“You
Jack was dying to ask how she thought a “delusion” could spy on her in the shower, anyway. But he exercised self-control and kept silent.
Next she removed her glasses, then the loose blue sweater set, first shrugging off the exterior cardigan and then tugging the pullover up and off.
An innocent cotton bra displayed ample mounds of flesh. Hers were the sort of generous curves Jack had favored when he’d been alive. And the sight of her womanly form, standing there in her bra and panties, struck Jack like a wall of bricks.
She seemed so vulnerable and soft, like the sweet idea of home. Here was everything he’d wanted in a woman . . . when he’d wanted a woman.
A longing washed over Jack, moving him. And, despite himself, he ached for something he knew he could never have.
Suddenly, he couldn’t watch anymore. He retreated instead, back through the closed door, down the hallway, and into the living room. The digital television was on again and—once he adjusted the channel changer to a good crime show—it was sure to provide a much-needed distraction.
CHAPTER 9
You are not booksellers, you are retailers. . . . You’ll only win this battle if you are damn good at something and provide the consumer with a better experience. . . . If you don’t like change, you’re going to like irrelevance even less. . . . The glory days for independent booksellers are gone.
PROVIDENCE, RI (ap)—Last night’s death of internationally best-selling author Timothy Brennan has cast an unusual spotlight on Quindicott, Rhode Island, a small hamlet just outside of Newport.
The site of Brennan’s death was the town’s only bookstore. According to local officials, he collapsed during a public talk in which he announced
An autopsy is being conducted by the state medical examiner. In the meantime, bids on eBay for first edition copies of
Although sales of Jack Shield novels had floundered in the midnineties, Brennan’s most recent efforts were the strongest he’d ever written, according to critics, and an upcoming feature film deal was reportedly in the making. Consequently, Brennan’s abrupt announcement that he intended to stop writing Shield novels shocked his fans and the publishing world.
“Quitting while you’re ahead isn’t an unheard-of strategy,” said Parker Peterson, president and publisher of Salient House, “but Tim had just hit his stride again. So, of course, it was a shock to us.”
Brennan’s death was also a shock to his fans and even his third and most recent wife, who had chosen to remain in the couple’s New York City apartment rather than accompany her husband on his book tour.
“He had a weak heart, sure,” said Mrs. “Bunny” Brennan, “but it wasn’t
The store, which now goes by the name Buy the Book, was the last place detective Jack Shepard had been seen before his disappearance nearly fifty years before, Brennan said. Shepard was the real-life model for Brennan’s Jack Shield character, star of nineteen novels and two TV series.
Brennan also revealed he planned to write his next and last book as a nonfiction investigation into Jack Shepard’s last unsolved case.
“Pen! Can . . . you . . . believe . . . this?!”
I was standing behind the counter next to Sadie, helping her ring up and bag. The Staties had let us reopen at one o’clock, and three hours later, Linda Cooper-Logan was jumping up and down in front of me, trying to lift her head of short, spiky blond hair above the crush of customers crowding the Buy the Book checkout area.
“Linda, what are you doing here?” I called. “Doesn’t Milner need you at the bakery?”
“Closed—an hour ago!”
“Why?”
“Sold . . . everything!”
“For heaven’s sake, Linda, come around the counter.” I lifted the hinged section of heavy oak and shouted into the crowd: “Let this woman through, please!”
Outside, the cobblestone streets of Quindicott were jammed with cars, and Buy the Book’s aisles were packed with customers. I still would have been guessing the reason why if Seymour Tarnish, our mailman (and the biggest local celebrity since his recent win on
According to Seymour, local radio stations had started discussing the death of Brennan, the bidding for the books—and our store. This explained the crowds descending, along with local television camera crews looking to interview me and Sadie.
“I brought you all the last of Milner’s five-nut tarts,” said Linda, holding the pastry box high as she swam through the jostling bodies and lunged behind the counter. “I thought you might be hungry over here.”
“Excuse me!” a loud voice called. “Do you have any more copies of
“Empty!” cried a chorus of horrified voices as a new crowd pushed through the front door.
“Keep your pants on, people!” called Sadie. “We have plenty of copies—”
“I have some! I have some!” Spencer called, hurrying toward the front of the store, his arms filled with jacketed hardcovers.
For hours, my son had been helping us behind the counter. Just ten minutes ago he’d taken his first break—to visit the rest room. Obviously, he’d decided to make a side trip to the stockroom. He set down the stack of books and began placing them into the empty display like a seasoned floor manager.
Someone reached over his head to snag a copy.
“Guess they don’t have child labor laws in Rhode Island,” a middle-aged man near the register quipped to his companion.
Lawyer joke. Ha-ha.
“Whoever is driving a black BMW convertible with Connecticut plates, please move it. You’re blocking my SUV!” shouted a woman through the front door.
Spencer appeared at my side, his face flushed. “The display was filled,” he said excitedly, “but it’s going to be empty real soon. I’ll have to bring out more books.”
I handed him a tart from the Cooper Family Bakery box. “Honey, go upstairs, pour a glass of milk, and take a break, okay?”
“I’ll get some milk, but then I’m coming right back down!” he replied. “You need me. I’m your official stamper, you know!”
“I know, honey, but I don’t want you to get too tired,” I said, remembering how sensitive his father had been to any form of exertion.
Calvin never could endure any sort of tension for long. He said hard work was too upsetting for him. Stomach-churning. No way to live. Of course, Calvin had ultimately decided
