Page 36 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

“Just someone I didn’t want to see.”

“Someone you didn’t want to see, or someone you didn’t want to be seen by?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some high-school kid!”

“You obviously haven’t looked in a mirror lately, or you’d know that’s the last thing I’m doing,” Verner retorted. “So, who was the beautiful stranger?”

“We spent an evening together. She promised to stop by the shop, and—”

“Not another word, please! I already feel sorry enough for you, old chap.”

“Don’t call me that. You’ve got thirty years on me, at least!”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re old on the inside.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. You live like a monk in your shop. Books your only friends. And then, the moment a woman comes near you, you vanish into the wall. That’s why you’re an old chap. Period.”

“Yeah, well, the friends I did have neglected me while I was rotting in prison.”

“Which friends were those, may I ask?”

“You, for starters… Madame Bergol. Madame Ateltow.”

“What a youthful crew,” Verner said dryly. “Your girlfriend at the time lowered the average age a bit – but you have to admit that I’m right. Now, if you’ve pulled yourself together, let’s go get that drink. In fact, it’s going to take more than one to erase what I just witnessed. You can tell me all about that young woman, who whistles in such perfect tune.”

Verner steered Mitch into a bar, an old jazz club that had seen its glory days in the previous century, or perhaps never seen them at all. Heavy red curtains sagged from the walls, three alcoves held battered booths, and a dozen tables faced a tiny stage. An ancient bassist was up there, eyes closed, plucking away in time with a saxophonist blowing a little of his soul into every note.

“Wow, this place is depressing,” Mitch commented as they sat.

“Well, you wouldn’t recognize a good thing if it hit you right in the face. Just listening to those old fools reminds me of how far I’ve come – in my musical career, I mean. The bartender makes the best Manhattan in the city, and since I’m terrified of flying, this kind of travel suits me just fine.”

Two Manhattans later, Mitch was ready to talk about Anna. When he got to the part where she’d climbed into a taxi and sped away from him, Verner just nodded. Then he turned to Mitch with a sly look.

“Since you fancy yourself a spy, I assume you noticed she just walked out of a restaurant under renovation? And unless I completely misread what she told you, she’s no architect. So, the odds are, it’s her place. Which might explain why she’s been… distracted. Add in her legal trouble – whatever that’s about – and I’d say she’s got more than enough excuses to be busy.”

“So busy she can’t find five minutes to come see me?”

“That depends on the value you assign to those minutes. Coming to see you isn’t a question of time, but timing. Ever consider her silence might have something to do with the trouble her chef friend mentioned?”

“No,” Mitch acknowledged, clinging to this new explanation like a lifeline.

“Did you tell her the truth about yourself?”

Mitch nodded.

“Well then, here’s a theory: and I stress, just a theory. Let’s say she liked you. Let’s even be optimistic and say she really liked you. Then she finds out you just got out of prison. And she’s dealing with her own legal mess. If she’s got half a conscience – and I’m guessing she does – she might think she’s bad news for you. And maybe, just maybe, she’s keeping her distance to protect you.”

“Far-fetched. But not impossible,” Mitch conceded, ordering a third Manhattan.

“When was the last time you laughed?”

“No idea.”

“Then drink up and think about it.”

“What would you do in my shoes?”