The Bookshop on Autumn Lane (21 page)

Thank God there was one person with a backbone in town.

Sheriff Howe scribbled an official warning and handed it to me. He put a finger to his hat. With a small salute, he said, “You have until tomorrow afternoon to get a permit, Miss Brown. The county offices are open from nine o'clock to four-thirty. Have a good day.”

He walked out of the store and passed Reeba Sweeney's car without giving her a second glance. He slammed his car door, revved the engine, and put some weight on the accelerator. His driving said everything about his state of mind.

George Bloodworth adjusted his tie until it squeezed his neck. “Some people can afford to take the high road. I can't.”

“Hey,” I said. “At least you admitted the truth. Thank you for that.”

When he left, I closed my eyes and wished myself thousands of miles away. More than anything I wanted to be on my way to Southeast Asia. Alone. Far from this nutty town and the people who made everything I ever wanted seem so complicated.

* * *

When the mayor left, I tried to figure out how much money I had in my checking account. The numbers swam in front of me, making my eyes water and my head throb. Maybe Doc would give me a deal on labor for Lulu's engine. I patted the checkbook in my pocket and walked toward Doc's.

In the garage's parking lot, I stopped by Lulu and ran my hand along her cold steel. Doc opened a side door and waved me inside. His brows drew together as he spoke. “Your new cylinder and valve came in, Trudy.”

“Perfect timing, Doc. That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Doc put his hands in his pockets and rocked. “It arrived this morning with a COD receipt.”

“COD?”

“Your check bounced.”

I lowered my chin and let it sink in. I knew my bank account was low. But I hadn't realized it was this bad. “Look, Doc, I'm really sorry. I'll get another check to you as soon as possible.”

“Now is a good time.”

“I can't do that.”

He looked away from me. “Trudy, I want to let you do your own labor—but it goes against my policy. I can't break the rules. Even for Lulu.”

“I'm a little short right now. I rented a dumpster and now I need to buy a permit and—I know you don't need to hear all this. But just understand, as soon as I sell the store, I'll have enough to repay you.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “In the meantime, I'm sitting here a few hundred dollars in the hole with a cylinder and valve I don't need.”

“Give me time. Please.”

“What am I going to do if I don't get the money, Trudy? I've got bills to pay just like everyone else.”

I thought about what Reeba Sweeney said earlier. Was Doc one of the people who was in debt to her? It made me sad to think he could be behind on his bills and struggling to keep the viper away. And here I was, making things worse.

Vance slid from underneath a nearby Malibu. His smudged face didn't hide his feelings. “We don't do no free work, even for you. Maybe you could get a job cooking a vegan meal at the diner.”

“Now Vance, don't go into that stuff about the diner again.” Doc held up his hand.

Vance stood up, ignoring Doc. “I tried to order my Wednesday-night meat loaf and Mac told me he had replaced it on the menu. Something with eggplant and olives.” He made a face. “And two couples wearing loafers with no socks and skinny jeans was sitting in my booth.”

Doc threw him a towel to rub his hands. “You were alone, Vance. You know Corinne has a rule about that booth and more than two people.”

“Since when did anyone pay attention to that?” Vance wiped his hands and glared at me.

“He's in a bad mood. Ignore him.” Doc walked to the side door.

“Wait.” The desperation in my voice was pitiful. “Can I at least still leave Lulu here?”

“She can stay where she is. But the snow and ice start soon. The Michigan weather is going to make her rust.”

“I'll put a tarp over her. I'll find the money and then we can make a deal. Maybe you need some help around the garage? I've got a lot of experience.”

His long face told me the answer before he opened his mouth. “I have no doubt that you could do the work, Trudy. You seem to know almost as much about fixing cars as Vance or me, here. But I don't have enough business to hire another grease monkey.”

“What about light work? If Richie is busy with football, I could sweep the back room. Do any type of extra work you need.”

Doc scratched his head. “I can't give you a job, Trudy. But if worse comes to worse, I might be able to help you sell Lulu.”

Sell? Lulu had been Leo's. He named her. He planned on fixing her up when he returned from Afghanistan. She was all I had left of my brother.

“I can't sell Lulu.”

Vance slid back under the Malibu and I heard him muttering, “—sacrifice her to rust.”

Doc put a hand on my shoulder. “I know things aren't easy with the mess your aunt left, and the pressure you're getting to sell to Fribley. You have a lot on your plate right now, Trudy. But we like you. You've been a big help to the Triple C's and then Jenny and the cheerleaders. I hope you know, we're all rooting for you.”

“Thank you.” My voice cracked. When I left the garage I felt Doc's sympathetic eyes following me. He could have refused delivery for Lulu's parts. I knew that very well. But he hadn't. It had put him in a bad position. And it wasn't fair to lay my sob story at his feet.

I walked back to Books from Hell and I did a double take when I passed a Jaguar F-Type parked in front of Cookee's. It would have stuck out like an Armani suit at a thrift store. But a BMW 4 Series and a Cadillac CTS were parked nearby too. I was surprised to see so many people I didn't recognize sitting in the booths by the windows. I knew without asking that they weren't from Truhart. Vance's complaints came to mind. But maybe big tippers would be good for Cookee's. At least that's what I told myself.

Back at the bookshop I found an old blue tarp in the cellar. I carried it back to Doc's and covered Lulu with it. Just to show there were no hard feelings, Vance came out and quietly helped me secure it tightly. When I left Lulu, I silently promised her that I would be back to fix her. Even so, I felt like I'd just buried an old friend.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I walked down to Echo Lake. I stood on the shore and wanted to scream across the gray waves. But my throat was too tight. And I wasn't fourteen anymore. A spring inside me felt like it was coming undone. All the mechanics that had made me tick for so long were snapping piece by piece. The old anger was replaced with something much more difficult to grasp.

B
ump
. The noise came from outside.
Thud
. Another party down on the beach?

Rolling over, I reached for my sleep mask. But I had forgotten to put it on. The sound seemed distant. As if it came from the back of the store.

A wet nose nudged my hand and moved to my face. Moby. I looked around the shadowy bedroom trying to remember where I was. Who I was. I had been dreaming. But it escaped me now.

I wrapped my dharma quilt around me and went downstairs to investigate.

A faint glow flashed through the back window. A light radiated from the top of the dumpster.
Plunk
.

I opened the door and stepped outside. “Seriously? You couldn't wait until daylight to start your trash-picking?”

The outline of a bright head I knew way too well appeared over the top. “Unfortunately, I'm dealing with a limited schedule. And you have not been playing fair.”

Moby tried to get past me, but I pushed him back inside. He was an uncertain ally and I didn't want him sucking up to Kit for more attention.

I leaped across the cold cement to the dumpster. “What are you talking about?”

“These books and papers are multiplying like rabbits. There's a book festival in Traverse City I have to attend for a couple of days. With my duties there, I'm never going to be able to keep on top of this.”

I clutched the blanket closer. It was a mild night for October. But it was unusually windy. “I didn't know you actually had duties.”

“I am still a professor. It's a famous book fair and I feel obligated to catch up on the newer authors in the American market. Plus, it's a place to network.”

“Network? That sounds boring.”

Kit held up a carry-out bag I had tossed inside the day before. “Terribly unfair, Trudy.”

“Unfair? I didn't know there were rules here.”

“You know what you did. Really, Trudy. Squash and rice?”

“That's eggplant and orzo, you fool.” Moby hadn't been very interested in Mac's vegan meal.

“Well, it's slimy and disgusting either way. It almost ruined the papers in the box you tossed.” His tone reminded me of the moaning sound I used to make when there were vegetables on my plate.

“What have you got in there, a lamp or something?”

“Actually, yes. I borrowed a camp lantern from Flo. At least I have one friend in this endeavor.”

I put a foot on the bottom support of the dumpster and pulled myself upward so that I could see over the top. Inside, the lantern cast a dim, warm glow. Kit had strung it up across two ropes fastened on either side of the frame. An umbrella chair rested at an odd angle and was covered with a thick plaid blanket. It looked quite cozy.

“This is really pathetic. Are you camping out now?”

“I'm getting comfortable.”

I nodded at the blanket. “It looks like you're taking up residency.”

“If you are going to stand here and criticize me, then do it. But don't expect me to entertain you. I have work to do.” His face was in the shadow, but his voice was laced with bitterness. Well, I was bitter too. Between Reeba's visit, the ticket, Lulu, and another nightmare, it had been a very bad day.

“Excuse me if my real-life problems interfere with your search for the lost ark.”

He moved out of the shadow and examined my face. He seemed taken aback by my angry tone. Good. I was tired of the flirty sparring we had been doing up until now. Even in the glow of the lantern—with the stubble on his chin and the coat that could have come from an Orvis catalogue—he looked like a commercial for fine cognac. I wished I had more eggplant and orzo to dump on his head. Mickey was on the dresser and I had no idea what time it was. I suspected I wouldn't be able to sleep the rest of the night knowing that Kit was out here.

I started to climb down when he held something up. “By the way, is this your scarf?”

I shifted back. My silk scarf with butterflies was clutched in his hand. “That's mine—where did you find it?”

“Underneath a large tome on decorating the loo, to be exact.”

“I must have dropped it in a box by accident.” I held out my hand.

“Come inside and get it. I'm tired of talking to you through a metal wall.”

“That scarf is worth something.” And it was Mom's.

“So are these books.” He tucked it in the pocket of his jacket and held up his hand. “Are you scared of being in here, or is it me? The dumpster is cleaner than you might think. And I don't bite . . . unless you want me to.”

I stood on the side, trying to figure out if I was going to fight him for my scarf. I wanted to climb back into bed and pull the covers over my head in a dreamless sleep. But he was making me crazy. And in the end, the scarf was more valuable than my pride. I climbed until I was perched on top, facing Kit. He stood in front of me and put his hands on my hips to steady me.

“If it hadn't been for you I would have been putting a final coat of paint on the walls and polishing the floor by now. I'd be one step closer to Angkor Wat.” I pulled in my lower lip, but he had already seen the pout.

“Poor baby. What happened?”

I took a deep breath and put my hands on his shoulders. “I have one day to fill this container and send it on its way. After that I get charged for a ticket if I don't have a permit.”

“A ticket?”

“According to the mayor, this dumpster is illegal without a permit.”

“You need money?”

I sighed. “In the worst way. Lulu's cylinder and valve are expensive. The check I wrote to Doc bounced. My bottom account has banked out.”

“Your bottom—?” He touched my cheek and smiled. “Ah, my love, I can loan you money.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about your castle and your title.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is it just the money that is bothering you?”

“I'll make you a deal. For the cost of an airline ticket and six months of travel in Southeast Asia, I'll sell you the store and all the books in it right now.”

“Sorry, love, I have enough to get you your permit,” he said calmly. “But I told you already. My pockets are empty. I'm on a professor's salary. The bulk of my family's money is tied up in land and a house that belongs to the Royal Trust.”

“You certainly dress well. And that house you're renting, that's not exactly cheap.”

“That's what I can do on a professor's salary. Housing is paid for me. I'm given a stipend. But I don't have thousands of dollars sitting in an account somewhere to buy your store. Buying property means a loan and a mortgage.”

I smiled sweetly and pushed him away. “Then I have no use for you.”

I lost my balance and Kit grabbed me and steadied me. His hands were warm and firm. I wanted to trust they would keep me from falling. “Trudy, listen to me. Let me pay for this trash bin or whatever else you need for the moment. I can do that.”

“And you get to continue your search for the lost book?”

He lost his smile. “I don't work that way.”

He surprised me. “Really?”

“No strings.”

I stared down at him. I wanted to believe him. It would be so easy. Without thinking, I jumped into his arms and made a dive for the scarf that hung out of his back pocket. But he was quick. He caught my hands before I could get to it.

“Mine,” he said in a haggard voice. But he wasn't looking at the scarf: He was looking directly down at me.

“Not yours,” I said, lifting my chin.

He hauled me against him. I put my hands on his chest. “Dr. Darlington, that is very macho. Not at all like a professor of literature.”

“Even Shakespeare knew when words weren't enough.” He put his hands on the back of my head and ground his body against mine. “Still want your scarf?”

“What scarf?”

Our lips connected in a crushing claim that was reckless and angry. The kind of angry that wasn't directed at each other. It was the kind of angry that came from inside. Angry that I wanted him so much I was willing to let my self-control go. Angry that I wanted him more than I didn't want him.

And what the lips started the body took over.

My hands ran up and down his back and under his jacket and shirt to the hard body that I already knew so well. One of his hands was buried in my hair and the other traveled over my back. He was like steel with a velvet veneer. And he was on fire.

I heard someone making little mewling sounds and realized it was me. I laughed at myself and Kit captured my mouth again. The world spun away in a dizziness and frenzy that reminded me of dancing and spinning in joy.

Cool air hit my stomach as he lifted my T-shirt, sliding his hands along my bare skin underneath. He pulled his mouth away from mine to let it trail down. Kneeling on some godforsaken uncomfortable mound of books, he found my breasts.

The camp lantern gleamed off the top of his head and I ran my fingers through his hair. I closed my eyes as his tongue fluttered back and forth across my nipples. They puckered in the cool air. I messed up his hair with my death grip on his head. He pulled away and slowly lifted my shirt further.

“Who is this very familiar-looking cartoon character on your T-shirt?” he mumbled as he held the fabric out of the way.

I looked down, trying to figure out what he was talking about. “Oh, that's just Bart. Bart Simpson.”

“Boyfriend?” he asked with a saucy grin.

“Hero,” I replied.

“But way too young to watch this.” He tossed my shirt over a self-help book.

In only my pink-panda underpants, I watched Kit's eyes travel to my face. His eyes were feverish and I shivered at the thought of what was coming next. I reached for his shirt, but he put a hand on my wrist and stopped me. “This is my den. I don't have an electric chair. But I get to call the shots tonight.”

“Be my guest,” I said as I lowered my arms. Heat shot straight to my core.

Kit ran his hands up my arms and traced my collarbone. He leaned in and followed the path with his tongue. His fingers drifted lower and he took a deep breath and raised his smoky eyes. “May I?”

My mouth went dry. I swallowed and nodded. Or at least I think I did. Whatever it was, he took it as
yes
. I watched his hands run down my hips and inside the waistband of my silly panties. He lowered them and I stepped out, enjoying the return of his hands when they were off.

What his hands touched, his lips and eyes followed. I felt extraordinary. Cherished. I understood how a woman could feel worshipped. When he touched me in the most sensitive area, I shuddered. Kit's nostrils flared and he lifted his fingers to my lips. And what I did for Kit in the electric chair, he did for me . . . Only better.

The evening took an intriguing turn, like a porn movie set in a library. We made love among the paperbacks and hardcovers—some very hard covers. When it wasn't comfortable, we tried new positions, rearranging the books and the blanket to suit ourselves. It was an entirely different way to use books and I welcomed the way the rough pages bunched and shifted in front of my face when Kit kneeled on the blanket and pressed himself against me. He came into me from behind and I was so sensitive I almost lost control right there. He reached around and touched me with his fingers, bringing me to a climax that went on and on. I grasped the pages of an open book in front of me and wrinkled the corners of the pages with my fists. I held on to them for dear life as I cried out. Kit joined me moments later.

Afterward, when we were exhausted, we pulled my dharma quilt over ourselves and snuggled in our cave. The lantern waved in the wind and I wondered if anyone in the world had ever made love in a dumpster. And if so, had it been as magical as it had been for me?

Kit lifted his head and grinned at something above my head. He reached for a small book and checked the title on the spine.

“What is that?” I asked in a sleepy voice that made him kiss my earlobe.

“Some light reading.” He flipped through the pages, trying to catch the light. “Want to read it with me?”

I shook my head. He adjusted his arm underneath me and began.

I closed my eyes and imagined that woman as he spoke. “Who is she?”

“You.”

“No, it's not. I know that. It's a play, right?”

“Cyrano de Bergerac
.
”

“I thought I recognized it. I made a balcony for it once in a summer-stock theater in Canada. She's Roxane.”

“You have a good memory.”

“Me? I can't remember words. But for some reason that part stuck with me.”

He braced himself over me and the light shone from behind him like a halo. “Words are just the vehicle for the story. You get where you need to go in other ways, Trudy. That is what makes you so magnificent.”

I didn't deserve that kind of pretty language. Most of the time we teased more than we were serious. I closed my eyes, afraid to see him mocking me. I didn't want to ruin the pretense that I was his Roxane.

The night was quiet. A breeze started and finished from different ends of the night sky. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I opened my eyes to see if he was smiling with that teasing look he often used.