Part 1 (2/2)
His tongue flickers at the corner of his mouth. I yank my hand back, a smile wobbling across my face.
”Who owns a handkerchief these days?” My voice sounds shaky-pinched, even. I examine the corner of the cloth, which is embroidered with the letters AEK. He shrugs and looks embarra.s.sed, and it disappears back into his coat pocket.
”Yes, it's not a very American habit, I'm gathering.”
”So you are English,” I conclude. He looks briefly pained.
”Scottish,” he says.
”Sorry,” I mock-whisper.
”Bad mistake. Mortal enemies and all, right?” I bring my wrist to my mouth, pressing my lips to the flaps of torn skin. He stares at me and I drop my hand, embarra.s.sed.
”On vacation here?” I ask, filling in the gap of silence.
”No. I'm at NYU.”
”You're a student there?” I ask. A fine stain of color washes over his cheeks.
”I'm a processor there.”
”You are?” I say, realizing belatedly how rude that sounds.
”I mean ... you are” I nod.
”Sure. Sorry, you just look so young” Now I'm the one who's blus.h.i.+ng. I can feel it across my cheeks and forehead. Even my nose feels hot.
”First year,” he says, then adds with a slight smile, ”I guess I'll grow into it.”
”What do you teach?” I ask.
”Art history. Are you a college student?”
”Not yet,” I say.
”I go to New Hyde Prep” He gives me a blank look.
”It's a boarding school in the city. On the Upper East Side. I'm just home in Hedgerow for the summer” I pusha stack of cardboard bookmarks closer to the register, aligning their edges perfectly.
”NYU is one of my top picks. So if I get in, maybe I'll end up in your cla.s.s next year.”
”That would be lovely,” he says. Then he looks up and smiles briefly, almost wickedly, at me.
”As long as you promise to not use the word interesting in any discussions.”
”I wouldn't dare,” I say. I consider letting my lashes sweep down. I've been bored all summer and in need of a little flirting practice. The small town of Hedgerow, while big on rustic charm, doesn't carry much in the way of male diversion. Even if I weren't a member of the town's most infamous family, the options are limited. But the moment pa.s.ses, so I take the book from him once more and check the flap for the price that my grandmother has penciled in with her looping scrawl.
”Seven dollars,” I say, taking the twenty from his outstretched fingers. He accepts the change that I hand him, not even checking it before he puts it away in his wallet. And all the while he wears a faint look of unease. He takes off his gla.s.ses, ma.s.sages the bridge of his nose, and looks up at me, and I decide that his eyes are a toss-up between blue and gray.
”There's something else I'm looking for,” he blurts out suddenly.
”Not a book, though” He glances at the door, as if thinking about changing his mind and escaping into the rain. I s.h.i.+ft on my feet, pressing Hector's ears lightly against his head the way he likes.
”What is it, then?” Somehow I'm not surprised we've arrived at this. Most out-of-towners come to this part eventually.
”An old family heirloom. A clock. It was in my family for generations and then we ... lost it” He settles his gla.s.ses back onto his face.
”Lost it?” He waves his hand, the light catching on the steel band of his watch.
Hector's eyes widen, and I put a restraining hand on the cat's neck until he settles down into a doze again.
”In a card game or a wager or something to that effect in the late eighteen hundreds in New York City. Gamblers in the family, I'm afraid.”
”And how can I help?” I ask and wait for him to meet my eyes, which he does with what seems like reluctance. Glacial blue, I decide finally.
”It's just that... well... I had heard that... that this place ...”
”'This place'?” I repeat. As I slip the book into a bag, I trace one finger over the Greene's lost and found, new and used books logo. I can't help but feel a little like Hector with a mouse caught between his paws. He flushes again.
”I had heard that this place specializes in that sort of thing. Finding things, that is.
Lost things.”
”Very rarely is something lost forever,” I say enigmatically because that's what my grandmother always says to potential clients. Then I grow tired of this game and a little tired of myself. The poor guy traveled all the way from New York City on a rainy night to find something, doubtlessly something of no value except sentimental, and the last thing he needs is to be toyed with by a seventeen-year-old girl with a chip on her shoulder regarding her family's special Talents. Since Agatha took Intro to Psychology last year, I've been prodded into becoming more self-aware.
”Okay, look ... you've come to the right place, Professor, but-”
”Callum,” he interjects.
”Alistair Callum. And you're Miss Greene, of course?”
”Yes. T-”But words are tumbling out of him now.
”Frankly, I was a little doubtful that a place like ... like this existed. I mean, how fascinating. I want to ... I just want to say ... what a brilliant thing this is that you do, Miss Greene” I'm not the person you want. I know I need to tell him that. But it's so rare that anyone looks at me the way Alistair is looking at me now. With admiration and awe. I feel all at once a brightening and a dimming in my head as if someone flipped on a light switch and then just as quickly slammed it off again. Suddenly, I want to be back in my dorm room bed, skimming pa.s.sages from a book propped open on my chest before giving up on my homework and ambling down to the student lounge to watch TV with anyone who happens to be there. Normal people. People who have no idea about my family's Talents.
People who don't look at me sidelong with wonder or unease or fear or any combination of the three. And yet Alistair is looking at me hopefully, his hands tightening on the counter as he leans toward me. I picture myself saying the right thing, the thing I am supposed to say should a customer ask for help beyond where to find the latest Pat Griffith mystery. My grandmother is the one you need to talk to. She'll be in tomorrow. I'm just watching the store and I'm not the one. Not the one you need. Instead, I hear myself saying, ”I can help you” And then I pause. Fix it, fix it now, a tiny voice screams at me.
”This is my grandmother's store” That's right, that's right, backpedal. I take a breath, stomp on the voice, grind it into silence.
”But I do this kind of work with her all the time” My words are steady and surprisingly a.s.sured. Hector stops purring and opens his eyes, giving me a long yellow stare.
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