“But why would someone smell like play-dough —like—all the time???” she implored her friend
they stood by their espressos perched upon the high gloss dark wood counter at the local bookshop. They came after school, as they did nearly every day, on their way home after classes; pretending to be more than sixteen
Their voices traveled upstairs to the second story of the local bookshop, the second floor of two more—plus the attic and the weird cellar downstairs
The interiors of the shop were reminiscent of bygone years. Faun de Roet had to wonder how it was possible to maintain such quality furnishings considering the decline of bookstore shoppers. But this had been a question she had been meaning to ask Mr. Bishop ….not expecting his sudden death. She had only just met the Bishops at the beginning of the summer and ….well, after their short but wonderful acquaintance Mr. Bishop took ill.
It seemed only natural to step in and run the shop considering all her years as a bookstore manager
Faun stood puzzled a moment still hearing the girls chatter
“Maybe he works at a toy store after school,” the other girl suggested
“But like—all the time? I mean, come on Jess, that’s just weird in that gross and icky way.”
“You don’t have to kiss him—“
“Omg—shut up, I’m gonna gag, you just made me spill coffee on me!”
Faun heard someone behind her and turned around fast. She had an armload of books she was working on putting away but her sudden move caused her to drop most of them right on the feet of her intruder.
When she looked up she saw him bending down to help her as he said,
“here, let me help you.”
By just a few words she realized he was English. And as she studied his face she searched it, assuming he must be a son or relative of the Bishops
“Thank you,” she said accepting his help as he handed her the books from the floor
“No, I should be thanking you,” he said
“Why?”
“For stepping in and running things during —all this—I mean, you must have your own life to see to?” he spoke so softly. Some of his words she had trouble with understanding; his accent, it was so ….lilting, like poetry, every word he spoke fell like drops of pearls but —she had trouble understanding.
“Oh….” was all she could think to reply but then suddenly without knowing she would she said, “are you the son—or you’re—no the solicitor….?”
“Neither—I’m —not really exactly related, well more like the step nephew but, yes, I am here to manage the properties and his legal matters as he has left for Aunt Fiona,” he explained. There was an odd sheepish expression on his face just then. But quick as a wink it disappeared.
She liked his face. There was something open about his expression and he had a gentle demeanor. He was warm colored; eyes and hair like a walk in a forest
and yet to him having learned of her name before seeing her thought she had eyes much like a doe caught by surprise and the sense of autumn leaves
“So—what will happen to the shop?” Faun asked in a hushed tone and quickly glanced around to be sure her voice had not carried
“Ahh…that is a complicated question ….” the sheepish expression returned —there!—an instant! then was gone, “that is—actually—what I erm—meant to—had—hoped to tell—ask—talk to you about.”
But his accent rendered most of that incomprehensible to her. She only got the part he said “to you about”
She felt oddly self conscious
“You came to talk to me?”
She had a moment to take him in fully. Dressed somewhat conservatively in a shirt and cardigan, with the predictable khaki trousers and such —yet, not; he wore unusual shoes and she picked up on a scent he wore; some earthy spice (cologne or hair product or body wash?) ...age? not too young, not too old, a bit wise and still wondering
“You’re busy,” he said it like a question and also like a stated fact
“Well, the sign says we close at six and—“
He pulled out his phone,
“ah—time to usher out the riffraff,” he glanced back up at her as he slipped his phone back where it had been in his pocket before saying, “shall I lend a hand? You see, there’s some sticky things which needs being seen to and I don’t know who else to ask. Aunt Fiona is —understandably still beside herself.”
“Oh—if I can help….? Of course!”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
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