The Bibliophile (The Librarian Chronicles Book 3) Page 2
“When I first settled here, I came on a ship with hundreds of men,” my father had said. I was small when he told me, unable to envision what hundreds of men looked like or what a ship was. “They scattered like leaves on the wind. Some going north others stayed put in the town we took port. I wanted to find something more suited to what I had back home.” He stuffed his pipe and lit it. The heavy smoke flew around his head like a haze.
“So, I took upon the road like a true adventurer. I had a horse and provisions but not a lick of sense in my head. You see, I had traveled myself right into Cherokee territory without knowing it. I had not one idea of the trouble I was in until they locked me up and I was unable to see the sky for weeks.”
The idea of my father being locked up with my ancestors made me sick. How could they be so cruel to him? But as my mother explained, he was a threat due to his English heritage, and that scared her tribe.
“On the third week, they let me out and I saw the medicine woman for a sore that had formed on my hand from one of the cuts I received upon my stay there. They captured me, yes, but they were good people. The medicine woman, Hayaleh, had with her the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on. Your mother was quiet and shy but I saw a fire in her that her tribe had never seen. She sat back and watched Hayaleh treat my cut that had turned red and nasty. Hayaleh told her daughter Nayawene to take me to the great pit of fire, and she did. On our way, I spoke briefly with her, telling her my name and where I came from. I told her about my land and the people there.”
“He said his name was William and he thought me pretty,” my mother said with a shy smile.
“When we got to the fire the clan elder told me to stay away from their land, and because I had broken sacred law by entering, I would bleed that day.”
“And did you?” I asked, curiously and wide-eyed.
“He bled. After, I told my mother that I wanted a husband. I chose William. He was mine.”
I remember thinking that there was something beautiful in the way he endured his stay there and then bled for his crime. Afterward, he married the most beautiful woman the tribe would ever know. Instead of staying there, they moved away. My mother wanted to live the life that her husband did.
Now, as I watched my mother pace frantically across the wood floor, I wondered if she would have rather stayed with her people. At least she wouldn’t be alone. There was unity in the Cherokee tribe, and we had nothing like that here. There was a small tribe just north of us but Mother only went there to trade, and while she called them her family, they were not the ones who raised her. She asked me to go along with her from time to time, to teach me the ways of trade but I never felt like I belonged there.
“I go. You stay here. Watch home.”
There it was. The words I regretted to hear all day since sun up. I only nodded, instead of telling her that I hated being alone in the winter. Standing strong I rounded my shoulders and nodded.
“I will, Mother. You find Father and bring him home to us.”
After that, we packed her horse and I helped load it with a week’s worth of rations and her heavy blanket. She would freeze without it.
With her heavy fur-lined clothing and leather breeches under her dress, Mother was dressed for a winter trek across Raven’s Ridge. With her hat pulled forward, against her black hair, she looked like a wolf with white fur.
“I go. You take care of animals, Rose. You will be safe here. Understand?”
Fighting back the lump in my throat I realized I had never been without them for long. Would I ever see her again? I placed my hand at her heart to show her that I would never forget its beat.
I watched her go off into the mountains until I couldn’t see her anymore, and that’s when I saw the winter’s first snowfall.
Four
Adam 2019
I let everything in the coffee shop go online except the latte maker. That bad boy was sitting on my kitchenette looking massive and beautiful and I was going to drink lattes every morning just to prove that I needed it. With my morning cup finished up, I licked the foam off the top and ran a hand through my tangled hair. I had let my hair grow out since she left me. Roger told me that it was a good look, with the curls and all, so I went with it. Roger wasn’t the only one to notice either. Girls on the subway were staring at it, and then smiling at me. And one girl, who I brought home from the bar, grabbed it all night long telling me how soft the curls were.
It was my first day owning just the bookshop and I would admit it was strange. Our original name for the coffee shop was Back to the Grind. I loved it but when we brought in the bookstore portion, people were thrown off. We stayed up half the night going over names that were quirky and original. I’d give an idea, and she shot it down. Then finally, at midnight, we threw in the towel. We kept it as The Grind Books and Coffee Co.
It was unoriginal. I knew it and deep down she did too. So the night that I parted ways with the coffee shop I threw a huge farewell party for all the neighbors in the area. To my utter disbelief, and Roger’s too, it was a packed house. I sold the last cups of coffee I could make, some new and used books, and then at the end of the party, I announced the new name of my bookstore.
I’d loved books since I was a little kid. My mom got me reading by sitting with me every night and telling me stories and great tales from books she read as a kid. Classics that my tender eyes couldn’t read just yet but my ears longed to hear. The Jungle Book was by far my favorite at six, and then as a teen it was great tales of horror by Stephen King, and now as a grown up I read those classics my mom read just to get close to her again. Perhaps it was to fulfill the burden of her loss between the pages of a loving story.
I told the crowd how much my mom made me love books, and how coming up with the name for this store was so important to me. Roger held up the sign that would grace the doorway.
NYC Bibliophile
The crowd clapped, because as readers we understood what the term meant to us. A bibliophile was someone who had a great love of books. And of course, NYC because we loved our city.
The bell chimed bringing me back to the present, and I looked up to see a delivery driver holding a very large package.
“Let me grab the door for you,” I said, as I helped him inside. Snow had dusted his thick jacket and hair. “Snowing already?”
“Sure is. You know there’s no turning back now,” he said as he placed the package down. When snow came it didn’t get warm in the city for months. The heavy flakes fell across the window where pedestrians trekked in their sneakers. All of them unprepared for this winter storm that had arrived so suddenly.
“Sign here for me,” he held up a keypad and I signed my name using the pen. “Thanks so much. Have a good one.”
I waved, saying nothing as I stared in complete wonder at this box that held something I had not ordered. Approaching it slowly, and looking at the tag, I saw it wasn’t anything I ordered. The sender was, no, wait, it couldn’t be. It was my mother.
Annalisa Bailey.
“Aw Mom, what did you send me?”
I sat hard at the desk and just stared at it afraid to open it for fear of what I would find inside. My mom was my heart and ever since her death, I had no real family.
My dad and I stopped speaking, mostly due to the fact that he moved on so quickly after Mom. He married his real estate agent after only a year of dating. That being not even a year after Mom took her last breath.
As for my brothers, we were never close. I was the youngest of three boys, and there was a large age gap between Charlie, Andrew, and me. Andrew, the oldest, was thirty-five, and Charlie was almost thirty. They had each other for many years before Mom became pregnant with me. I was the accident Dad never wanted, and as Mom put it, the blessing in disguise she dreamed of. Cancer ate my mom up and spit her out two years ago. She never stood a c
hance, but she fought the whole way through the three year-long battle. In the end, cancer won, and we lost.
So, you could say that I’ve had it rough, and that I should hold onto my family a little tighter, since we lost it all, but I would not agree. Dad has his new wife, and my brothers never had time for me then, and now they had their careers and their families. Sure, they tried to stay in contact the first year; sending cards, texts, and the occasional phone call. But now, I heard nothing from them. I can’t even tell you where my brothers worked, or what’s going on in their busy lives. Dad is so wrapped up in Tiffany, the realtor, that he couldn’t give a crap what his youngest son is up to. He did pay my way into college but when I dropped out last year, he stopped sending ‘how’s school’ texts. There was no need to check in anymore.
At twenty-one I felt like I had my shit together, somewhat. I mean, besides the family issues, I did.
Sure, I lost my girl, and half my business, but I was still trying. And maybe Mom saw that. Maybe she knew, wherever she was, that I wouldn’t give up no matter what.
That didn’t explain the package from a dead woman though. I grabbed the scissors and said, “Screw it.” Sliding the scissors through the tape, I wondered what could be inside. When I opened the top, I saw that it was a huge shipment of books and what looked like scrolls tied with ribbon. And sitting at the very bottom of the box was a letter addressed to me, her youngest son.
Five
Rose 1765
Mother had been gone for two weeks. Long they may not be to some, they were hard for me. I was constantly worrying about them both. So, I chopped wood, enough for three days, fed the chickens and the sheep, and added new hay to their beds. Our cow had died the winter before and I wouldn’t want that for the animals we had left. Snow had fallen but melted soon after. The animals would be warm enough as long as snow did not come again.
The eggs from the chickens were too precious a meal for mountain living. Some days, when there was no meat to put on our table, we were thankful for eggs. The wool from the sheep was precious as well, for warmth and for trade. I pet the sheep’s head as they softly bleated and then scurried together to stay warm. They were smart, smarter than many gave them credit for. The chickens weren’t as smart, that was probably due to the size of their brains, but I loved them still.
When Father wanted to slaughter them last fall, I fought for their very lives and begged him to spare them. Sure, we would have meat for meals but it wouldn’t last as long as a life spent with them when they gave food daily.
He agreed as long as they all kept laying eggs. The moment they stopped was the moment they would be roasted on a spit above our hearth.
Speaking of the hearth, I needed to clean it and left the animals behind to do so. Keeping a clean home was important to Mother and so it was now important to me in her absence. I swept the house daily, keeping the dirt out that blew in each time I opened the door. Keeping it closed simply wasn’t an option. There was just too much to do outside to keep inside all day.
From sunup to sundown I was busy, but I wondered how long I would be alone out here on this mountain. Would my parents come back soon or would I be alone for Christmastime? I’d never been alone longer than a fortnight. Desperately, I longed for human interaction soon before I fell apart at the very seams.
“I could always go see Mrs.Winthorp tomorrow.”
Wonderful, I had begun talking to myself. Leaning down I began to light the hearth to prepare it for my meal. Thank goodness for chickens, because it would be eggs again for dinner tonight. Then I would make myself a broth to soothe my aching, cold bones. And I’d take a bath afterward. Heating water for the basin was always hard work, and sometimes required help, but being alone made that difficult. I’d just do it myself, and be clean for my visit to the Winthorp’s home tomorrow.
Once the fire was nice and hot, I set the eggs in the pan and gently moved them over the coals. While they cooked, I took out my dress and made the finishing touches on the sleeves. With working around the house, I’d not finished it when I planned to. I longed to wear it but it wasn’t ready for that yet. A sleeve hung limply over the armchair awaiting its attachment.
I missed Mother and Father. The house was so lonesome without them in it. It was quiet without my father’s boisterous voice telling stories of his childhood in England. And my mother’s kind face and smile, the one where her eyes seemed to smile too. That’s when you knew she was truly happy.
They would come back. They had to. They’d gone off on hunting trips together and had left me before. But this time, it felt different. It was as if I had to tell myself to get used to being alone for a lifetime, to not look out the window for their arrival.
After I ate and bathed, I stepped into clean nightclothes. I climbed into my warm bed feeling its comfort surround me. The moon outside shone down into the window just so. Perfect enough for me to see it clearly. I reached up, as if to touch it, and wished upon that moon that I wouldn’t be alone forever.
Six
Adam 2019
I left my mom’s box lying where I left it three days ago. Revisiting the past wasn’t high on my priority list. Currently finishing up the day’s delivery was all that was on my plate at the moment. I let my head slowly fall forward until it softly hit the wall of books in front of me. Why was this so monotonous? Why couldn’t I love this work? I was surrounded by books, New Yorkers, and sounds of the city. Business was booming. So many people had known to come here by pure word of mouth, and that was great, but most of them were middle aged women or men, looking for either that hot new romance, or the next book to make them understand life. I longed for the day that a smart and beautiful well-read woman would walk in and beg me to take her against the stacks. A man could dream, couldn’t he?
These books were begging to be shelved and stacked, so I priced them and stacked them in neat little sections. And once I was done, I sat back and looked at my progress. I had made sections for my books, something she didn’t do.
I had used books and new, even marking the used as ‘Once Loved.’ And the new under ‘In need of Love.’ I could be witty.
People liked little quirky things like that. I had learned that in college. See Dad, I learned something.
When the bell rang on the door, I looked up hoping to see that girl I dreamt of, and instead saw just a regular customer.
“Hey Hazel. Looking for anything specific?” I asked her as she brushed the snow off her jacket.
“Hoping to find another one of those Vera Atticus books for my daughter. You know she’s bedridden right?”
Yes, of course I knew this, she only told me every time she came in here. I was beginning to wonder if the whole daughter thing was a front, and she wanted the romance novels for herself. It was normal for some customers to lie about what they read. I’d never understand it. Be proud of what you read.
“You did mention it the last time you were here,” I said as I pointed to the books she looked for. “We have the whole series. You should just get them all and save yourself a trip.”
“I think I will. I just got paid yesterday from my miserable ex-husband. It’s the alimony checks he sends. The thanks I get for putting up with him for thirty years. Don’t ever get married, Adam.”
I laughed. “Sure thing. Don’t think I have to worry about that for a long time.”
She laughed and nodded. “Good boy. You stay single, see the world. And then, when you aren’t worried about it, you’ll find a nice girl. Maybe a Jewish girl, and settle down.”
“Oh, Jewish girl huh? Won’t that complicate things, you know, since I’m catholic?”
“Pshh. You can always convert for her. Nothing like a good Jewish girl. Like my daughter. You Italians never understood what a good Jewish woman could do for you.”
Wow, this was going south, real fast. Time to abort.
“Well, you go ahead and look at your books. I’ll be here.”
That did it. She realized I wasn’t interested in her bedridden daughter and went to find her steamy romance books that would satisfy her longing for a man.
Once I closed up the store, I myself longed for something; a hot shower.
Wiping away the steam that took over my mirror, I saw my complexion and growled low. My hair was uncontrollable, these darn curls were getting longer and more unruly. I ran a good amount of leave in conditioner that the hot girl at Ulta sold me through them and was done with it. Cutting it would be like getting rid of a chick magnet, foolish. I would keep it long as long as it kept the girls interested. I brushed my teeth and put on a pair of boxers.
As I walked to the bedroom, I passed that damn box from my mom. It was haunting my thoughts during the day to be honest. Deciding not to ignore it anymore I sat down at the breakfast nook for one, opened the first flap and peered inside at the books, and then to the letter addressed to me. I lifted it out and smelled it. It smelled like her, lavender and coffee. A brief memory played on my mind like a dream of her drinking her morning coffee while I did homework last minute. She leaned down to look at what I was struggling with and I smelled the sharp smell of lavender. I wished I could go back and hug her a little longer and tell her how much I loved her just so she could say it back.
The letter was made of thick parchment paper, something I’d never seen before besides in old books. I’d never seen my mom own anything like this. Although she did have a knack for crafting, so it was entirely possible that she had written this before she died in her craft room.
A lump formed in my throat and I fought the tears hard as I opened it up. The writing was done in a thick ink, and there were even ink spots, like she wrote it with a quill.