Page 172 of Fault Lines
Richard
The letter shook in my hand. I let it fall to the table and just sat there, breathing in the smell of printer paper and lemon polish, blinking back tears.
O’Grady waited, quiet, until I’d found my voice again.
“I left you the keys and an updated deed,” he said, sliding a small manila folder across the table. “All you need to do is sign here.” He pointed to a line on a form that looked just like every other legal document I’d ever signed in my life, but I could barely see it through the wet blur in my eyes.
Cam squeezed my knee, under the table, just once.
I signed.
O’Grady packed up the papers, stood, and offered me the keys on a plain silver ring. “Congratulations,” he said. “I think he would have been pleased.”
I took the keys and, with them, all the weight of the last year.
We left the office in silence, the afternoon sun bright and pitiless. I turned the keys in my palm, their teeth biting into my skin, and wondered what the hell I was supposed to do with the rest of my life.
Cam opened the car door for me. As I slid in, I caught my reflection in the window—a woman with a future, however unwanted, written all over her face.
I looked at Cam. “What now?”
He grinned, that big, dumb smile. “Now we get lunch. Then we celebrate.”
He started the engine, and I stared at the keys, their weight strangely comforting.
For the first time in months, I didn’t feel like I was running from something.
I was running toward it.
∞∞∞
The next morning, I walked to the bookstore, keys jingling in my hand like I’d just stolen them. The street was empty except for the dog-walkers and one surly-looking barista on a smoke break, who watched me try three different keys before finding the one that worked the front door. I let myself in, the bell giving its usual greeting, and flicked on the lights.
Everything looked exactly the same. The reading chairs still arranged in a huddle, the rolling ladder still stuck on the biography aisle, the little display of signed first editions with its handwritten “Ask Before Touching” sign in Mr. Porter’s looping scrawl. Even the smell—a combination of old paper and burnt espresso—was so familiar it almost dropped me to my knees.
I stood there, in the hush of early morning, and tried to believe that this was all mine.
The first thing I did was hang the portrait. I’d had it made after the funeral. It was half-buried in receipts and catalogs, the glass already smudged. I dusted it off and held it up to the patch of wall behind the register. The hardware was still there from the retirement plaque that had come before, so all I had to do was hook the wire and step back.
The painting itself was a little stiff—one of those bargain portraitists from the mall, more adept at dog commissions than people—but it caught something of Mr. Porter’s bone-dry dignity. The eyes, in particular, seemed to follow you, which he would have loved.
I’d paid extra for the brass plate, which read: Richard Porter—Beloved Owner, Forever & Always.
The “& Always” was Cam’s idea, and I hated that he was right.
At nine o’clock, the regulars started filtering in. Most offered awkward hugs or silent nods, the way people do when they know you’ve just inherited a haunted house. The first customer was an old woman who never learned my name but once called me “the one with the good opinions.” She eyed the portrait, then patted my shoulder. “Good spot for him,” she said.
The other employees arrived just before the later shift, two college kids and a guy who used to do set design for the local theater. They gathered around me in the back room, waiting for some kind of announcement.
I cleared my throat, already regretting this part. “You probably heard,” I said. “I’m the new owner. Officially, as of yesterday.”
There was a short, respectful silence. One of the kids—a girl with pink hair and a talent for locating obscure poetry—asked, “So… do we keep doing things the same, or is there a plan?”
I looked at their faces, their guarded hopefulness, and realized they were all waiting for me to change everything. To rebrand the store, or automate the registers, or start firing people on a whim.
“We keep doing things the same,” I said. “Except maybe… I want to start a book club? And maybe we can fix the espresso machine, finally.” It had been threatening to kick the bucket for a while now but Richard had never gotten around to having it looked at.
There was a smattering of relieved laughter. Even the set-design guy, who I was pretty sure hated me, smiled a little.
