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Chapter Nine
The Customer is Always Right
Alex peered around the door, making the little brass bell above her head chime. The bookshop smelled good, like a proper Christmas long ago: fireside, books and something freshly baked.
She would definitely have smiled more if it wasn’t for the embarrassment and the nerves making her fidget. Plus, she wasn’t exactly dressed for visiting.
Mrs Crocombe had brought her clothes back to her still warm from the dryer, but when she’d washed ashore that morning she’d been wearing the same thing she’d run off in; her boots (still rather damp now), inky jeans (from a high street store’s ‘tall’ range), a white rollneck and the holey, oversized indigo jumper she’d been wearing every winter for years. The entire look was topped off with mismatched black woollen mittens, a brown scarf and an incongruously pink baggy beany she shoved her hair under on damp sailing days. If not exactly smart, it was at least fresh and dry. Mrs Crocombe had valiantly laundered and pressed the lot, and told her she must keep the T-shirt and pyjama pants too. How did you thank someone for that kind of goodness? Alex had wanted to cry. Instead, she’d kissed Mrs C. on the cheek.
Now she stood on the bookshop doormat under her voluminous coat, feeling totally ridiculous. What must the Icelander be thinking? He was immobile and stiff-necked, standing in the middle of his shop, and so far he hadn’t said a word.
She’d come to thank him, but his look of incredulity made her wonder if he actually wanted an apology.
‘Hi,’ she said, raising an awkward hand.
‘It’s you,’ Magnús informed her.
‘Jowan told me you worked here.’
‘I don’t. I’m on vacation,’ he corrected, before tutting at himself, which Alex thought a little odd.
‘Well… this morning… you were great and…’ Alex struggled, wishing he’d help her out by waving a dismissive hand, and sayingOh that? It’s nothing, but he was just staring at her. ‘I wanted to thank you.’ Still nothing. ‘And… I’m sorry I was… there.’
‘I’m glad you were there,’ he blurted unthinkingly, before turning his back on her in an instant and rearranging the self-help section, which to Alex’s eye didn’t look all that untidy or urgent. He seemed to be having some kind of argument with himself and was shaking his head crossly.
When he turned back, his expression was just as vexed but at least he’d found some words. ‘Were you injured?’
‘No, I’m fine. The doctor ordered me to rest for a few days, and to drink. I was dehydrated.’
‘That’s good,’ he told her, his voice rising hopefully. ‘That you’re resting here, I mean, not that you were dehydrated.’ He seemed to wince once more.
Alex told herself she’d made a mistake dropping by, and yet turning on her heel and leaving wasn’t really an option. English politeness stopped her, not to mention the fact this guy had run to her aid that morning.
Concluding that he’d reached the limits of his conversation skills for now, Alex took a few cautious steps towards the classic literature section. This seemed to startle the bookseller even more. He was looking at her the way a person watches up-close street magic.
Suddenly, with a blink of awakening, he retreated behind the till where he picked up a copy of the little baking book from the counter and read it so closely that it obscured his face.
She saw his shoulders slump as if in defeat. The whole thing was amusing – endearing, even – which made Alex ask herself if she’d been at sea for so long that she was just glad to be in the company of anyone new, even this odd fellow. He was handsome though, she had to admit, somehow concrete in his chest and shoulders, muscular in his arms and legs, a little soft around his middle, and tall like her. She snapped her eyes to the bookshelves.
‘You’re enjoying your holiday?’ she asked at last, while looking at a modern paperback of Robert Louis Stevenson’sTreasure Island.
‘Am I?’ he said in a thoughtful way, as if he wasn’t sure. ‘I arrived last night, I haven’t really seen the place… and I’ve sold only one book so far.’ He stopped to take a breath.
‘Ah, well, let me help with that.’
She could have sworn he took a step backwards as she swept towards the till, book in hand. ‘I’ll take this, please. I didn’t bring anything with me to read on the…’ She almost said ‘on theDagalien’ but quickly swerved for ‘on the boat.’
Taking the paperback from her hand seemed to calm him. ‘Treasure Island? That’s one of my favourites.’
‘I’ve never read it.’
‘Ha!Then you are in for an adventure. Let me know what you think of it when you’re done.’
His sudden enthusiasm threw her. ‘Oh, well, I’m a slow reader, I…’ Alex didn’t know where she was going with this, only that she didn’t want to admit she’d really quite like to stay put in Clove Lore for a while, sitting still on dry land and reading and not having to think about things or explain herself to anyone. The idea struck her as utterly lovely. ‘I’ll be gone before I finish it, probably,’ she heard herself saying.
‘Já, right, of course. So, let me see,’ he peered at the book’s inside cover. ‘That will be… two pounds sterling?Of courseit will.’ He was shaking his head again.
What a strange person, Alex thought, but his grumbling, fumbling way still made her want to smile.
