The Stories We Carry, page 11
Glory slid All Quiet on the Western Front into place and left the section as if she hadn’t heard the implied question.
Adelle hooked her thumbs in the backpack straps and addressed Eli. “Is there something wrong?”
He shook his head. “No, no. My wife takes her work seriously, that’s all. Can’t stand it when a book is out of place. Glory is pretty particular that way. Now, what were you asking?”
She watched the bookseller move farther and farther away from them. “You were talking about By the Book’s joining in the festival this year. Maybe I can help, and you can help me. Since my husband died, we’ve been out of sorts, so I decided to explore the country with Bennett.”
“What about his education?” Eli propped an arm on the top of a shelf.
Adelle shrugged. “I’m considering homeschooling. He’s only four, so why not take our show on the road for a while? Maybe relocate.” Actually, Ben had tried to talk her into educating their children at home long-term, not only their first few years of life.
“Anyway, we’ve been studying the fifty states”—another truth—“and as we headed through North Carolina, I saw Gilmore and heard about the festival. Maybe you can use our help with the planning, and while I’m lending a hand, you can help me learn to appreciate the value of what you do here, you know, selling lies to people. And hey, I’m an artist of sorts. Perhaps I can exhibit at the festival?” Adelle attributed the stab she felt to deferred pain from the accident earlier. It couldn’t be a guilty conscience.
Eli straightened. “You know, Mrs. Simonette—”
“Adelle. Please. I asked you to call me Adelle.”
“Adelle, you may have something there. My wife has a bee buzzing in her head, and I’m thinking it’s going to take some work. You might be what she needs, what we need.”
“Great!” Several somethings clattered to the floor behind her. Adelle wheeled around and confirmed her suspicion: books. Splattered like water droplets around Glory’s feet.
“Eli, what are you going on about? Wait . . . don’t tell me. More reconfigurations.”
9
“SO, THERE I AM, with my precious books bouncing on my toes, books she’d had no intention of reading. And my husband is inviting this stranger to help me plan what I’m not sure I want to do!” Glory unwrapped the square of caramel, popped it into her mouth, and slid the wrapper in her pocket. As much as she wanted to lean on the glass, she refrained. Noemie Pearline was her friend, but she was nearly as persnickety about smudges as Glory was about dog-eared pages. One ankle crossed over the other, she propped her back against the wall by the door.
The Simonette woman had gathered her son and rushed out of the bookstore the minute after she accepted Eli’s over-the-top suggestion. Out of words for her husband, Glory skipped her evening’s people watching and found herself on her front step, under the swinging sign bearing the name of the bookstore. At first, she’d skirted her building in hopes of finding Dude and thanking him for saving Bennett. No one had mentioned the man in all the talk about truth versus fiction and the festival. When Glory hadn’t laid eyes on him, she’d circled the block. Still no sign. Eventually, her steps had taken her next door.
Pearline’s Jewels was the antithesis of By the Book. The owners, Noemie and her husband, Dale, had razed the old house that had once sat on the property and erected a modern building a few years after Glory set foot in Gilmore. Mirrored walls, light blues and silvers, metal, clean lines and glass, where the bookstore was mahogany and cherry woods, original stonework, pitched rooflines and chimneys, low ceilings, and natural light. Noemie dashed about in fitted pantsuits and knee-length skirts that fit her shorter, curvier figure instead of ankle-length, one-size-fits-all dresses and flowy pants. As Glory watched the jewelry store owner, engaged in her closing-up routine for the day, she took stock of what the two of them did have in common: their fascination with crystal chandeliers and their love for each other and their husbands.
And now, they shared similar suspicions about Adelle Simonette.
Noemie finished cleaning the watch she held and returned it to the empty spot in the display case. “Is she cute? You know how some men can act around a pretty young thing when they reach a certain age. Needing to shake their tail feathers and strut around a bit.”
Glory shook her head at her friend, one of the few she had in town, and most certainly the closest. “Nah, Eli’s not like that. He’s always a fixer. It’s in his nature. He can’t restrain himself from leading the charge—and don’t let it be a damsel in distress. It’s Sir Eli to the rescue!” She pretended to wield a sword. “Nature or not, it burns my buns how he likes to go ahead of me and make decisions without discussing them first.”
“Whew, child!” Noemie took the tray of watches from the display and climbed on a stool to set it in the topmost stack with the others. Upon closing the store, she had the onerous task of packing up the jewelry and moving it into the vault in back.
“Whew is right.”
“So, mi amiga, what are you going to do?” Noemie had moved to North Carolina from Colombia in the late eighties. She frequently peppered her speech with both Spanish words and traditional Southern phrases.
“What else can I do but agree to Mrs. Simonette’s ‘help’? Right over a cliff she’ll help me,” Glory laughed, paraphrasing a favorite quote from the movie, The Parent Trap. “But there’s something odd about her. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s more than her rapport with Eli—which would irritate me more if I were jealous or insecure. Maybe it’s the secret grief the woman wears like a monk’s cowl.” You’re one to talk about secrecy and grief, Glory chided herself.
Yet, it was something more. Something else. That first day, the stranger had strutted into her bookstore with such a determined, knowing air, like a bloodhound on the scent of a runaway. Today, flustered and hair flying, hobbling on one shoe, the woman looked ready to extract a gavel from her vintage backpack, bang it on the countertop, and pronounce “Guilty!” loud enough for all of Gilmore to hear. Adelle Simonette’s silent appraisal and judgmental demeanor raised Glory’s hackles.
Noemie kicked off her heels and yanked her white shirt, still starched and pristine, from her waistband. She loaded sparkling necklaces and bracelets onto the repurposed bakery cart.
Frowning, Glory offered, “I wish you’d let me lend a hand.”
The five-foot-high vehicle stopped, and Noemie peered around the side; she was barely tall enough to see over it.
Glory held up a hand. “Yes, I know better than to offer.” She raised her voice when her friend turned the corner at the back. “I’ve been known to allow people to pitch in at the bookstore . . . as long as they do what I say!”
Noemie returned directly, wheels squeaking. She used the key hanging around her neck to open the next display, and she transferred rings onto an emptied rack. “You didn’t come over here to close up, Glory. That’s my business. What you came to do was talk to me, seek my wise counsel. An altogether different kind of business.”
“True. But one doesn’t stop the other. Where is your helpmeet? Dale must have cut out early to go fishing.” Glory craned her neck to see if she could spot his ancient blue Ford truck parked out front.
Noemie froze at the cart. “Helpmeet? That sounds straight out of the book of Genesis! Where’d that come from, Glory?”
Where had that come from? From somewhere bone-deep, a place that resounded of old hymns and looked like prissy church hats. It smelled like Old Spice, what Glory’s daddy wore on Sunday mornings that didn’t quite cover the motor oil and exhaust fumes from the garage where he worked all week. It tasted like the macaroni and cheese and candied yams served at Sunday School dinners, laid out on the paper-covered tables in the fellowship hall. While Glory had shared much about her life in Gilmore and her marriage to Eli, she’d spoken little about her past relationships—spiritual or otherwise.
“That wasn’t you sitting in the back of my church Sunday, was it?” Noemie tapped her temple, appearing to think about it.
“Hush, Noemie. Or should I say, ‘Naomi’?”
“Okay, Glo-reee. My name may have Hebraic roots, but it’s no match for yours, which is the Bible through and through, from Genesis to Revelation! God in the flesh. Your last name is Hallelujah!” Noemie danced with the cart across the carpeted aisle behind the displays toward the doorway that led to the back.
Usually, Glory enjoyed hearing her friend Noemie’s softly rolling Rs that reflected her Colombian descent, but all this Bible talk got her goat.
Noemie reappeared, her face radiant. “There’s smoke spewing out of your lobes, right over those beautiful earrings I sold you. Dónde está tu alegría espiritual? Where is your joy, mi hermana?”
Hermana, sister. Recognizing the word from hearing it so often, Glory swallowed the lump of anger that had risen in her throat. “You don’t need to show me where my ears are, Noemie. My joy is next door, probably cooking dinner. Also, I did come here to get some, what did you call it?”
“Wise counsel. If that’s not enough, I can offer you some fried fish when Dale gets home because you’re right, he did indeed go fishing this morning. He can’t take the boat out Saturday because we’re having a sale, and it’s all hands on deck in the store.”
“I don’t need fish; your stinky advice will be more than enough.” Glory laughed then added seriously, “You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing. Or so said Charlotte the spider in so many words to her pal, Wilbur.”
“Charlotte’s Web? You’re full of quotes today.” Noemie spritzed the glass with cleaner and wiped it.
Glory itched for the bottle and a cloth, but she forced herself to remain still. “Probably because of my battle of words with Adelle Simonette. I felt like I was defending my whole way of thinking, not merely my profession. Books help me process life. They say what I want to say, what I can’t say out loud. Sure, the authors may create fictional lives and settings, but the emotions they draw from are real—and so are the ones they evoke.”
Noemie held up her palms. “Hey, you’ve convinced me.”
Glory cleared her throat. “It’s that other woman I couldn’t convince, though she was deliberately being obstinate. My mama would’ve accused her of choosing ignorance. Adelle has to see how literature relates to our shared experiences.”
“Like friendship, for one.”
“Yes, like friendship. You missed a spot.” Glory walked closer and pointed.
Noemie aimed the nozzle as if to spray her then started on another section. “Who are some of your favorite friends in books?”
Her repetitive circular motion on the glass seemed to hypnotize Glory. The only sound was the occasional squeak when the other woman scrubbed the counter clean. After a few minutes, Glory answered, “Frog and Toad.”
“Why did I think you’d say Jo and Laurie, Huck and Tom, or Oliver and . . . ?” Noemie snapped her fingers. “What’s his name.”
Glory nodded furiously and drummed on her chin, thinking. “Yes, I know who you’re talking about. The pickpocket in Oliver Twist. But I’m sorry, those are the characters that came to mind when you posed the question, especially when I think of us.”
“Then I get to be Charlotte, and you’re Wilbur.” The jeweler stuck out her tongue and broke her own rule by leaning against her freshly cleaned glass.
Following the other woman’s lead, Glory relaxed beside her. “Or Holmes and Watson.”
“The Scarecrow and Dorothy. Pooh and Piglet.” Noemie linked her fingers behind her neck, deep in thought. “You mentioned Jo and Laurie, but what about hermanas? Sisters can be friends, too.”
“No, you mentioned those two from Little Women. I’d say Jo, Beth, Amy, and Miss Know-It-All take friendship to another level as sisters.”
Noemie swatted at her. “Meg is not a know-it-all. She was doing her job as the oldest.”
“Spoken like a true oldest.”
Noemie’s stare pinned Glory into place. “We never dig deep into your family. Remind me, where do you fall in the birth order? Were you and your siblings good friends?”
Glory’s smile died on her face. A quick, painful death. “I’m the younger of two, and I adored my big brother. There was a great deal of hero worship on my part.” She didn’t flinch under Noemie’s steady gaze, who’d heard different versions of these same lines over the years. “Until he started drinking, which I’ve told you about.”
“Not much,” Noemie prompted.
Glory buried her hands in her pockets so Noemie wouldn’t see her clenched fingers. “My parents stayed on him. They expected a lot from the both of us, but Davis marched to his own beat.”
“Must run in the family.”
“Mmm . . . but not like Davis. He was so creative—the way he dressed, spoke, thought. Believed. He could’ve run the world with his brains and personality, but he decided to run them crazy instead.” Glory pictured her brother with his laughing eyes, looking older than his years. He always stood head and shoulders—literally and figuratively—above other boys his age.
“His alcoholism didn’t play well with the deacon and missionary boards at church, let alone my parents. Davis would sneak into the house, and I’d cover for him. They’d fuss whenever they caught him. Then he started staying out later and later, going away days at a time because he figured he could just delay the arguing, the lectures, and the punishment.”
Growing warm under the chandelier—or was it Noemie’s interrogation?—she counted her pink-tipped toenails as she spoke. “Then . . . one night there was a fire. I got hurt pretty badly, and my parents blamed his drinking.” Glory raised her hemline a tad to reveal a hint of her scar tissue.
“They couldn’t forgive him, so he left home. Which is a euphemism for ‘they kicked him out and he had nowhere to go.’ He disappeared. Eventually, I went off to college, and my parents died soon after I graduated. When we had the chance, when we were younger, we did the traditional brother-and-sister thing fairly well. The problem was we didn’t get to grow into friends because we didn’t get the time together.” Glory scrubbed at something sticky on the floor with her toe as her story trailed off.
The clock at the end of Springs Church gonged the half hour.
“Eli and Glory.”
The melodious, soft voice on Glory’s right was strong enough to lift her chin and reclaim her attention. “What?”
The jeweler raised one shoulder and blinked into the early evening light streaming through the front windows. “Married couples are buddies, too. The best kind.”
Thankfulness made her want to hug her friend, but she settled for playing along. “Then I nominate you and Dale.”
Noemie squeezed Glory’s shoulder, showing her that she understood. “Since we’ve moved on to nonfiction, that brings up that Simonette woman. Perhaps you two can form a friendship. Why don’t you take your bestie up on his idea about your festival planning? This quote thing might inspire people, like it did you and me.”
Glory rested against the glass as she ruminated.
Noemie poked the bookseller’s knuckle with a nail.
“Oops!” Glory snatched her hands away.
“Wait until I rub greasy prints on one of your precious novels.”
Glory waggled a finger in warning before stuffing her hands into her pockets to keep them—and her books—out of danger. “You got me to thinking, Noemie. What if I designed famous quotes on large placards and posted them around town to advertise the festival? They would inspire people—”
“To buy books!”
“Sure. And jewelry . . . and apple fritters, massages, pottery . . .”
“But how does this relate to your new friend Adelle? If you truly want words that speak to a wide range of readers, you should gather them from more than the two people who sit at your dinner table each night. Or the two of us.”
“Hmm, you have something there, but where would I get the quotes?” Glory went to press her fingertips to the glass again but reared back when she spied Noemie’s raised hand. “You and Dale for one. Y’all would be a great help because you’re readers.”
“I’ve already helped! But I can’t speak for Dale. Wait, we’ve been married for forty-three years, so of course, I can. Count us in. Who else could you ask?”
While Glory paced the store, her flip-flops slapping against the large tiles, Noemie walked to the front and picked up a rod with a rounded end like a shepherd’s crook. She used it to grab an iron gate high above the windows. “What about Ophelia? She’s a reader. You need folks from all along the age spectrum, too.”
The bookseller went rigid. “Who do you have in mind?”
“Different ages. Younger and older. You have people in the middle. Middle-aged, that is. What young people do you know?” She lowered the bars.
Glory marched to the front left, opposite Noemie and reached for the bars. “Charles Graves—without Oscar—could represent the older demographic. This would draw him out of the house to converse with people other than his dog. Perhaps your neighbor, Frederick, could join us, in exchange for more recipes and free sweets.”
Both Frederick Baldwin and the Pearlines lived in Hickory Grove.
Noemie covered the door. “Talk to Jason and Mallory, Ophelia’s twins. They could speak for the teens if they’re willing.”
“If Jason’s mama can convince him to take out his earplug thingies long enough to contribute.” Glory couldn’t hide her doubt.
“You still need someone younger.”
“I’m on to you, you know. You’re not as sly as you think you are.”
Noemie sauntered over to Glory and faced her friend head on. “That Bennett you talked so much about. So well spoken, you said. So smart. A four-year-old who reads like he’s ten! Sounds like he’d be perfect. But also, that means—”
“His mama. Adelle.” Glory could’ve sworn she heard the sound of a guillotine falling into place. Mommy says it’s not right to swear, a young voice reminded her. She grimaced.
“Who wanted to help anyway. Win-win.” Noemie clapped silently.
