’s name, and it hurts to think of her spending time with other children when I was the one who needed her most.
“This is Eloise’s daughter, Valentina.”
Eric’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding. Really?”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“I’m so sorry about your mum.”
I nod.
“She was really incredible. And this store…” He pauses, looking around. “I spent so many hours of my childhood in here. We lived just up the street. When my mum couldn’t find me, I was always here. Your mum would let me stay long after closing time.”
“Wow,” I say, unsure of how to respond.
“I heard that she had a daughter, in America. She always talked about you. It’s really cool to finally meet you. Did you ever—”
“Eric, honey, we need to go,” Fiona interjects. “I promised my sister we’d pick up the cake, and you know how much she hates it when we’re not punctual.” She smiles at me. “It was so nice to meet you. What did you say your name was again?”
“Valentina.”
She scrunches her nose. “Valentina. How quaint.”
Eric scratches his head. “Well, we better be off. Millie, thank you. And, Valentina, it was a pleasure. I’ll be by soon—this visit wasn’t nearly long enough.”
Millie smiles. “We have some new fiction coming in next week that you might enjoy.”
“Until then,” he says, nodding at me before following the interior designer out the door.
When they’re gone, Millie lets out a sigh.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but what in the world does he see in that woman?”
“I know. She’s dreadful, isn’t she? They’ve been dating for at least four years, or so I hear. They might even get married. A shame. He’s such a kind young man, and she’s, well…” Millie’s voice trails off as she shakes her head.
I shrug. “Well, you sure called her bluff.”
“It doesn’t matter if I did,” Millie continues. “There are people like Fiona around every corner, the ones who don’t believe in the importance of a neighborhood bookstore. But we’ll prove them wrong, won’t we?”
I nod reflexively, but doubt churns inside of me as she hands me a copy of the store’s ledger sheet. “I’m afraid the numbers aren’t great,” Millie says. “Eloise cared more about her community than the bottom line. Alas, I wish I’d looked into the books sooner.” She sighs. “Surely, there must be a solution.”