Page 17 of Battle of the Bookstores

I’ve spent thepast two weeks feverishly pulling together thoughtful, inspiring programming to bring more people into my store. Tonight, I’m hosting the first strike in my crusade: Pages and Pairings, featuring three new releases, each paired with a wine to capture the essence of the book. I’ve never hosted an event like this before—I’ve always felt too socially awkward to even try—but now, with my job on the line, I have to push myself.

Registration includes a tasting glass of each, plus a copy of one book of the customer’s choice—but I hope they’ll fall in love with the other books and buy those, too. Thirty-two people have registered. If all goes well, I’ll make a tidy profit.

Take that, Ryan of Happy Endings, Upholder of the Patriarchy.

His comment—You could be my assistant—continues to niggle me, pricking at my self-doubt. I’m determined to use it as motivation. The store looks beautiful, with a display of each book and its corresponding wine. Customers are milling about. Soft music tinkles in the background, an instrumental playlist I found on Spotify. Georgia has class tonight, so I’m on my own, but seeing familiar faces helps me relax.

“So glad you could come,” I say to Kevin O’Rourke, who teaches English at the nearby high school.

“Lara and Lana—good to see you! Love the outfits,” I say to the sixty-something twins who dress identically and read books together (literally, at the same time!). They both beam and say thank you (in unison).

Alfonso Canino, my sweet nonagenarian customer, gives me a dry kiss on the cheek and presses a box into my hands. “You shouldn’t have!” I say, delighted; he always brings cannoli from his family’s restaurant in the North End.

Over and over, I apologize for the dust. Construction has started, beginning with knocking down the wall between our back rooms. Now I have to worry about running into Ryan-not-Brian of the Messy Hair and Stupidly Tall Height every time I unpack a shipment or fetch supplies.

Fortunately, that hasn’t happened. Maybe because the storage area for Beans is between us; maybe because he wants to avoid me as much as I want to avoid him.

Unfortunately, I can’t avoid the sounds ricocheting through our connected back rooms. You’d think Beans would be the major culprit, what with the coffee grinders and blenders. But no, it’s the customers and staff at Happy Endings. The squealing. The laughing. Even, a few times, themoaning.

Which is why I planned this event for later in the evening, after construction has ended for the day and Happy Endings is closed. I don’t want anything to disrupt us.

The sommelier, a lanky guy with an exaggerated French accent I hired from Spoke, a nearby wine bar, is describing how he paired a novel set in Spain with a light and bubbly cava. Apparently it has notes of almond and leather—not that that means anything to me. I’m a total noob when it comes tothis stuff; the only wine my mom drank was of the boxed variety or Manischewitz at Passover.

But as they say, fake it till you make it.

“This is a beautiful event,” someone says, and I turn to see a gray-haired couple, each with a glass of wine. They’re not regulars, and I’m thrilled to see new faces.

“I’m so happy you’re enjoying yourselves!” I say, smiling. “I’m Josie Klein, manager.”

“Robert and Ingrid Schwartz,” the man says, shaking my hand. He’s a retired attorney, he tells me, and his wife is on the board of the art museum.

“I had no idea this place was here,” she says, showing me her stack of books—a copy of each of tonight’s selections, plus a few others. “What a gem! You can be sure I’ll be back.”

I beam. “Thank you so much.”

“Every aspect of tonight has been curated to perfection,” her husband adds. “The books, the wine…and as Ingrid knows, I’m a huge fan of Itzhak Perlman.”

“Hugefan,” Mrs. Schwartz says, nodding.

I smile as I try to figure out what they’re talking about. “I’m not familiar with his work. What has he written?”

Mr. Schwartz gives me an indulgent smile. “He’s a violinist. Extremely well known.”

At my blank look, his wife adds, “You’re playing his music. I think my husband assumed—”

“Of course!” I say, laughing awkwardly. “I’m a huge fan, too. So nice to meet you both.”

I excuse myself, hoping they don’t notice my flushed cheeks. It’s a reminder that I am, indeed, still faking it—and I haven’t made it yet.

The sommelier begins his presentation about the rosé hepaired with another selection, and I smile while watching everyone nod along.

But then a ripple passes through the crowd. People take a step back. There’s a gasp, a shriek, and the sickening crash of breaking glass.

Heart in my throat, I push through the group to see a huge black cat leaping from the display table, leaving toppled-over books, broken wineglasses, and a wine bottle shattered on the floor. The sommelier shouts some expletive in French, and a woman exclaims loudly that her shoes are now covered in wine.

Horrified, I lunge for the cat, but it slinks away, tiptoeing across a shelf, and I follow it, tossing apologies over my shoulder to my customers and promises to return as soon as I can. How the hell did a cat even get in here? It slips through the slightly open door to my back room—did someone leave the door to the alley open?—and on, past stacks of boxes.

I ease closer, reach down, and carefully pick it up. It rears back and hisses and—

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