“You don’t look a day over fifteen,” I said.
“I’m twenty-six. When I come back tomorrow, I’ll bring you something to prove it.”
“We won’t be open tomorrow. I won’t be ready for a couple of weeks.”
“I know that. I’m coming in to help you paint and stuff.”
“Look, miss, I haven’t even opened the door yet. I don’t know if I can afford an employee.”
Ruby cleared his throat. “May I interject, Dr. J?”
“I haven’t found a way to stop you yet.”
“A word to the wise is all. You don’t want to shackle your legs to the front counter. You don’t want to be an in-shop bookman. You want to keep yourself free for the hunt.”
“Exactly,” the girl said.
“You need to be out in the world. Meet people. Make house calls.”
“House calls are important,” the girl said.
Our eyes met. Hers were hazel, lovely with that tinge of innocence.
“If you’re twenty-six, I’m Whistler’s mother,” I said.
“I’m nineteen. Everything else I’ve told you so far’s the truth, except that I do fib sometimes when I have to. I’m hungry and tired and I desperately need a job. I need it bad enough to lie, or to fight for it if I have to. I’ll come back tomorrow in my grubbys if you’ll let me do something—no charge, just a bite to eat during the day. I’m wonderful with a paintbrush. I could save you a lot of time staining those shelves.”
I started to speak. She cried out: “Don’t say no, please! Please, please,
She backed out the way she had come and hustled off down the street.
“Well,” I said. “What do you make of that?”
“I told you what I think,” Ruby said. “She’s a Grade-A sweetie, right off the last boat from Glasgow. She’s just what this place needs, the piece de resistance. She might even be two pieces.”
We went back to work. After a while Ruby said, “Remember what Neff told you about the book business, Dr. J? Honey draws flies. Truer words were never said, and it works on more levels than one.”
“She never even told us her name,” I said. “Five’ll get you ten she’ll never come back.”
* * *
But there was something relentless about her, something that didn’t give up, something I liked. She was sitting on the sidewalk in the morning when I got there; she was wearing an old gingham dress that had seen better times.
“You’re late,” she lectured. “I’ve been here since eight. Here, I brought you a plant for the front window.”
She handed me a tin can in which grew a pathetic little weed.
“It’s a symbol,” she said. “It starts out little and insignificant, almost nonexistent like your business. Both will get strong together.”
“If this thing dies, I guess I can give up and close the doors.”
“It won’t die, Mr. Janeway. I won’t let it.”
I opened the door and we went inside. The early-morning rays from the sun came through the plate glass, making everything hazy and new. The place smelled like fresh sawdust, tangy and wonderful.
“Are you gonna tell me your name or is that some deep secret you’re keeping?”
“Elspeth Pride.” Her hand disappeared into mine. “What friends I’ve had have called me Pinky, for my hair. You may call me Miss Pride.”
I laughed.
“I believe in keeping things professional,” she said. “Don’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Let’s get to work.”
She started in one of the back rooms, staining while I worked the shelving up front. In a while the smell of the stain mingled with the sawdust and made a new smell, pleasant but strong. I propped open the front door. The sound of the saw buzzed along the street: people stopped and looked in and some of them asked questions. I’ve never been good at idle chatter, but these were potential customers and I was now a businessman. I didn’t get as much done as I might have, but Miss Pride worked steadily through the morning and never took a break. At noon I went back to ask if she’d like some lunch. She had done two-thirds of the room and her work was excellent.
