Page 18 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
I wrinkle my nose. “Him?Even-keeled? I’ve been in Ryba Harbor for about twenty-four hours and already run into him twice, and both times, he treated me like I was a chamber pot he’d stepped into.”
Angela raises a brow at “chamber pot.”
“Sorry. Historical fiction nerd,” I say, pointing at myself.
Angela smiles at me. “Well, all I know is that you’ve rattled a man who can’t be shaken. Do you know what Sebastien once did?” she says, leaning forward on her counter like she’s about to reveal the secrets of the universe. “TheAlacritywas on its tenth day out at sea. The waters were more violent than usual—fifty-foot waves—and the storm was subfreezing wind and sleet. The crew was already exhausted from a rough trip; the boat iced relentlessly, and some of their traps had been lost. All they could hope for was surviving the night.
“And then, Sebastien saw a baby polar bear stranded on an iceberg. It was clearly injured, maybe a broken leg. The mother was nowhere in sight, and the cub couldn’t swim to safety. So what did Sebastien do, in the middle of one of the most dangerous winter storms in recent Alaskan history? He jumped onto thin, fractured ice, rescued the baby bear, and brought it back on board.”
I burst out laughing. “That guy? No way. I don’t believe for a second that he could care about another human, let alone a baby bear. Besides, Sebastien would have fallen through the ice and frozen in the ocean. Or the bear would have mauled him to death. That’s a tall tale if I ever heard one.”
“Girls Scout’s promise.” Angela holds up three fingers like an oath. “I was there when theAlacritydocked at port—the whole town was, because the crew had radioed ahead to Adam in the office—and a vet from the Wilderness Conservatory came to take the cub. There was a TV report about it, and it was a big deal when the bear was recuperated and returned to the wild.” Angela’s eyes gleam the way the patrons at The Frosty Otter looked at Sebastien last night—a beloved citizen of Ryba Harbor who buys beer for everyone and saves baby bears in his free time. A hero of mythic (small town) proportions.
I barely restrain myself from rolling my eyes. (If I didn’t, they would have rolled so hard they’d fall out of my head and across the bookstore floor.) Instead, I smile sterilely, just like I did whenever I was passed over for a promotion at the newspaper, or whenever Merrick made another excuse for working late with the interns. It’s my “this is mildly uncomfortable, let’s pretend I believe you and move on” smile.
Angela gets the hint and turns back to her computer. “Anyway, I digress, and I apologize—I shouldn’t have pried about you and Sebastien. So, should I place that order forThe Craft of Novel Writingfor you?”
I drum my fingers on the counter. Three to four weeks. That’s half the time I’ve got on my cottage rental. Ihaveto make progress on my novel before that. Plus, my sister, Katy, and I leave for Europe two months from now. I can’t celebrate in the streets of Amsterdam and Cannes if I haven’t even started the thing I’m supposed to be celebrating.
Argh. The faster solution is an unpalatable one: track down Sebastien and demand the writing book back. He doesn’t need it. He just took it because it was mine.
I am so, so tired of people like Sebastien and Merrick, who think they can push me around.
But screw them. Tomorrow I’m going to the harbor. Unlike my original plan of swooning over Story Sebastien, though, maybe I’ll punch Real Sebastien in the face. (ButafterI get my book back.)
“You don’t need to order it,” I tell Angela. “Thanks, though.”
I grab my coat from its hook and start to leave. But the musical laughter of small children stops me before I get to the exit, and my heart turns to mush at the sound. Three toddlers huddle around a little table in the children’s section, giggling at a board book. Their parents sit in armchairs close enough to keep an eye on them but far enough to be able to chat among themselves. There’s an empty armchair next to them, and for a second, I imagine myself sitting there, a fellow mom on a playdate at the bookstore.
I’ve always wanted kids, but Merrick didn’t want the responsibility. It was a point of tension between us. Not the thing that broke us, of course, but still, my biological clock started tickingaround twenty-five and it never stopped. But at thirty years old, soon to be divorced, and disillusioned about men, I might have to give up on the idea of having my own babies. Instead, I soothe that maternal instinct by spoiling my nephew and watching other people’s kids from afar.
“Aren’t they adorable?” Angela says. “Kids are the main reason I opened this store. I have such fond memories of browsing picture books when I was a girl, in what seemed like miles and miles of shelves.”
“Theyaresuper cute,” I say, maybe with a little too much longing.
But Angela doesn’t seem to notice, because she’s looking at the giggling toddlers in almost the same way I am.
“Do you have kids?” I ask.
She nods. “A son. He lives in Arizona, and he and his wife just had a baby girl. I want to visit them, but I haven’t been able to get away from the store.”
“No one can cover for you?”
“I only have one employee. Ryba Harbor isn’t a big reading town, other than the kids.”
“That’s too bad.”
She shrugs and turns back to the register.
But then a thought occurs to me. I worked in the college bookstore during my undergrad years, and I still know books because I’m a voracious reader. And to be honest, I could also use a bit of income. Today’s grocery shopping cost more than I’d expected—apparently, food and everything else is more expensive in Alaska, because it all has to be shipped up here. If I took on even a short gig at Shipyard Books, it’d give me a cushion and spending money when I go to Europe.
I didn’t used to be the type of person who would ask for what wasn’t obviously available. At restaurants, I never request substitutions or order off-menu. I certainly don’t inquire about jobs without a Help Wanted sign in the window. But the new me is trying to be bolder, braver in both the big and little things. Besides, what’s the harm in asking a question? The worst is a no, and I’ve survived much worse than that.
“Hey,” I say to Angela while smiling at the kids at the little table. “What if I covered for you while you go see your granddaughter? I used to work in a bookstore, and—”
Angela claps her hands together with glee. “Really? Can you start tomorrow afternoon?”
HELENE
