The Bookstore

by Gail Balentine

Two Years Ago

Jake left that morning on a business trip. I smiled at the airport but we both knew I hated it when he was gone. You’d think a writer would enjoy the solitude but I didn’t, especially since I had begun questioning whether I was meant to be a writer at all.

I’d heard there was going to be a new bookstore downtown and decided to see if it had opened yet so I could pick up something to read while Jake was away. I loved the name of the shop: Real Life Books   –where stories and life blend.

A bell tinkled as I entered and the young woman behind the counter smiled. The store was cozy, with bookshelves and tables artfully arranged, as well as several chairs gathered near a fireplace whose mantel was lined with pictures of literary characters – I could see Sherlock Holmes, Harry Potter, Hercule Poirot and Superman from where I stood. I felt at ease and grinned, knowing they would get much business from me. 

When I’d started writing with the serious goal of publishing, I had developed a ritual for my visits to a book store. Fiction is arranged by the author’s last name, so I go over to the G’s and look for my name, knowing it’s not yet there. Silly habit, but I do it anyway. I dutifully scanned the end of the F’s and came to the beginning of the G’s – and there I was, Sarah Garnett. What? Someone else published with my name? With heart pounding, I removed the book from the shelf. The title of the book was And What Now? Fortunately, there was a chair right there at the end of the aisle. I needed to sit down.

When I opened the book and started reading, I could feel the blood drain from my face. It was a story, yes, but not fiction. It was written in the first person and began with my birth, my parents, and older brother. I flipped through the next chapters to see schools I had attended, friends’ names, and Jake. It continued through college, my struggles with writing, and stopped when I entered the bookstore that morning. The written words filled almost the first one-third of the book. The rest of the chapters were blank. 

I dropped the book, as if it were on fire. My head spun and thinking was not possible. I’m not sure how long I sat there before the woman from the register came over to where I was sitting, picked up the book, and asked if I was all right. All right? Is insane all right?

No, I told her. I was not. My words tripped over each other as I hurriedly explained about the book and its contents. She glanced at the book and back at me. And then she asked me if I had fallen, or hit my head.

“Look at that book. What do you see?”

Very calmly, she said, “The Gift by Julie Garwood.”

I stood, grabbed the book, and left the shop, without stopping to pay. Once at home, I locked the doors, ignored my phone, and tried for hours to figure out what was happening. Every time I looked over at the book sitting on the table, I shrunk deeper into the chair. I didn’t eat, sat up all night in the dark, and got angry. I waited until 9:45 AM. Real Life Books opened at 10 AM and I was determined to find out what was happening to me.

When I got there, an older woman opened the door and ushered me in. She seemed to be expecting me. She led me to the chairs near the fireplace and said, “I assume you have some questions.”

Everything about her was calm – her voice, the way she sat in the chair, erect yet comfortable-looking. There was not a hair out of place. Her clothes were soft – a lavender silk blouse, matching wool skirt. A strand of pearls. Her hair was white but I could picture it jet-black and long. I shook myself back to my problem.

“Do you know about the book I found on the shelf yesterday?”

“Of course,” she smiled, “I put it there for you.”

“You what? But the other woman …”

“She couldn’t see what you saw.” She said this as casually as if talking about the weather.

I decided to try a different approach. “We’ve never met, how did you know I would come to the store?”

“It was never a question of if, Mrs. Garnett, only when.”

A customer needed help. She rang in the sale and returned, with a tray holding tea cups, milk, sugar, and several small muffins. It had started to rain and when she turned on the light near us, a soft rosy glow enveloped where we sat.

I confess, I wasn’t thinking at this point. I had expected a strenuous denial on her part and was not prepared for her actual response. Anger left me, taking my energy with it.

“Where did you get the book?” I asked. My hands shook as I brought the teacup to my lips.

“They come in the mail, in plain brown wrapping paper and, before you ask, I have no idea who sends them.” She stared at me over her teacup, dark brown eyes that noticed every detail.

“They?”

“There have been 10 so far. One a year.”

“And the others, were they also unfinished biographies?” She nodded. “Were they all writers?”

She listed eight authors whose first published works had made the New York Times Bestseller List over the past eight years. The other two names I did not recognize.

“Wait a minute. Are you saying that you gave each of these people a book like this,” I waved mine, “and that made them best-selling authors?”

She put down her teacup, leaned forward, and said, “The books didn’t turn them into great writers. There was no advice given, no effort to teach. They already had the skills they needed, as do you. But - seeing their lives in print, and all the blank pages ahead, helped them believe in themselves and start on the road to fill the rest of ‘their book’ with those things that mattered to them. For eight of them, that was to complete their first novel. For two of them, it was changing careers.”

I stood to leave, speechless, until I got to the front door. Then I said, “What do I owe you for the book?”

“A signed copy of your first novel.” She pointed to an antique curio cabinet in the corner. There were eight familiar books behind glass, with room for more.

The sun came out as I stepped outside.

Yesterday

Jake received a promotion and we moved out of state very shortly after my visit to Real Life Books. I never spoke about the bookstore or what happened there to anyone, even Jake. I did, however, keep on writing. We were back in town to visit friends and to allow me to bring my about-to-be-published novel to the shop.

When I got there, it was nice to see that everything seemed the same, except for scattered balloons and a Grand Opening sign. I waited in line and when it was my turn, I asked the man at the register about the signs. He said it was indeed their opening. He went on to say that they had expected to open two years ago but there had been a series of delays in converting the space from a curio shop on one side and a cobbler’s shop on the other to a bookstore. Finally, they had purchased the furniture and shelves from the two places, knocked down the wall between, refinished the floors and wall, and I was looking at the result. He laughed and said that you could still smell boot polish on rainy days.

I had prepared myself that anything could happen when I walked into the shop, so I did not get upset at his answer. Long ago, I had decided it didn’t matter where the inspiration for me to write came from, just that it was there. I told him I had returned to town to bring in a copy of my first book. He was very pleased and said he’d been wondering about where to display local authors’ work.

Taking another quick look around, I did notice one changed detail and called to him as I neared the door.

“Perhaps you could remove the cups and saucers from the curio cabinet over there and put copies of books written by someone from this area on the shelves.”

He looked over at the cabinet, smiled at me, and said, “What a great idea!” 

The bell overhead tinkled as I quietly closed the door.

*****