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“You smirked,” he says.
I look up as I spool the crisp paper from the thick roll, grab the large silver shears, ready to cut.
“Not at all.”
“It was a micro-expression. There and gone before you were even aware of it. Just the turning up of the corners of your mouth. People say all kinds of things. But those little muscles in the face never lie.”
This makes me look at him, a customer I haven’t met before. He drifted in about half an hour ago, was browsing in the travel section, wandered into philosophy, spent the most time in mystery/thriller, finally choosing his selection from the front table he passed on the way in.
I slice the paper, proud of the even, clean line I make, place the book facedown in the center of the square, carefully start to fold. The act of wrapping a gift is a sacred thing. Most people just throw things in a bag these days, fluff up some tissue paper, call it a day. Wrapping takes time, care, patience. My corners are precise. I press the tape with my fingernail so that it becomes invisible.
“Not a fan?” he asks when I don’t answer.
No,nota fan. Of the book. Of the season. Of the customer at this point.
“I’m a bookseller,” I say, trying for a smile. “I sell books to readers. I don’t judge.”
He gives a little chuckle. It’s easy, pleasant. “We all judge. It’s all we do, really.”
“Why did you choose it?” I ask, curious now. “You picked up Nietzsche in philosophy. Then Gopnik in travel. Finally, Megan Abbott in mystery/thriller. But youboughtthis one.”
I fold a tidy triangle at each end, press tape into each crease.
It’s late, about fifteen minutes after closing. The day has been busy, which is not something an independent bookstore can always claim. Since opening at ten, it’s been a parade of regulars and strangers, browsers and buyers, people who wanted shipping, or signed copies from authors who have visited. The pens and bookmarks have been popular today; they make good stocking stuffers. The notecards too—all the little items we sell in addition to books. I’ve locked the door so no one else can come in. And the street, outside the big picture window festooned with our Christmas display, is dark, a single streetlamp glowing, its orange light casting on my car parked beneath it.
I finish off the back seam, still waiting for my answer.
“I bought the book I thought my father would like, not what I would have chosen for myself. It’s a gift. Hence the wrapping.”
I unfurl a big swath of red ribbon. I do like ribbon, the texture, the color, the frivolity of it, a thing that exists only to adorn, to make festive something that would be plain.
“That’s thoughtful,” I say. “The true spirit of giving.”
He laughs again, and I like the sound of it. It’s a kind of warm rumble. A dark flop of inky hair, round glasses magnifying heavily lashed, dark eyes. He’s big, broad through the shoulders, wearing a black bomber jacket and faded jeans. I don’t think he’s been in before, but I recognize him somehow now that I’m really looking.
I tie the ribbon, use the shears to give the edges some curl. Pleased with the result, I hand it to my customer. We lock eyes and I’m surprised to feel a little jolt of—electricity. I look away quickly and walk over to the register to ring up the sale. He hands me his credit card, and I glance at the name. Harley Granger.
Oh, wow. Okay.
Now it’s my turn to clock his micro-expression. A small smile that’s there and gone, him noticing my recognizing his name. I grapple with my mental model of the store. Do we have all of his books? Are they well displayed in the true crime section? Yes. I sold of couple trade paperbacks over the last few days, but I restocked. His books are always in demand. I face them out because I’m a fan. A big one.
“I’m sorry,” I say, handing him the receipt. Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “I didn’t recognize you.”
He offers a nod. “My author photo might be a little too flattering. Five years and twenty pounds ago. Thanks for having the books.”
If anything, he looks younger, more boyish. I imagined him older, severe, smoldering maybe. A mind full of darkness. An investigator’s intrepid heart, venturing places where others fear to tread.
“What brings you to town?” I ask, trying to stay cool. My palms are literally sweating. I wipe them on my plaid wool skirt, straighten the hem of my black turtleneck sweater.
I’ve hosted some of the biggest authors in the world at my little store—brisk sales and my huge Bookstagram following make me a decent stop for authors traveling through the area to other, bigger markets. I host special events that draw crowds, like themed dinner parties and murder mystery nights that have several very engaged book groups that meet monthly and host authors live and virtually. I’m rarely starstruck. But right now, Iam—embarrassingly so.
“Some unfinished business, I guess you could say,” he says.
“Sounds mysterious.”
He nods, looks down at his feet.
“You’re Madeline, right? The owner.”
