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She headed past the coffee counter—now closed for the day—and through to the windowless cave of boxes and staff lockers in the back room. She dropped the books on the cluttered desk for Mrs. K to deal with the following day when she opened up.
“Cassie, I wasn’t trying to tell you how to live your life,” Mr. Webber said, when she reappeared, his expression serious. “I hope I didn’t insult you.”
“Insult me?” Cassie asked, genuinely puzzled. “Don’t be silly. I didn’t give it a second thought.”
“Well, what I mean to say, really, is please don’t let Mrs. Kellner know that I was suggesting you might abandon her and her bookstore.”
“She would ban you for life,” Cassie said, grinning. “But don’t worry. I won’t say anything. And I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”
As she tidied mugs and plates from the tables, Cassie looked around the store. It was everything a bookstore should be, with shelves and tables laden with books, soft music always playing in the background, and lights dangling on cables from the high ceiling, creating spots of brightness and cozy gloom. There were comfy chairs in corners and in between the shelves, and mismatched artwork on the walls. The paint hadn’t been redone in ten years, and the shelves had probably been first bought in the 1960s, but it felt appropriately shabby rather than rundown. It was a comfortable place, the sort of store that felt familiar the first time you stepped through the door.
She nodded down at Mr. Webber’s coffee cup. “Do you want a last refill before I close up?”
“I’ve had more than enough,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll be up and down like an elevator all night to pee.”
Cassie pulled a face, half amused, half disgusted.
“I offer you a window into the life of an old person,” Mr. Webber said, unapologetic. “It’s a constant pleasure. Now, give me a few minutes to gather my strength and then I’ll be out of your way.”
“Take as long as you want,” she said. “It’s nice to have the company at the end of the day.”
“Yes,” Mr. Webber agreed, gazing down at the table, his hand resting on the cover of his book. “Yes, it is.” He looked up and smiled at her a little shyly. She patted him once on the shoulder as she passed. At the front of the store the large window spilled soft light out into the night, a fireplace in the dark room of the city, and as Cassie perched on her stool, she saw that it was starting to snow, flakes spiraling like dust motes through the haze of light.
“Lovely,” she murmured in delight.
She watched the snow for a while as it grew heavier, the buildings across the street a crossword puzzle of lit and unlit windows. Passersby pulled their hoods up and ducked their heads against the onslaught, and diners in the small sushi bar directly opposite Kellner Books peered out at the weather with chopsticks in hand and concern on their faces.
“The best place to enjoy a stormy night is in a warm room with a book in your lap,” Cassie said to herself. She smiled sadly because someone she missed had once said those words to her.
She glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was time to lock up. At his table Mr. Webber was sitting with his head tilted awkwardly to the side, like a man who thought he’d heard someone calling his name. Cassie frowned and a finger of unease tickled something deep in her gut.
“Mr. Webber?” she asked, rising from her stool.
She hurried across the store, the easy-listening background jazz jangling against her sudden unease. When she put a hand on Mr. Webber’s shoulder he didn’t respond. His expression was fixed, his eyes open and lifeless, his lips slightly apart.
“Mr. Webber?” she tried again, even though she knew it was pointless.
Cassie knew what death looked like. The first time that she had seen death, many years previously, it had stolen from her the man who had raised her and the only family she had ever known. Now death had come again, and this time it had taken a nice man whom she hardly knew while she had been distracted by the snow.
“Oh, Mr. Webber,” she said, as sadness swelled within her.
The EMTs came first, bustling noisily into the store and shaking snow from their clothes and hair. They were energetic, like there was a chance of saving Mr. Webber, but as soon as they saw him all of their urgency drained away.
“He’s gone,” one of them told her, and the three of them stood around in an awkward silence like strangers at a party. Mr. Webber watched nothing in the middle distance with glassy eyes.
Then the police came, a young man and an older man, both of themasking her questions as the EMTs lifted Mr. Webber from his chair and strapped him onto a stretcher.
“He comes in the evening, two or three times a week,” she explained to them. “Just before the coffee counter closes for the day. He gets a drink and then sits there and reads his book until I close up the store.”
The young police officer looked bored, standing with his hands on his hips and watching the EMTs as they worked. “Probably lonely,” he said.
“He likes books,” Cassie said, and the cop looked at her. “Sometimes we talk about books we’ve read, books he’s reading. He likes the classics.” She realized that she was prattling even as the words continued to tumble from her lips. She folded her arms to stop herself. Something about the police made her self-conscious, excruciatingly aware of everything she was saying and doing.
“Right,” the cop said, watching her with professional indifference.
“I guess he liked talking to you, ma’am,” the older cop said, and Cassie thought he was trying to be nice. He was thumbing through the contents of Mr. Webber’s wallet, seeking an address or next of kin. It seemed oddly obscene to Cassie, like rummaging through someone’s underwear drawer.
“Nothing like a pretty lady to give an old man something to look forward to,” the younger cop said, a mischievous smile tugging the corner of his mouth. The older cop shook his head in disapproval without looking up from Mr. Webber’s wallet.
