CHAPTER 20 - Molly

CHAPTER 20MollyFRIDAY MORNING IS DIM, THE SUN BURIED SOMEWHERE ABOVE THE thick cloud deck so common in the Northeast in winter. Graybridge Books sits on a corner of the square, its lights glowing inside like a warm beacon. The weather has turned colder, and fat snowflakes swirl and land on the sidewalk, covering everything in white. I took a shower this morning, dressed in slim black pants and a green sweater, put on a little makeup, trying to put a little color in my cheeks and hide the dark circles under my eyes.I need to make an effort. Jay would want me to. Going back to work is a step in the right direction. What else would I do today except sit in the house and think about the funeral scheduled for tomorrow? So I walk down the sidewalk through the falling snow, which is already gathering on my black wool coat. The flakes are perfect, yet ephemeral works of art. Sadie trots at my side, proudly displaying her red harness and leash. I plan on taking her with me wherever I go. If other people can have an emotional support animal, I surely can. To complete her ensemble, I ordered a service dog vest, which should be here in a couple of days.I see Alice behind the plate-glass window, peering out beneath the gold script that spells out the shop’s name. She opens the heavy door before I can reach for the knob.“Molly! Dad said you’d be back today, but I wasn’t sure . . .” Her voice trails off as it so often does. She’s wearing a purple sweater with layered handmade beaded necklaces around her neck. Her long hair hangs behind her shoulders, and I detect a trace of pink shadow on her lids. She leans over and pets Sadie. “She’s perfect, Molly. Just the dog I pictured you getting.”“She’s really sweet,” I say. “She hasn’t left my side since I got her.”Hayes walks up behind Alice and puts his hands on her shoulders. “You sure you’re up to coming back?” He reaches around and pats Sadie.I nod. “The house was starting to close in on me. I needed to get out.” I force a smile. “And I can’t think of a better place to be than here.”“We’re glad you’re back.” Hayes wraps me in a quick hug.Two elderly women walk into the store, and we move out of the way. They head to the romance section after a quick greeting.“I’m ready to get busy,” I say, breaking our little spell.“Great,” Hayes says.“What’s been going on?” I ask, as my eyes take in the familiar stacks and displays.“We’ve been a little slow. Post-holiday letdown.”“Excuse me?” one of the women calls. “I need help finding the latest Nora Roberts.”“Be right there, Mrs. Curtis.” Hayes turns and heads in her direction.“I’m starting a new social studies unit, Molly,” Alice says. Hayes homeschools her, and she goes to work with him every day. She’s often on the computer in the kids’ section, doing her homework, or if it’s busy, she retreats to the office, where she sits at Hayes’s big antique desk.“What’s it about?”“Colonial America. I’m doing a paper on the Salem witch trials.”“Wow. That should be interesting, and you’re right here where it all happened.”“Well, close by anyway. No one in Graybridge was accused.”“Right.” Alice is precocious. Hayes has raised her alone since his wife died when Alice was five years old.Hayes walks back to where we stand. “There’s a box of books that need to be shelved upstairs if you want to tackle that,” he says.“Will do.” Sadie and I climb the wooden stairs that spiral up from the first floor. They creak delightfully, and we emerge in the children’s section, which takes up half the second-floor space. The back wall is painted with fanciful murals: Beatrix Potter, Winnie-the-Pooh, Tenniel drawings from Alice in Wonderland, the story that Hayes’s daughter was named for. In the center of the wall, in pride of place, is a portrait of Amelia Mitchell, author of middle-grade fantasy novels. Her characters, fairies and other exotic creatures, are painted around her as if frolicking in delight. Ms. Mitchell has been painted in dreamy watercolor; her fair pixie haircut frames her face, her elfin-like features making her seem like one of her own creations. Her eyes are large and gray and just Alice’s color, which is no surprise since Amelia Mitchell was her mother. She’d gained a modicum of success, publishing four books in a series before her untimely death at the age of thirty-four.I stand still for a moment and admire our lovely children’s section, where I myself had spent so many hours long ago, before Hayes returned from boarding school and his wife and daughter were still years in the future.I pull books from the box and inhale their crisp newness. The store smells of paper and lemongrass diffused from a dispenser on the upstairs counter. There’s just a tinge of mold beneath it all. It’s an old building. But I feel comfort here among the books. It was my hiding place, is my hiding place, after all that happened before.