Page 50 of The Holiday Grump
“Then I wouldn’t be calledHard to Find,would I?” I shot back, exasperated. “I mean… the store wouldn’t be called?—”
“I get it. You carry collectibles. But maybe you could do abit of both. Get people in the door. Then they might find the rare books, too.”
“How did you get these people in the door?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder. “I don’t have any popular titles.”
She bit her lip, looking out the window. “I’ve been telling everyone to come by on Saturday to see the lights.”
“So they’re here for the lights, not the books?”
Her eyes flicked to an older lady who was browsing the Russian classics. She gave a subtle nod and lowered her voice. “But they’re staying for the books.”
Not waiting for a response, she turned around and approached the lady. “Can I help you with anything?”
I wandered across the floor and slumped into a vacant armchair. I should have been the one offering help. I’d read most of the books, and I doubted Miss Popular Titles knew much about them. But I felt defeated and out of place.
I watched Noelle gesture and smile like she’d known the woman all her life. After a moment, the lady nodded, and they moved to the counter. Noelle turned the book in her hands, looking for something. After a moment, she raised it at me, shouting across the floor. “Hey Fredrik, how much is this? I can’t find the price.”
Was she actually going to sell something? I forced myself up from the chair and joined them, glancing at the gold-foiled copy of Dostoevsky’sCrime and Punishmentshe’d brought down from the high shelf. “This is the first English edition,” I explained to the lady. “It’s… invaluable.”
“No,” Noelle countered. “It’svaluable. Which means it has a price. Right?”
If someone bought it, my collection would beincomplete. There’d be a gap on my shelf, and things would change. My store would change.
“This is a bookstore, and these books are for sale, right?” she pressed, tilting her head.
I took a breath, my chest tight. “Twelve thousand dollars.”
“Twelve thousand?” the old lady repeated, clutching her pearls. “I… I was only thinking of something pretty for my coffee table.”
“It’s an investment,” Noelle said firmly, without missing a beat. “A statement piece. Nobody else will have anything like this. The beloved story of…” She looked up at me, waiting for me to fill in.
“…a murderer who’s plagued by guilt and the prostitute who redeems him,” I said grimly.
Noelle winced at my phrasing, but the old lady’s eyes lit up. “That sounds like a gripping read.”
Then buy the fiftieth edition, not the first, I screamed silently. But I forced myself to nod. “It is. Very poignant. Percipient.”
The lady hovered, her wrinkled fingers skating across the string of pearls. Then she exhaled with sudden resolve. “Alright. I’ll take it. I’ll read it as it was meant to be read, when they first printed it.”
I stood frozen while Noelle ran her credit card. She wrapped the book in brown paper and string—where had she even found those?—and handed it over like a prize.
The lady beamed, thanked us, and swept out into the snow.
The door jingled shut.
Noelle turned to me, wide-eyed, her mouth half open. “Did you just sell a twelve-thousand-dollar book?”
I could only stare. “No, you did.”
“You gave the price,” she fired back. “I just helped her see the value.”
“I was bluffing!” My voice cracked. “I found that copy for two thousand. I know it’s worth a lot more, but... nobody buys at that price!”
“Apparently somebody does,” she said, her smile equal parts astonishment and triumph.
“Excuse me?”
We turned to find another customer, a younger woman in a white puffer jacket, holding a romance book. “How much is this one?”
