Page 7 of The Undercover Bookshop

“Yes.” I nod. “First thing in the morning.”

“Excellent. I may drop by. I do love a good mystery, and you seem to have quite a robust selection.” She winks at me and walks out. Mr. Hastings follows her.

As they leave the back room, I survey my piles. Mysteries. Plenty of mysteries. Oh my. I hadn’t thought about it when ordering. I simply ordered the books with which I am familiar, the ones I love.

How am I going to tell Mr. Hastings his entire stock is only mysteries?

Every book is checked in, recorded, and ready to shelve. I stretch and feel my back and neck unfurl. There’s a slight crunching sound between my shoulders, and I realize I’ve been hunched over a very long time. A glance out the small side window confirms it. The light has changed from the bright yellow-blue of a clear morning to the oranges and pinks of the late afternoon. The day has slipped away and suddenly I’m ravenous.

I stand and walk to the front of the shop. Mr. Hastings is closing out the register and recording the day’s bills and charges. I still haven’t told him about the inventory mishap.

“That took all day, but I’ll start bringing them out to shelve now.” I stretch again and feel my back shift and clunk with the motion.

He slides the money from the till into the leather envelope for the store’s safe. “Let that wait for tomorrow. You set off home or to the Unicorn for a bite to eat. You didn’t lift your head all day.”

I cast my mind to my bedsit above the store and realize I haven’t any food prepared. Glancing towards the aisle of tinned goods, I think of a couple that might work for this evening’s supper. But I don’t want to eat alone in my room. Earlier today I set aside Taken at the Flood for Peggy—she’s never read an Agatha Christie novel—and I want to give it to her. Tonight.

“That’s a good idea. I think I will go to the pub for supper.” My voice comes out high and chipper, almost a surprise to me. Friends. Sharing. Laughter. Even after several weeks here, there is still an element of newness and delight in all of it.

Mr. Hastings, his attention fixed upon the till and monies, merely toggles his head towards the back. “You go on then.”

I thank him again for everything, which he waves away, and just as I step back, a shadow moves across the store window. I catch sight of Police Constable Charles in the lamplight. He lifts a hand in hello, and I return the gesture. But I drop my hand just as quickly and turn to Mr. Hastings as if we are in a deep discussion. I wait, breath holding for the tinging of the shop’s brass bell. It doesn’t ring. I peek to the window with relief. PC Charles has walked on.

It’s been two weeks and six days now. Two weeks and six days of crossing the street whenever I spy him coming my direction, ducking my body beneath the counter when he peers into the shop, and turning aside when he draws near at the pub, as if in private conversation with Mimi, Peggy, Sallie, or anybody else standing near.

It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.

We were friends—almost friends. We spoke to each other, made polite conversation, and shared a few meals when the group got together at the pub. But after that night, two weeks and six days ago, I’ve made myself a greater fool by avoiding him than I was that evening we first met. Because it was two weeks and six nights ago when Mrs. Derwet took me to task like an ill-mannered child.

And I want to end it. I want to simply say I’m sorry and, perhaps, ask if we can be friends again. But I cannot. I’ve let the humiliation grow too large, and I’ve carried this out too long. I don’t know how to beat it back. All I know is—

“Gemma?”

I shake myself back to the present and Mr. Hastings, who blinks at me in confusion. “I said you should go on. I’ll lock up tonight.”

“Yes, thank you, of course. I’m off.” I stride to the storage room, grab that copy of Taken at the Flood, and race out the back towards the Unicorn. I set my mind to Peggy, the novel, and the question I’ve wanted to discuss since I first read it, but it’s no good. All I can think about is that handsome police constable with the blue-grey eyes that can spark like sapphires when he laughs and darken like stormy grey skies when he’s dressed in his navy uniform, and the dimple in his left cheek that only pops out in the broadest of smiles. I am also thinking that, thankfully, he was walking north and the pub is to the south.

If I hurry, I can avoid him—again.

Chapter 4

The pub is unusually packed this evening. Well, the front area around the bar being filled isn’t odd, but the few tables in the back reserved for dining are completely taken up as well, and that’s quite strange for a weeknight. However, the sky has clouded and grown heavy with an impending storm, and according to the owner, Mrs. Derwet, bad weather always draws people together.

I lift on my toes, searching corner to corner, but I don’t see a friend in the throng or many open seats. Just as I turn away, mentally choosing which tins to purchase for tonight’s dull supper, a whistle, almost like a birdcall, cuts the air.

I spin round, searching for the source, and finally spot Peggy, her fingers moving from her lips to a wave, sitting at a far corner table. Freddie from the butcher’s shop sits beside her. I work my way back, and as I approach, Peggy flaps a hand at two tables away. “Ask for their spare chair.”

I do and Mr. Starkey is gracious enough to carry it over for me. He grunts at Freddie for not jumping up himself, which, after thanking him, reduces Peggy and me to giggles and turns Freddie a ferocious and embarrassed red.

“You’re late,” Peggy says as Freddie scoots over for me.

“I’m not.” I peer around. “The whole village is early, and you didn’t know I was coming.”

“I hoped.” She grins.

I smell sweat, hay, and earth press near and twist to find the man at the next table leaning so far towards me, he’s almost in my lap. “I ’eard all Hastings’s books came in.”

“They did, Mr. Bantry.” I shift back to gain an inch of distance. “After I shelve them tomorrow morning, they’ll be ready for sale. You and Mrs. Bantry should come see.”