Page 40 of Postmarked December

Marion rolled her eyes playfully and handed Heather a measuring spoon.

By late afternoon, they were walking down Broadway, handing out cellophane bags of cookies and hygiene items tied with red bows to those in need. Heather was filled with a quiet sense of purpose as the weight of each small exchange settled gently in her chest. Weary smiles and brief thank-yous made the cold air feel warmer, and even the silences carried a sense of shared humanity. She was able to handle another task that used to be led by Toby: giving to the less fortunate at Christmastime. Each interaction conveyed an unexpected gravity, as if the moment mattered more than the object itself—to both of them.

By the end, their hands were empty and their noses cold, but their hearts were full. In a way, she felt as if she were standing next to Toby—heaven and earth side by side.

Marion put her arm around her. “Ready to hit the bookstore?”

“Yeah,” she said, feeling joyful.

Heather drove to the secondhand bookshop across town. Between the Stacks occupied a narrow brick storefront shaded by an old maple, its windows crowded with handwritten signs and sun-faded paperbacks piled like leaning towers.

Heather opened the door for Marion, and they went inside. A bell above the door chimed gently. The air smelled of dust, black coffee, and time. The wooden floors creaked softly beneath their feet as they walked.

Shelves leaned, overfilled with dog-eared novels, forgotten biographies, and music histories that felt right at home in the city—Toby’s favorite genre to browse. He’d been the one to find this place, and whenever they went they spent hours sifting through all the books, often leaving with armfuls of obscure titles that they’d spend the next month devouring quietly next to one another. She loved those shared moments of being lost in a story, only to surface at the sensation of Toby’s touch as he trailed a finger along her hand mindlessly, his nose in his book.

Light filtered through the front windows, warming a pair of mismatched armchairs where readers lingered, as if the outside world had agreed to wait. Perhaps that was why Toby had brought her here—to slow down, take her time, and get lost for a while.

“Are we looking for a specific shelf or what?” Marion asked.

“The note didn’t say. I guess I’ll go up and ask the sales clerk.” Then, she put a hand on Marion’s arm. “But let’s take our time. Want to look around?”

“Um… We’re in a bookstore. Yes. I’m more than happy to dawdle.”

They wandered slowly through the shop. It was like being pulled back in time. Heather trailed her fingers along the spines as if reading by touch alone. The tactile act of browsing was one of the things that had drawn her to reading as a child. All her life, she’d loved nothing more than to slide books in and out of their places, the back cover blurb a hidden treasure offering just enough to make her wonder. Given his talent for songwriting, Toby had shared the same interest in books, focusing on contemporary poetry or memoirs. The two of them would spend much of their day in silence, yet they were so connected by their mutual respect for reading that they felt as close as if they’d been chatting all day.

Creased paperbacks, clothbound hardcovers, and titles that had landed there by chance rather than design—every trip to this shop offered a new surprise. Time loosened its grip even further as she paused to skim a paragraph here, a dedication there. When she’d visited with Toby, and he’d been an aisle over, the soft sound of his pages flipping through the stacks had given her a sense of calm unlike anything else.

“Looking through all these feels less like shopping and more like listening,” Heather said, lost in the task of finding her unique prize. “It’s as if they all have something to say.”

“Yeah,” Marion said, grabbing a third book to pile into her arms. “In my case, they’re all shouting at me like an oversized litter of puppies. I need to take them aaaall home.”

When they’d whittled down their choices to a few solid reads, they took their selections up to the counter to check out. A man with a cable-knit sweater and gray hair at his temples greeted them at the register. He rang up Marion and then Heather and put the books into their respective bags.

When he handed Heather hers, she leaned in. “This might sound crazy, but do you happen to have a red-and-white envelope waiting for someone named Heather Hart?”

His bushy eyebrows raised. “I do. A man dropped it by yesterday.” He offered a mischievous smile. “Is this some sort of holiday scavenger hunt?”

“Sort of. He didn’t tell you anything about who he is, did he?”

The man frowned and shook his head. “Sorry, he didn’t. He just walked in and said he was doing something special for someone for Christmas and a woman named Heather might come by asking for it. Then he handed me the envelope and asked if I’d keep it until you arrived. He bought a book and left.” The man reached under the counter to retrieve the note for her.

“Okay, thanks.” She took the envelope. “What book did he buy?”

The man frowned. “I can’t remember. Maybe nonfiction?”

Heather nodded, trying to avoid the feeling that she might never get to the end of all this. “It wasn’t a memoir, was it?”

“I’m not sure.” He smiled at her. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

“Merry Christmas.”

With her books in hand, Heather walked out to her car with no more answers than she’d had before.

Chapter Seventeen

As she was opening her car door, Heather’s phone rang in her handbag, sending her heart a patter. “That could be Nick.” She jumped into the car, tossed her bag of books into the backseat, and dug around for her phone.

Sure it had to be on its final ring, she answered it quickly without looking at the screen. “Hello?” she said, breathless.