The Knight of Pages Read online

  “I’m surprised that you know that. It had to be explained to me by Dr. Philips.”

  “If you had Catherine Baumbach for a teacher, you would have read Homer, Detective,” Blunt said.

  Chapter Six

  Nash set out early from home to drop a package off at the post office. He was sending the book to a customer who requested it be sent by USPS. The clerk was friendly but on automatic. He was in and out in minutes. Caught with too much time on his hands, he was tempted to stop in at Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz, but he wasn’t sure if he would be crowding Clara or not. He didn’t know, what was the etiquette after declaring himself as a suitor? Plus, being totally inept at dating, he didn’t have Clara’s cell number nor her home address.

  “For such a smart man, you’re very bad at life,” he scolded himself. He stopped in at the Starbucks and then set out for the theater district. He would examine later why he wanted to check out her story about the ghost. When he found the remnants of the spray-painted circle, he stood there and looked around. The time of day wasn’t right, as there were tradesmen moving their vehicles in and out of the cramped area. Still, when he stepped inside the circle, he felt a chill. He laughed and was tempted to twirl around. She hadn’t lied to him. Did he dare tell her he was here? Would it signal he didn’t trust her, which he did? Or would he look like a lovesick sap?

  “Whatcha doing?” a workman asked.

  “Did you know there’s a ghost in the alley?”

  “Ghosts love the theaters,” the man commented. “John Dillinger was shot behind the Biograph in Lincoln Park - or the FBI thought they shot him, conspiracy theorists have other ideas. Whomever he was, he still hangs around to this day. I’ve been delivering to these places for thirty years. I’ve seen a lot of crazy things.”

  “You should write a book.”

  “Nah, the written word is dead, man.”

  Nash was in too good of a mood to argue with the man. Instead, he bid him a good morning and started off towards his shop.

  ~

  Clara moved around the kitchen smiling. Her chefs seemed to have a groove on. Meals were produced with little calamity. After yesterday’s blueberry fiasco, Raul seemed to be less of an arrogant bastard than normal. Clara tasted sauces and had the sauce chef taste them himself to tell her what was missing. She made corrections without censure. Life was good, and it was all because of a bookseller named Nash.

  “Clara, could you come in the office?” Johan asked.

  “Raul, you’ve got the kitchen,” Clara said and followed Johan. He pulled out a chair and patted it.

  Clara sat down. Normally, she would be worried, but his eyebrows weren’t knitted together.

  “Clara, I’d like to bring on another pâtissier. I’d like you involved in the interviews.”

  “Yes, Chef.”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to give up a day off next week for the interviews, so I would like you to take tomorrow off.”

  “Yes, Chef.”

  “Okay, now let’s take off our aprons. How are you?”

  Clara smiled. “I’ve met someone.”

  Johan lifted his eyebrow. “Local, I hope.”

  “He has a bookshop a few streets from here.”

  “Good. I’m not ready to lose my red rose yet.”

  “Raul tells me daily, he’s ready to step into my shoes,” Clara said.

  “He can’t keep a lid on a blender, how is he going to run my kitchen?”

  “Mistakes happen.”

  “Tell me about your bookshop owner.”

  “He’s a few years older. He is so smart, and I knew the moment I met him, he was going to be important in my life. I just didn’t know how.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Almost a year. We connected yesterday. He’s…” Clara struggled to find words.

  Johan waited patiently. He made a mental note to have the bookseller checked out discreetly.

  “He’s old world. He asked if he could court me. What that means outside of a Jane Austen novel, I’m not sure.”

  “Surely you’ve dated before.”

  “Yes, but he’s different. The pull I feel is so strong. I’ve kept my distance. Better have a lifelong friend than a short affair.”

  Johan looked at his Chef de Cuisine with loving amusement. “We humans have such fragile hearts.”

  “Yes, we do. I realized this morning that I didn’t give him my phone number. That means I have to go to his shop to see him again. Will this make me look desperate?”

  A tap on the door stopped their conversation.

  “Enter,” Johan called out.

  The hostess, Marie, walked in carrying a package. “Clara, this was dropped off by a trio of Girl Scouts for you.” She handed the brown-paper-wrapped bundle to her and, although very curious, managed to walk out of the office and close the door.

  Clara looked at it. She shook it and set it on her lap.

  “Open it!” Johan shouted.

  With shaking hands, Clara unwrapped the paper to find two books. One was a Moleskine journal and the other, a used copy of Too Many Clients by Rex Stout. She opened the book at the bookmark, careful to note where the pencil arrow was, and read aloud, “She turned back to me, graceful as a big cat, straight and proud, not quite smiling, her warm dark eyes as curious as if she had never seen a man before. I knew damn well I ought to say something, but what? The only thing to say was “Will you marry me?” but that wouldn’t do because the idea of her washing dishes or darning socks was preposterous.”

  “Some men send flowers,” Johan said, hiding his approval.

  “Flowers die, words live on forever,” Clara said absently. She picked up the journal and opened the page marked by the green ribbon. The script was long and curled over the lines like ivy. “I’m a traveler lost in a world that changes too quickly to grasp what is the right thing to do. I have kissed a woman who fills my eyes with her beauty, my mind with her wit, and my soul with possibilities. Do I sit upon her doorstep, lurk in the doorway, or humbly ask for her phone number?”

  Johan laughed. “I don’t think you’ll look desperate going to his shop, my dear.”

  “I guess that answers my question,” Clara said. “I’m starting to think I’m not worthy of his attention.”

  “Balderdash!” Johan exclaimed.

  “But he’s so smart…”

  Johan looked at Clara and envisioned the baggage from her past attaching itself to her and dragging her down. He had to stop it. “Write a recipe,” he said quickly, handing over his best pen.

  “What?”

  “It’s your strength. Write a recipe for romance. Ingredients… Come on, write.”

  Clara moved to the next page and dutifully copied down in her best handwriting, Recipe for Romance.

  “First ingredient, put your phone number.”

  Clara did so.

  “Second ingredient, put your schedule - and remember your new day off.”

  Clara looked at Johan and smiled. She added Nash Greene to the ingredients, wishing she had put that down first. She looked at Johan.

  “What do you want? What is your perfect scenario?”

  “I want to spend the day with him at the shop. I love to watch him interact with the customers and the books.”

  “Is he a handsome man?”

  “To me he is. Although, I’d like to fatten him up a bit. He’s too thin.”

  “Some men don’t put on weight easily, and then there’s me.”

  “You are perfect.”

  “Tell me about him. Does he have a name, or do you call him Mr. Bookseller?”

  “Nash Greene. He is tall, thin. He always wears three tops. A T-shirt, a cotton shirt, and then a vest over the shirt. Sometimes, he wears a sweater or jacket over the three. His legs are impossibly long, and his feet are big. He wears jeans and sneakers.”

  Johan watched Clara’s face as she spoke. There was no doubt in
his mind that his Chef de Cuisine was smitten.

  “His hair is black with gray… salt and pepper. He wears it long, and it curls up a bit at his collar. He wears glasses. His eyes are green, and he is cleanshaven. He’s from somewhere back east. He’s divorced and… I’m telling you too much.”

  “Maybe. Besides his looks, what attracted you to him?”

  “I don’t know. He’s very smart, sometimes arrogant but never with children. He’s kind but shrewd. I’ve seen him bargain and best collectors, but yesterday, he gave away dozens of books to Sister Margaret Clarke’s reading group.”

  “You’re saying he’ll never be a rich man.”

  “I don’t want a rich man. I want a compassionate man. Someone like you, Johan.”

  “I told you when I hired you that I was taken,” Johan teased Clara. “My Wanda is my world. Fortunately for me, Wanda didn’t want a rich man either, just one that could cook.”

  Clara and Johan laughed. Clara stood up.

  “Sit down and finish that recipe, then make your best scones. I’ll deliver your scones and return the journal myself.”

  “But…”

  “You didn’t think I wasn’t going to check this bookseller out for myself?”

  “But…”

  “Your parents are gone. Your brother Craig is in Anchorage, and he expects me to look after his little sister. Time for me to check on Raul. I’m going to teach him, step by step, how to keep a lid on an Oster.”

  “He will be humiliated,” Clara warned.

  “I know,” he said with a twinkle in his eye and left Clara to her recipe.

  ~

  Nash’s head snapped up from his task of unpacking a box of books when the door opened. Instead of Clara, it was a stout man carrying a white pastry box and the Moleskine journal. Nash recognized him as Johan, the proprietor of the Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz. He walked up to Nash and said, “I have a delivery for Nash Greene.”

  “I’m Nash Greene.”

  “Obviously. Here. Careful, they just came out of the oven. Let them cool down before you eat any. The recipe is inside,” Johan said, handing Nash the journal. “I find myself honor bound to warn you: if you break her heart, I’ll butcher you and make sausages out of you.”

  Nash lifted an eyebrow.

  “And maybe a rib roast.”

  “I consider myself warned.”

  Johan turned to go and then stopped and turned around. “She’s like a daughter to me.”

  “Clara is my light in the darkness in which I have been thrust. I do know her worth and will not be careless with her heart.”

  “Good,” Johan said and walked out of the shop.

  Nash took the box and the journal to the counter. He opened the box first and let the steam escape. Tiny Maine blueberries rested in the triangles of pastry. He opened the journal. It was simple but to the point.

  Recipe for Romance: Clara’s cell number, Clara’s schedule, Nash Greene, Conversation, Kisses

  Stir Nash Greene with stimulating conversation, and punctuate with a kiss.

  Below it, Clara had written: I’m suddenly shy. Afraid of disappointing you with my clumsiness and have three bandages on my legs where I shaved them in haste this morning. Be gentle with me. Clara.

  Nash grinned. A book fell upstairs. He ran up and found the sex manual from last night lying open on the floor. He picked it up and returned it to the shelf. He leaned against the shelves opposite and felt books on either side move outward as if to hug him.

  “Hugging is important. Well, since you are hell-bent on giving me instructions, answer me this: when do I know she’s ready to come home with me?”

  The books started to move.

  “I don’t want to hear from any tragedies. Only you with happy endings,” he qualified.

  He noticed the movement amongst the stacks had dropped off remarkably. “You’re not giving me much confidence.”

  The hug of the books resumed, but the bells over the door hadn’t lost their echo before the books had realigned themselves.

  “Be with you in one moment,” Nash called out. He walked down the stairs to see Clara standing in the middle of the best-seller section.

  “Johan said you forgot to tip him,” she said. “He said I was supposed to come right over and teach you a few lessons.”

  “He told me he was going to turn me into the day’s special if I didn’t treat you well.”

  “Well, I can’t have that,” Clara said. “Thank you for the book, and the message.”

  “I haven’t tried the scones yet. The books were getting a little bouncy. I fear they are connected somehow with my emotions.”

  “Cool. Show me,” Clara said, holding out her hand.

  “Lock the door, and put the closed sign up.”

  “You realize we are closing two hours early.”

  Nash liked the way she said we. “Well, we have been overworking ourselves. Time for a little fun.”

  Clara locked the door, turned the sign, and walked into Nash’s arms. He kissed her gently. “My heart is racing,” she admitted.

  “Mine too. Clara, I’m going to do my best to take things slow but…”

  “I know it’s tough. I want to push you onto that bin of Penguin paperbacks and have my way with you.”

  Nash pretended to be scandalized. “Come upstairs, let me show you something, and then maybe toss me in the bin of Random House. It’s further from the windows.”

  “You, sir, have yourself a deal.”

  They walked leaning into each other until the stairs. Clara climbed up first while Nash watched her.

  “Greene, if you’re looking at my rear end…”

  “Rear and end are the same thing,” he said, admiring the view.

  Clara waited at the top of the stairs. He took her hand and walked her to the aisle of hugging books. He told her to stand where he stood before while he picked up the sex manual and shelved it. He turned around and said, “I was standing where you were and was thinking about what my next move with you should be.”

  The books shifted and moved outward.

  Clara’s eyes opened wide.

  “Don’t be frightened. I think it’s a hug.”

  “How is this happening? It’s not time for the gloaming.”

  “Well, I can’t get everything right, can I?”

  “It’s not cold, so it’s not a ghost. I was wrong too,” she said. “Maybe they acted up because you needed to take a break.”

  “It’s a theory.”

  “Why don’t the books downstairs move?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Nash looked at Clara and felt a wave of emotion so strong, he had to dig his fingers into his hands to maintain control.

  Clara looked up at him, and he saw something in her eyes he hadn’t seen in a long time. This woman wanted him.

  Clara and Nash were pushed by large volumes behind them. Clara stumbled into Nash’s arms. He kissed her passionately, and she responded.

  “I want to take you home and make love to you properly,” he said. “I’m not sure I can make it.”

  There was a sound from overhead, most likely a book falling. Clara looked up. “What’s up there?”

  “Storage and…” he smiled. “Come on,” he said, pulling his keys from his pocket.

  A book fell from behind him. Clara looked down and saw the sex manual. She bent to retrieve it.

  “Leave it,” Nash croaked. He pulled her away.

  “But what if we’re doing it wrong,” she teased. “It’s been a while for me too.”

  Nash continued to pull her towards another door. He unlocked it and pulled it open, exposing another set of stairs. “There’s a small apartment.”

  They ran up the stairs, past the boxes, into the small apartment lit by old sconces. Nash pulled a dustcover off an old sofa. He eased Clara down and kissed her lips. He pulled out the band holding her hair in the ponytail. He took his ha
nds and moved them through her hair as he kissed her again.

  Clara’s hands moved from his shoulders. She unbuttoned his vest, shirt, and reached in and moved her hands on his T-shirt-covered chest. He grabbed her hand. “Here’s where we make a decision. Do we continue down this road, ending up in that bed over there, or do we put on the brakes? Clara, do you want to make love with me?”

  “Yes, Nash, I do.”

  “I’m not prepared.”

  Clara dug in her pocket and pulled out a long line of connected, packaged condoms. “I am. Don’t ask. I’ll tell you later how I ended up with Raul’s date-night stash.”

  Nash walked over and took the dustcover off the bed. He turned around to see Clara lift her shirt over her head. He sunk to his knees. She was so beautiful. Her skin had the faint tan and freckles you couldn’t help getting if you were out in nature in the summertime. She wasn’t a girl but a voluptuous woman in her prime. Clara walked over to him. Nash kissed her stomach and held her to him.

  If Clara had any insecurity about her extra pounds, they evaporated. She stroked his hair and held him. He stood and began to take off his armor. The vest, the shirt, and when he pulled off his T-shirt, Clara saw the extensive surgical scarring on his chest for the first time.

  “I don’t know whose heart they gave me, but this heart loves you, Clara,” he said.

  Tears fell from her eyes. She ran her finger along the surgical scars before she put her head to his chest. “Hello, I’m Clara,” she whispered. “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

  Nash pulled her down onto the bed with him.

  Below, the romance books fanned their pages. Covers were touched as if the volumes were giving each other high fives. The sex manual still lay on the floor and saucily turned its pages to scandalize Emily Post’s Etiquette.

  Chapter Seven

  Marianne Irving walked the halls of the old mansion in the company of Sister Anne. Sister Anne was quiet and of a calm mind, which was a good balance for Marianne’s turbulent one. Marianne was headed for her morning consultation with Father Saul. Sister Anne would sit with her because of the subject matter that was going to be discussed.