Page 12 of Upstate

“Are you helping out Miss Cabot?” The man speaks over his shoulder while running his finger along a barrister bookcase. The walnut wood glows golden brown where he’s wiped away the dust.

“Evelyn Cabot died. I bought the bookshop from her trust.”

His hand stops. His head bows. “I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know.”

“The shop’s been closed since she went to a nursing home in 2015.”

“Ah.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. “Excuse me for a moment?”

He steps outside, removes his mask, blows his nose. I follow him out, taking mine off, too. He’s a handsome man, though it seems to me his good looks owe more to grooming than youth.

“Sounds like you knew Evelyn?” I say.

“I started working for Miss Cabot when I was twelve years old.” He blinks, as if watching a slideshow of memories. “I used to hang around the village library after school, waiting for my mother to finish her shift at the diner. The librarian, Miss McIntyre, rented a room here. She saw how much I liked reading, and she knew we were struggling since my dad ran off, so she recommended me to Miss Cabot for a job. I worked for her every summer right through high school. I should have stayed in touch, but once I moved to the city, I put all things Schuywich behind me.”

“When was that?”

“Back in 1983, if you can believe it. I don’t suppose you were born yet?”

I shake my head. “Not quite, no.”

“College was my ticket out. Before that, though, this place probably saved my life.”

Rhonda never did tell me all that much about Evelyn. I’m guessing this man might be more forthcoming if I can keep him talking. “Listen, I was about to make myself a latte. Would you like one?”

He laughs, crow’s-feet fanning out from the corners of his eyes. “I wasn’t expecting that. Sure, a latte sounds lovely. Mind if I keep browsing awhile?”

“Feel free.” I point to a couple of Adirondack chairs under the old oak. “I’ll meet you over there.”

In the kitchen, I follow what I suppose are the proper protocols for safely preparing food. Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the stainless-steel espresso machine reminds me it’s been four days since I last washed my hair. My first morning in Schuywich was when I discovered, to my dismay, that the water heater, like the washing machine, is busted. I turned the taps when Rhonda showed me the house, but apparently, I only checked for pressure, not temperature. I was furious at myself for overlooking such an essential aspect of home inspection. Since then, the only showers I’ve taken have been freezing ones too quick for shampoo. As I pour steamed almond milk over espresso shots, I hope my well-groomed customer won’t notice.

Outside, I set a mug on the wide arm of one chair before retreating to the other. Overhead, the sun blazes in a sky devoid of clouds, making the patch of shade beneath the oak welcome. The man emerges from the barn with a large art book that he tucks under his arm while wiping his chair with some tissues before sitting down.

“Thank you for this,” he says, raising his mug in my direction. I raise mine, too—a socially distant salute. “I’m Wren Ferguson, by the way.”

“Run?”

“No, Wren, like the bird. Warren, actually, but my mother’s the only one who calls me that.”

“Wren’s a great name. I’m Audrey Beacon.”

“Very romantic.”

I bristle at the come-on. “How so?”

He waves an arm theatrically. “Like the beacon of a lighthouse, beckoning lost sailors safely home.”

“Actually,” I say, adopting an academic tone, “a lighthouse beacon is a warning to keep away, not a summons to come near.”

“Oh.” Wren frowns. “That makes sense, I suppose.”

We sip our lattes in a silence that gradually grows more comfortable as I realize this guy isn’t hitting on me. In fact, there’s something paternal about Wren that reminds me of the Renaissance literature professor who chaired the search committee that hired me. I haven’t heard from him since the shutdown; according to his wife’s posts, the whole family is sequestered on some idyllic island off the coast of Maine.

“So, Audrey, how did you end up buying Red Barn Books?”

I don’t plan to mention David. Who shares their deepest pain with a stranger? But the pandemic has scraped away the layers of artifice behind which we usually hide. Everyone’s raw and exposed. Pretending seems like a waste of time in a world that’s falling apart.

“My husband died in March, of Covid.”