Odds and Ends
Stepping into the shop was like stepping back in time. How many old bookstores had she prowled? Too many perhaps. She breathed in the scent of timeless volumes: the dust, aged leather bindings and the distinct scent of binding and repair. "Someone is caring for this treasure," she thought. A sudden movement at the edge of her sight-line caught her attention and she was snapped from her reverie.
Tilting her head to the left, she was caught in the equally startled gaze of what must have been the proprietor. She felt transparent standing there, rather like a window. His eyes, so startling blue you could see the color from a distance, seemed to look straight through her. She wondered briefly if he could see the blood pounding in her veins, like the waves washing hard against the rocks along the shore, or if he simply saw the street beyond her. All in all, she would rather he saw the street. She realized he was speaking then, though she could not make out what he had said. It wasn't the deep brogue or the heavy bass-brushed tones of his voice. It was simply that somehow she was hearing the night's music again, standing there, trapped in his blue gaze.
He moved then, emerging from behind the sales desk and breaking the hold. She turned to the window, breathing deeply. She really needed more sleep and much, much less wine. She supposed that actually having that cup of tea might have helped as well, in addition to a much needed breakfast. She was tired and letting the events of the past hours affect her far too much. She set her shoulders, braced and squared them, then she turned to face him. He was actually a fine looking man, if you liked them on the lean side. His shoulders were a bit wider than you would expect for a man that thin. He had that wind-whipped, slightly curly hair that was common to the region and a face that made it clear he was a plantation-bred Irishman. Too much length in the nose and around the cheek to be pure Irish, that meant he almost had to be a blend of pure root with the transplants of English or Scottish along the line. She focused on what he was saying then. Yes, indeed he could be of service. She needed two items. A book about the history of the coast here, something that documented the ancient legends and mysteries of the area, and another about the anatomy and healing of large birds.
She watched with some amazement as his rather expressive face went from pensive, to intriqued, to troubled as she spoke. What, she wondered, could bring those emotive shadows to bear from such innocuous requests. Odd though the combination might be, it certainly was not a request that should trouble the shopkeeper. She waited for him to find his way through the stacks and return with a selection of books. He returned with four volumes. Two of the volumes dealt with legends about the area, a third was a book of Irish myth and legend and the fourth dealt directly with the biology of large birds. She handed him the first two and the final one for purchase. He raised one thick brow and added the fourth to her stack, ringing up only the purchase price of the three she had selected. "I'm thinking you'll be wantin' this last one, whether you know it or not," he said. Then he smiled at her and accepted her payment. He added his card to the package as he wrapped and tied the bundle. "If you find you need anything, anything at all, you can reach me easy enough."
She took the package from him as if it were made of glass, stepping backward to reach the door. This whole visit seemed oddly out of place, even perhaps set out of time. She slipped out the door and pulled his card free of the twine that held it in place. "Roary James, Antiquarian Books and Curios," she read. "Curious indeed," she thought.
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