Chapter Four
What was I thinking?
Clara slid behind the carved wooden screen delineating her office area, collapsed into her chair, and hid her blushing face in her hands. Her heart still fluttered at the memory of Nick’s smoldering gaze. Was it yearning that simmered in those dark eyes, or was she just flattering herself?
Probably just one of those guys who flirt with everyone. Thinking of him that way made it easier to face the prospect of seeing him again when he came for the rest of the books on his list.
She knew in her bones she was not ready for a—what, a fling? A flirtation? A hot tumble among the naughty books? Her body’s fevered response to Nick felt like a betrayal to Jared. But the thought of running her hands along Nick’s tawny skin warmed her in places that had been too cold for too long.
The pile of bills waiting in her inbox clamored for her attention, but she needed to move her restless body, not stare at columns of nagging numbers. Since customers had the annoying habit of reshelving books any old where, there was always work to be done. She found a cookbook in the mystery section, children’s picture books in the history aisle, and gardening tomes planted among the memoirs. As closing time neared, Clara found herself rearranging art books back near the special collections room. She checked the lock, just to be sure. Shut tight. Her fingers slid over the door’s shiny red lacquer, cool to her touch.
“Good night, Boss Lady.” Up front, Margot shrugged into her leather biker jacket. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thanks, kiddo. Please lock up. I’m going to stay here a bit.”
Margot paused in the doorway and regarded her, head cocked to the side like a curious bird.
“Was there something else?”
“No. Well, yeah. I mean…” She fiddled with one of her jacket’s many zippers.
“Out with it, then.”
She held a special fondness for Margot. If she and Jared had a daughter, she’d probably turn out something like this spunky little bohemian.
Margot sighed. “I just worry about you. You should have more fun. You spend so much time here at the shop.”
Clara pushed up from where she crouched at the bottom shelf. “I’m fine, really. And I have a date to meet with my girlfriends tonight and guzzle some wine.”
What a bald-faced lie. The only girlfriends she’d be communing with were on TV.
Margot’s grin lit up her pretty pixie face. “Okay then. Good for you.”
She had a point, though. Since Jared’s death, Clara spent far too much time alone. Many of their friends trickled away, uncomfortable with the singleton in their smugly married midst. A few steadfast friends still squeezed her into their busy schedules, but not as often as she’d like. And she was partly to blame; she’d turned down too many invitations, claiming she had to work at the shop. After a while, people gave up trying. And so, once again, she found herself alone on a Friday night.
At seven, the sky was still light, but a summer storm was brewing. Dark clouds roiled overhead, and a brisk wind blew scraps of paper into little cyclones on the sidewalk. The humidity pulled her hair into curls which escaped her chignon. Surrendering to the inevitable, she removed the pins and let it fall.
How had she become such a furry beast? Her reflection gazed back from the shop window, a wild Celtic warrior-woman from the cover of a romance novel, one who’d been dragged backward through a bush. But instead of a tightly-laced bodice, she wore one of Jared’s old tweed vests over a black satin blouse. She liked keeping something of Jared’s close to her: sometimes his favorite pendant, a silver Celtic knot on a leather cord, sometimes the scarf his mother knitted for him. His smell had faded long ago, but burying her face in the soft wool still triggered flashes of memory.
She rubbed the worn tweed vest between her fingers. “What shall I do, my love? Something’s got to change. I can’t live the rest of my life in this shop.”
No answer, but somehow, Jared’s presence surrounded her. In this bookstore they’d built together, his love, his warmth, his pride in what they’d made still lingered.
It was Jared who refinished the round oak table which held their display of recommended books. It was Jared who’d climbed the wobbly ladder to attach the ornate crown molding. It was Jared who’d stenciled the gold lettering on the front window. His vision polished what had been a dingy, dusty space into this warm, welcoming shop. Stepping through its door always buoyed up her spirits.
But if she didn’t find a way to draw in more customers, she might soon lose this anchor. Then what?
A soft knock on the window startled her from her reverie. Harry stood beneath the awning, sheltering from the rain. He grinned and waved.
She hurried to let him in.
“Harry! What brings you here so late? Don’t you have a date tonight?”
He was dressed to impress in a crisp Oxford cloth button-down with natty yellow stripes and a tie printed with Van Gogh’s sunflowers. A broad grin creased his weathered face.
“Yup. This one’s special, so I want to look nice.” He pulled a comb from his pocket and tamed his wiry white hair. “I’m meeting her up the street at Pomodoro. Saw the lights on in here. So, do I pass inspection?”
“Very snazzy. If you weren’t already booked, I’d ask you out myself.”
He dropped the grin and took her hands in his. “Clara, I want you to think about something.”
Uh oh. Harry knew about the ever-growing pile of bills, the ever-shrinking profit margin. He’d come up with dozens of ideas to bring in more customers: a slam poetry competition, a drink-and-paint night. He’d even suggested a yoga class among the exercise books. But marketing wasn’t on his mind now.
“You know I love you like a daughter, and I want you to be happy. Don’t you think it’s time to meet some new fellas? You can’t live the rest of your life alone.”
Her shoulders sank under the weight of his kind but insistent gaze.
“It’s too soon, Harry. I just—I’m not ready.”
“Look, kiddo.” He leaned an elbow on the counter, bringing his gaze level to hers. “I knew Jared for years before I met you, and I know he’d want to you live a full life.”
The force of her sigh lifted a stray curl from her forehead. “I know. I just can’t deal with dating yet.”
“I’m not saying you have to get serious about anyone, but don’t you think it’s time to dip your toes in the pool?” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “It was really hard when I started going out with ladies again, after Eleanor…”
A few years back, Harry bought his wife a laptop for her birthday. She became a Facebook addict, reconnected with her high school boyfriend, and ran off with him, leaving Harry devastated.
“The thing is, kiddo, I’m happy again. I have friends, and I have a new love. You could have that too. It’s what Jared would want for you.” When she didn’t answer, he lifted her chin until she met his gaze. “You won’t find love hiding out here among your books.”
The kindness of Harry’s words and the weight of their truth made her eyes mist over. She squeezed his hand, and he pulled her in for a warm, bony hug. After a moment, he cleared his throat and grasped her shoulders gently.
“What, Harry?”
“So, there’s a nice young guy in my running group.” His eyes twinkled.
“Oh? How young?”
“Around forty. He’s divorced, a high school teacher, good-looking fellow. Thought I might bring him by the shop, show him our shelf of running books.”
“Show him me, you mean?”
“Why not? I can vouch for his character, at least. He’s a nice guy.”
She cocked her head, took in his hopeful smile. Why not? She’d already had coffee with one handsome stranger—one more wouldn’t hurt.
Surprised at her own boldness, she answered, “Sure, I’d like to meet him.”
“Good.” He strode to the front door, leaned out, and waved.
“Wait, you mean now?” She raked her fingers through her humidity-snarled mane. “Harry, I’m not…”
“No time like the present.” He stepped onto the sidewalk and let fly a piercing whistle.
She ducked behind the screen and fumbled in her purse for her hairbrush and lipstick.
A moment later, the doorway bell tinkled again. Clara gulped, forced her hunched shoulders down, and stepped out to face her surprise blind date.
Harry stood grinning beside a tall, thin man who gazed bashfully at the floor. He raised his pale blue eyes to meet Clara’s, flashed a wry grin, and shrugged. She chuckled in sympathy. This poor guy seemed just as embarrassed as she felt. And, she had to admit, he was kind of cute.
He wore a dark windbreaker over jeans, and expensive-looking running shoes. He removed his knit cap to reveal a shiny shaved head, but his bony face was unlined. When Harry poked his shoulder from behind, the visitor ambled over and extended his hand. His touch was light and cool, comfortable. A local and an athlete. Familiar territory.
“Hi, Clara. I’m Doug Garvey, from Harry’s running club. Sorry to come by so late. I got caught up in a parent conference…” His voice was deep and a bit scratchy, like the pale stubble on his bony jaw.
“No problem, Doug. I’m glad to meet one of Harry’s friends.”
“He tells me you have an impressive collection.”
Her gaze flickered to the red door, then to Harry. His smile was the picture of innocence.
“Were you, uh, looking for anything in particular?”
“As a matter of fact, Born to Run, by McDougall.”
“I think we have a copy. Right down this aisle, second shelf on the left.”
Harry made a theatrical gesture of checking his watch. “Oh my, look at the time. I’d better hurry or I’ll be late. See you tomorrow morning, Doug?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Doug called over his shoulder.
She grasped Harry’s elbow and whispered, “Give me a little notice next time.”
“If I had, you’d have chickened out.”
He was right. She probably would have. When the door closed behind Harry, she moved to the back of the store to help Doug find his running book. He was waiting for her, the book in his hand, and smiled at her approach. Nice smile. Open, unguarded.
“Harry was right,” he said, gesturing at the bookshelves. “Your collection is better than the big chain store across town.”
“Tell your friends. That store’s been sucking our customers away.”
“Well, you’ve got something they don’t.”
She glanced at the red door behind him. If he only knew.
“Personality,” he continued. “That other place feels like the mall. Your shop is more…”
“Thanks. We try.” She gazed down at her feet. Doug did the same. “So, Clara, do you run?”
“Depends on who’s chasing me.”
Oops. She didn’t mean to sound so flirtatious. “Sorry. I’m sure you’ve heard that dozens of times.”
“More like hundreds.” But his kind smile reappeared.
“I’ve done some running—not much in the past few years, though. I’ve been pretty busy running the shop.”
“By yourself. Right. Harry told me about your husband. It must be so hard, continuing after someone you love is just—just gone.”
She nodded. But this time, she didn’t tear up. Usually her eyes misted over when someone offered words of sympathy about Jared’s death. Maybe she was ready to turn a corner, to begin the process of moving on. The thought sent a worm of guilt writhing into her guts.
“You should come meet our group,” he said. “Lots of good people.”
“Oh, I’d be lagging behind you, I’m sure.”
“There are plenty of beginners. And Harry’s not breaking any speed records. But he always finishes the race. I admire that.”
“Harry’s a good man.”
“He is.” He glanced down at the book in his hand. The overhead lights gleamed off his shiny bald scalp. How would all that bare skin feel under her fingers?
“So, um, Clara…”
Here it comes. He’s going to ask me out. Do I want him to?
“Could I interest you in a cup of coffee?”
“Now? It’s pretty late.”
He checked his watch, an elaborate model which probably monitored his mileage, his pulse, and God knows what else. “Oh, Jeez, sorry. How about a beer then?”
When she hesitated, he added, “I won’t keep you long. Just one drink?”
Just a beer. No pressure. People go out for beers all the time. “Why not?”
He blew out a long breath, then grinned. Was he nervous about asking her out? Maybe Harry had given him a push as well.
They spent a pleasant hour perched on bar stools in the dark, noisy tavern up the street, sipping Ninkasi IPAs, sharing a plate of tater tots, and talking about their town. How had she missed meeting Doug before now? He grew up in Eugene, played darts at the pub just down the street from her house, competed in the same triathlon as Jared two years ago, had even visited Book Nirvana a half-dozen times, yet she’d never noticed him. She answered his questions about the shop, steering the conversation away from Jared.
He told her about the social studies classes he taught at the high school, and about caring for his ailing mother. “A little more of her slips away every day, you know? It’s hard.”
When she squeezed his hand, he held onto hers for a long moment. His grip was gentle, smooth and dry. But no sparks of electricity zinged up her arm, nothing like the full-body flush ignited by Nick’s touch. Just a pleasant warmth. In the long run, wasn’t that better? Easier?
“So, our runners’ group meets at Bluebeard Coffee, Saturdays at eight. You know the place?”
“I do.”
“Why don’t you come by tomorrow? Harry will be there. You don’t have to run the first day, just say hi.”
“But if I wanted to run?”
A broad smile lit up his bony face. “That’d be great. I’ll introduce you to Mona. She’s always glad for someone to bring up the rear with her.” His gaze slid up and down her body. “Not that you’d be slow. You look pretty fit.”
Skinny and fit are not the same thing, but she didn’t spoil the moment by explaining how grief zapped her appetite. “Okay then, I’ll think about it. And thanks for the beer. I’d better get back home.”
He walked her to her car, parked in front of the bookshop. While she fished in her bag for her keys, he shuffled his feet on the pavement, reminding her of a cute but gawky adolescent.
“I hope I see you soon, Clara.”
“Me too.” The orangey light of the street lamp picked out the pale stubble on his jaw. How would he react if she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek? Would his skin be scratchy beneath her lips? Would he kiss her back? Would she like it if he did?
She gave her head a little shake. What was wrong with her today? Since meeting Nick, she wasn’t herself. She climbed into her old Subaru, then rolled down the window.
“Drive safe,” he called as she pulled away.
The misty rain pattered softly on her windshield, blurring the familiar route toward home.
What a nice guy. Maybe this was the right path for her—just a nice, ordinary guy to share the occasional evening with. Someone to ease the loneliness, someone who didn’t make her nervous and jumpy, like Nick did. Doug’s touch was gentle, comfortable. Nick’s touch was too electric, too magnetic. Too dangerous.