Page 127 of Forever Then

“It’s me, Mr. Mullins. And this is my girlfriend, Gretchen.”

I introduce myself as Connor continues, “Mr. Mullins runs a very tight ship. Only stocking classics and books th?—”

“Books that I think should be classics,” Mr. Mullins finishes.

“It’s a book collector’s dream.” Connor smiles fondly at the kind man. “Where’s your daughter? I thought she’s supposed to be running this place for you now?”

Mr. Mullins waves his hand. “Oh, Victoria and her husband are at the Carova house with your parents for a couple of weeks. My grandson was just here though. I’m sorry you missed him. He’s actually going to be taking the reins soon.” A proud gleam fills his eye.

“Three generations. That’s impressive,” I say.

“I’m a blessed man.”

“Connor, how’s your family?”

“Good. I’m sure they’re getting up to plenty of trouble with Victoria and Tom out at the beach house.”

The conversation with Connor’s parents on the phone last week comes to remembrance: Carova house, Gene.

Their conversation volleys back and forth, the family history and connection evident in every affectionate word, until Mr. Mullins turns his expectant smile on me. “So, what are we in the market for today, young lady?”

“Oh…um…I don’t know.”

Connor’s warm hand settles on my back. “I think we’re just going to browse today, Mr. Mullins.”

“Boy, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Gene.”

For the next half hour, Gene gives us the grand tour of his little shop.

Every single book is tucked inside its own dedicated clear plastic sleeve, but it does nothing to detract from the jaw-dropping collection.

Entire shelves dedicated to early edition copies of Charles Dickens and another shelf entirely for the works of Shakespeare. Stacks and rows of J.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. A half dozen rolling carts filled to the brim with Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters and Virginia Woolfe. John Steinbeck here, F. Scott Fitzgerald there. The whole place an eclectic amalgamation of whimsy meeting nostalgia. Every nook and cranny reveals literary treasures dating as far back as first editions printed over two hundred years ago.

“So, what’s the most valuable book you have?” I ask.

Gene leads us to a small shelf tucked in the corner by the front counter. On it rests a handful of books. “These are my most prized possessions.” He pulls a small, dusty hardback off the shelf. “They belonged to my father.”

“May I?” I take the book he holds out for me. “The Book of Common Prayers.”

“I also have my father’s bible,” Gene says, thoughtfully running his hand over the cover.

I point to a thin spine that looks rather contemporary by comparison to the others. “And that one?”

“The Big Book,” he answers.

I swallow the heavy lump in my throat when I seeAlcoholics Anonymousin big, bold print on the front cover. A quick glance back to the shelf reveals another spine that reads,The Trauma of War.

Gene tracks my gaze. “My dad was a military man. Korea wasn’t his first rodeo, but even he came back different. He had to fight hard for his recovery. PTSD turned into alcoholism and the alcohol triggered the trauma. He fought like hell to break the cycle and these books were a part of what helped him. It was decades of ups and downs, but the prayers, the AA mantras, the survival stories, the promise of an eternity in glory—these books saw him through all of it.”

Moisture wells behind my eyes and I’m not even sure why. “Thank you for showing these to me. I can understand why they mean so much to you.”

“A book is only as valuable as the heart that carries it. Even if I wanted to sell them, they wouldn’t make me any money, but they’re worth more to me than anything else in here.”

His words resonate, echoing off something deep within me. I’ve never been able to articulate why I’ve held on to some of the books I’ve acquired over the years, but Gene made it all make sense so easily. It’s more than sentimentality or the need to hold on to the memories a book might possess. It’s the way a book, and the people or events you associate with it, somehow forms you—makes you who you are. The logical side of your brain tells you that this tangible object can’t really have an effect on the person you become, but the feelings side can’t quite separate the book from the person. It’s all so beautifully intertwined.

“Do you have a book that your heart carries with it?” Gene’s soft, kind voice rings into the dusty air between us. The affection in his smile says everybody has one. Including me.

“Little Women,” I say, the squeeze of Connor’s hand over mine the ever-present reminder that I’ll never be able to separate the book from him, nor him from the person that I’ve become.

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