“I agree, sir,” Helen said.
Mr. Davies scurried off to his favorite reading chair, holding his book protectively, as if Helen might strip it, too.
Helen couldn’t tell Mr. Davies why she’d been stripping.
She’d been dealing with yet another of Page’s mistakes. He’d bagged Jann Hickory Munn, the hot fiction writer, to sign at Page Turners on his national tour. But Page did no advertising, so six people had come to Munn’s signing. Page was stuck with cases of books.
The unsold hardcovers were sent back. But most publishers didn’t want paperbacks returned. The shipping would cost more than the books. Instead their covers were stripped and counted like scalps. The author paid for Page’s miscalculation in lost royalties. Someone else always paid for Page’s mistakes.
Page stood in the middle of the store, arms folded across his chest. He looked more like a boxer than a bookstore owner. A boxer gone to seed. Too many nights spent drinking with best-selling authors had transformed Page’s barrel chest into a beer belly. His chiseled chin was buried in fat.
His Roman nose was red and veined. But he still had wavy blond hair, and at six feet, he was a commanding figure.
“I need you to ring,” Page said to Helen like a lord granting a boon to a peasant. The book buyers didn’t know Page could not work his own cash registers. They were too complicated for him. Page retired to his quiet, comfortable office lined with his grandfather’s priceless first editions.
Helen faced the horde of impatient customers. Another bookseller, Brad, was already ringing, but the line of customers was almost out the door.
“Next, please,” Helen called as she opened her register.
The man who stepped forward was talking on his cell phone. He could have been a young Elvis with his thick black hair, heavy-lidded eyes, and sexy sneer. His black silk shirt showed a hint of tanned chest and no gold chains.
Tight jeans. Narrow hips. Strong hands. Helen checked for a wedding ring. Nothing. How had this one stayed on the shelf?
The Hunk snapped his cell phone shut, another point in his favor. Some customers talked on the phone while Helen rang them up.
He threw two paperbacks on the counter. One had a cracked spine and curled cover. The other was crisp and new. “I’m exchanging this,” he said, pointing to the sad specimen, “for this.” Sexy voice, too. Soft, caressing, polite. He was a sweet talker, all right.
The Hunk plunked down the new Burt Plank thriller, and smiled like a man who always got his way. He would this time. Most stores would not take that battered book back, but Page Turners had a liberal return policy. The Hunk started to take the new Plank thriller and walk away. Helen grabbed it.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I need to ring this up as an exchange and get a manager’s approval.”
“Why? They’re both the same price.”
Because Page Turner’s pet computer nerd developed an overcomplicated system, Helen thought.
“Because we have a computerized inventory system,” Helen said.
“This is ridiculous,” the Hunk said, and suddenly his caress had claws.
He was right. It was ridiculous. Page Turners required more signatures for a simple book return than a bank loan.
“I can’t believe this,” he said. “What’s taking you so long, lady?” He slapped his hand on the counter. Helen jumped. Her fingers slipped on the computer keys.
DENIED, the computer said.
Helen had typed in the wrong transaction number. She’d have to start all over again, retyping the ten-digit transaction number, five-digit store number, and six-digit date.
“Just give me my book,” the Hunk said, reaching for the Burt Plank thriller.
“I can’t do that, sir,” she said, sliding it under the counter. Finally she typed in all the numbers.
“I hope you’re done now,” he sneered, and this time it didn’t look sexy at all. He did not look like the young Elvis anymore. He was mean and arrogant.
“Not quite,” she said. “I still need the manager’s approval.” She paged Gayle.
“For a freakin’ paperback?” the Hunk said.
Helen looked nervously at the line. It was even longer.
All those paying customers were kept waiting because of another half-witted Page Turner policy.
“
Helen’s face was hot with embarrassment. The other customers in line shifted uneasily. A few glared. She didn’t blame them. She was new and slow. The store policy was old and stupid. It was a fatal combination.
Behind the Hunk, an elegant blonde in a blue sundress crossed her arms and said, “People like him should not be let out to ruin the day for the rest of us.” The blonde was angry, but not at Helen.
A short woman with a majestic bosom and a New York accent said loudly, “Rude people stink.”
“I am so tired of public rudeness,” a pale gray-haired woman agreed. She had the soft voice of an NPR announcer, but the Hunk heard her and turned the color of raw liver. He didn’t look nearly so pretty in that color.
Helen understood now why he had that ringless hand.
By the time Gayle the manager ran up and typed in the approval code, every customer in line had condemned the Hunk. He took his book and left without another word.
The bookstore customers had held their own anti-rude rebellion.
The elegant blonde handed Helen a
Helen had never felt so good about a dead-end job. Page Turner III was a jerk, and she wished she made more than six seventy an hour. But the customers could be surprisingly kind, the booksellers were fun, and she loved books.
Work would be perfect, if someone would just murder Page.
For the next half hour Helen rang up stacks of computer manuals, romance novels, and mysteries until they blurred into one endless book. Then, suddenly, there were no more customers. They seemed to come in waves. By some silent agreement, everyone in the store would rush forward to buy books at the same time. Then they’d all leave together. The only sound now was the Muzak, sterilizing a Beatles song.
Helen looked at the clock on the computer. Four o’clock.
She was off work in thirty minutes, not a moment too soon.
She only hoped the rest of the customers were reasonably normal.
It looked like she was going to get her wish. The twenty-something woman at the counter looked like a tourist from Connecticut. She had a small sunburned nose, a short practical haircut, and baggy khaki shorts that showed knobby knees. She looked familiar, but Helen wasn’t sure why.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for books on astrology,” she said.
“They’re in New Age, aisle twelve,” Helen said.
“Where’s that?”
“Between Religion and Self-Improvement,” Helen said.
Wasn’t religion supposed to be self-improving? she wondered. Why did they need two categories?
“You can see it from here,” Helen said, pointing. It was polite to point in a bookstore. Besides, she couldn’t say, “It’s the aisle with all the books on the floor.” New Age attracted the biggest slobs in the store. Helen wondered why “free spirit” meant “inconsiderate.”
The woman returned with a copy of
Something clicked, and Helen knew who the woman was.
She’d just moved into Helen’s apartment complex. Helen hadn’t had a chance to introduce herself yet. The introduction would have to wait. Customers were lining up again.
The woman fixed her deep brown eyes on Helen and said, “I’m psychic. I know your past.”
Helen paled. She’d buried her past after that terrible day in court. Even her own mother didn’t know where she was now.
