Page 20 of An Enchanted Moment on Ever After Street
I’ve put a poster about the book festival on the front edge of my hexagonal counter, and a stack of postcards beside me. He takes one and reads it while I put his book through the till, and then says his wife loves one of our attending authors and buys two tickets.
He’s the first customer of what turns out to be a busy day. Sadie posted about the book festival on the Ever After Street website this morning, and it’s reminded people that A Tale As Old As Time exists, because there’s a constant stream of customers in and out, and it’s busy for a Wednesday. The postcard stack is shrinking rapidly and I’m seeing flyers being passed between families and slid into bags as people walk out the door with their purchases.
Between customers, I’m on my laptop, scouring the internet for any trace of U.N.Known and getting more despondent by the minute. Whoever he is, hereallydoes not want to be found. It takes most of the day, but I eventually find an old announcement about the sale of film rights forOnce Upon Another Timein the archives of a now-defunct publishing industry magazine, which mentions the literary agent he was once represented by. I findthe agency and dash off a quick email, explaining where I work and why I want to get in touch with U.N.Known, not expecting to get anything back.
At least it stopped me looking at the clock for a few minutes. ImissDarcy. My mind keeps flicking to him. He could be just on the other side of the wall behind me, but he seems a million light-years away and I’m trying to ignore the fluttery feeling I’ve got about seeing him at five o’clock.
At five to five, as the last customer is browsing the classics shelves, I absent-mindedly check my emails again and see a reply in my inbox.
Dear Miss Platt,
I must admit that U.N.Known is a name I never expected to hear again. You are right, he was once represented by this agency. He was an ex-colleague’s client, and after her retirement, his contract was passed to another agent to look after, and then another, and she’s currently on maternity leave, so in a roundabout way, I’m now responsible.
However, for want of a better way of putting it, U.N.Known disappeared many years ago. After delivering only one book of a three-book contract, he simply vanished. All responses to emails ceased. Phone calls went unanswered. Letters sent to his address were not acknowledged, and when the publisher themselves tried using a tracked service, the letters were all returned as undeliverable. Over the years, and many changes in staff both here and at the publisher, I’m afraid we’ve all but given up.
The only reason he is still connected to this agency at all is due to financial reasons – we still accept royalties on his behalf, although payments to his bank account started being returned at the same time as contact was dropped.
He was never a client of mine, and as you are acting in a professional capacity, I see no harm in passing along hisemail address, although please be warned that if you can get a reply out of him, you are a better woman than myself and many who have tried before me. His email is [email protected]. Do let me know if you have any luck!
I let out a squeal that makes the customer drop his book in surprise, and then apologise profusely when it lands squarely on his toe and he yelps in pain. Instead of buying anything, he limps out empty-handed, apart from a flyer about the book festival, and even though I’m trying to tell myself not to get overexcited, I keep staring at that email address.
I have a way of contacting U.N.Known. All right, it doesn’t bode well that even his agent hasn’t been able to get in touch with him for years and it sounds unlikely that he’d reply to a random bookseller, but it puts me one step closer to the dream of getting him to appear at the book festival.
One teeny, tiny step, but still.
6
I send the agent a quick thank you in response, and now it’s ten past five, and I rush upstairs to make the usual two cups of tea. I can’t help the wild grin and the flutter in my chest at the thought of seeing Darcy again.
‘Tea up, neighbour,’ I say when I get my coat on and push my feet into my boots.
His warm laugh is the first thing that greets me. ‘You don’t have to keep doing that.’
‘I want to.’ I don’t add that his befuddled reaction at someone making tea for him is a huge part of why. When I walk down the path towards the gates at the end, I see a dash of colour waiting for me.
‘Oh, Darcy, what are these for?’ I lift the tray onto the post and take the ribbon-tied bouquet. They’re yellow roses, but each petal is splashed with splotches of pink, red, and white.
‘I don’t know. It’s getting late in the season for summer roses and I was cutting them last night and thought you’d like them.’
I thank him and run back upstairs to dig out an old vase left behind by the previous bookshop tenant, fill it with water, and take it back downstairs to display them behind the counter. Myclattering around has disturbed Mrs Potts, who’s meowing and rubbing her slinky body around my feet, clearly angling for extra kitty biscuits.
‘You’ve already eaten.’ I give her head a rub, and because she’s up and about rather than sleeping, I leave the back door open in case she wants to follow me when I go back outside.
‘Thank you. They’re beautiful. Do you grow them yourself?’
‘Well, Iama gardener who specialises in roses… It would be quite odd if I’d nipped out and bought them from Tesco.’ He sounds amused by my lack of knowledge of the correct gardening terminology.
‘No, I mean… I’ve never seen roses like that before. They don’t exist anywhere else, do they? You… invented them?’
His amusement turns into outright laughter. ‘Ibredthem, yes. Every year, I select different roses and cross-pollinate them, and then the rosehips they produce at the end of the season contain seeds that are a cross between the parent plants. Grow those seeds and voila. The possibilities are endless, and the hybrids that result are one of a kind.’
‘Wow. That’s exceptional, Darcy.’
‘It’s just a hobby. I like roses. They’re easy to grow – they can look spectacular with very little care, and they come back every year. Each spring, there will be rosebuds waiting to open with these perfect flowers. They always bloom, no matter how harsh a winter has been.’
Flower buds in spring speak of new beginnings and the promise of better days to come. A rose in the spring is hopeful. There’s more to this than he’s saying. His roses are special, and the fact he does this is special, even if he insists on downplaying it. People go into his shop to buy roses and no one has any idea that these are roses they can’t get anywhere else in the world. Each petal is totally unique because ofhim. He deserves recognition for how meaningful that is.
‘Rick came in today and said you’d shut him out of your shop. I’m not used to men doing what they say they will, so thank you for that too.’
