The Key to Good Fortune

“Yes, Dad, I understand. As soon as I get back to my apartment, I’ll email Uncle Charlie and get the details.”

“What more do you need to know, Annie? It’s an internship with the New York Times, for god sakes,” he says as if it makes all the sense in the world. “You should be grateful to have such an opportunity.”

“I’d agree if journalism was my major, but it’s not. It’s—”

“I know, I know it’s art conservation, dear,” he interrupts.

“Specializing in library conservation,” I clarify.

“Everything you need is online now. Libraries are useless and nearly obsolete,” he explains.

“Even more reason to preserve the written word. I need to go, Dad. Love you!” I hang up before he has a chance to argue his same old points. My fascination with it is no more than a hobby to my father, whose business thrives in the modern world. He would rather I have a lucrative career that he can brag about to his buddies at the golf course or impress his coworkers at Microsoft.

I tug on the collar of my wool charcoal colored pea coat and continue down High Street. The early March temps are still frigid enough for my breath to form gray puffs when I exhale. A group of giggling tweens rushes by to escape the wintery mix. The heavy, wet snowflakes hit the brick sidewalk with a splat. I dodge a puddle and instantly stub the toe of my rain boot on an old wooden A-frame sign that reads Once Upon A Time—Rare books and oddities" with an arrow pointing to the left. It wobbles and falls over with a loud clap. The next person steps around me and directly onto it. It cracks in half, but they keep going. I adjust my backpack, pick up the sign and go in search of the owner.

Two storefronts down, under a shabby slate gray awning appears the “Once Upon A Time” bookshop with country blue siding and stacks of sun faded books filling the window. The golden bell rings above my head, and the comforting scent of old books hit me, fondly referred to as biblichor to us book lovers. The mahogany shelves are jam packed with paperbacks and hardcovers, old and new, but all dusty. A wrought iron spiral staircase leads to a loft with even more books.

I hug the broken sign close to my body, and I weave through the narrow path until I find the checkout counter. The man in front of me waits while the clerk searches through the endless piles on the shelves behind the ancient looking register.

“What’s the name again?” the clerk asks without looking back.

“The Day of Triffids by John Wyndham,” the customer answers. “It’s for my son. When I called, Mr. Withers said it would be ready for pickup today.”

“It’s me. I am the owner, Elijah Withers.”

“I thought you would be older,” the customer mutters. “It would help if we knew what it looked like.” He digs out his phone and whines about the poor Wifi connection.

“It’s a dark green cover with sickly yellow green writing,” I interrupt, “I think I see it—third from the bottom in the last stack.”

“Ah ha!” the clerk exclaims and carefully retrieves the book like he is playing a game of Jenga. "Here we go—that’s $15.”

The man thanks me as he brushes past and tucks the book inside his coat.

“$15? You undercharged him. That book is out of print,” I remark.

Elijah grunts in response and draws a red line across a scribbled note. “How may I help, ma’am?” he asks in a tiresome draw as his eyes stay on the ratty desk calendar.

“I broke your sign. The one that was sitting on the corner of High Street,” I confess.

“Why in hell did you do that?” He flinches and looks at me for the first time. His light hazel eyes are a striking contrast to the deep brown, almost black hair on his head and his patchy beard.

“Not on purpose!” I exclaim. “And it’s not entirely my fault. I knocked it over, then someone else stepped on it,” I fumble with the wooden boards in my arms. He comes around to help me, and he is in fact as tall as he looked behind the counter. I thought for sure he was standing on a platform.

Elijah leans it against the wall. “Well, there goes my attempt at advertising.”

I can’t tell whether he is joking or not. “I’ve lived here a year, and I never knew you existed until today.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” he answers and eyes my backpack. “College student? West Chester?”

“Yes—grad student—an English major. If I knew about you, I would have been in every day,” I say as he withdraws with a hint of a smile. “I mean the books,” I clarify and turn away to hide the blush climbing up my neck.

“What are you into? Books I mean—of course,” he stutters and follows me down the first aisle. The books are piled vertically on the shelves instead of the typical horizontal side to side.

I drag my finger tip up and down the spines. “Why are they like this?”

“My grandfather preferred them arranged that way and we never changed it,” he explains. Stacks upon stacks fill every available space. If I squint, the uneven piles of books look like a city skyline.

“I like it. I don’t need to turn my head to the side to read the titles,” I reply with a shrug, “but it does put stress on the spines.”

“This is the fiction section.” He picks up a book on how to crochet and frowns. “Mostly fiction. A bit of a mix. Someday I’ll organize it.”

“Do you need help?” I offer.

“No, I don’t,” he answers curtly.

“I’ll have a lot of time on my hands soon with spring break coming up. I’m not going anywhere. I could help you tidy up.”

“No, thank you,” he answers and walks back to the counter. He opens the register, shoves something inside, and closes it again.

“I don’t mind. I love books—it’s my dream to be a rare book conservator. You have an extensive collection, you’re not doing it justice, and I can sort it out. It would be a great experience for me. I haven’t decided what I’m doing for the summer, and I could hang around—"

“Absolutely not,” he insists and smooths a hand over his red and black flannel shirt.

“Why not?” I ask.

“I can’t afford to pay you,” Elijah explains.

“You don’t need to—I have a job at the coffee shop up the street. This could be my internship. You log my hours and fill out the forms—it’s easy. Come on, it’s free help and you could really use it.” I scrunch my nose as I drag my finger across the dusty wood.

He lets out a long, slow breath and relents, “You’ll need to work on your own. I’m busy with my own things and I can’t chat all day long,”

“No chatting—got it. Put me to work and you won’t even know I’m here,” I promise.

“Somehow I doubt that. I suppose I could make a to do list,” he says.

“Should I start tomorrow?” I ask.

“Easy, champ, I don’t even know your name,” he says.

“Annie Jacobs, nice to meet you, Elijah.”

“See you tomorrow, Annie.”

#

As soon as my early morning shift at the coffee shop ends, I can hardly contain my excitement and speedwalk back to the bookshop. The air is crisp, and soft rays of pale sunlight break through the puffy white clouds. I rush around the corner and almost miss the new bookshop sign taped to a metal utility pole.

The bell dings as a customer pushes past me. Elijah stands by the front window, holding a clipboard with a black marker between his lips. The pale blue of today’s flannel shirt he wears suits him much better than the harsh red from yesterday.

“Nice sign,” I remark.

“It’s the best I could do. I made a list.” He wiggles the clipboard in his hand. “But maybe a tour first?”

“I’d love that,” I answer. Somehow the place looks even dirtier with the light shining through the window. I follow him down each aisle. His categories are outdated and mislabeled, but I have never seen such a unique collection of books. I tap my fingers on a set of books that are easily 70 years old.

“My grandfather was the original owner, then he passed it onto my mom. She died over a year ago and now it’s mine,” he explains without prompting and continues the tour. “I always envisioned this place to have more of a welcoming vibe—where customers could linger, comfortably sit and read, but it’s too crowded for that. There’s no storage space, so what you see is what you get.”

He hands over the clipboard, and I start on the back shelves—dusting, cataloging, and the occasional reading. Elijah passes by several times and disappears behind a door mark storeroom. I keep my head in the book on my lap and pretend not to notice. Hours go by; I don’t even realize it. Elijah closes the blinds on the front window, and I take that as my cue to call it a day.

Our days go by the same way for several weeks; I lose myself in the books and Elijah putters around the shop helping customers, muttering to himself or hiding in that mysterious storeroom. We exchange no more than a few words.

Nothing changes until one day when a plastic bag with a book inside wedged between two sets of shelves catches my eye. I open the front cover and pick at the receipt stapled to the corner. The staple slices my finger and I wince. “Damn it.”

Elijah appears above me. “Are you ok?”

“Just a cut,” I answer.

“Let me see if I have a band aid.”

I follow him to the storeroom door. “You said there’s no storage space, than what’s this?”

“Ah—it’s where I live,” he replies with a sheepish shrug. There’s a hint of pink on his cheeks through the patchy beard.

“You live in a closet?”

“Not exactly.” He opens the door, and out of curiosity, I step inside without hesitation. It takes my breath away. It’s light and airy in comparison to the dank shop. The entire back wall is paned glass windows with two French doors opening to a garden that boasts early springtime blooms in shades of white and dayglow green. There’s a full kitchen with antique appliances that Elijah assures me are still fully operational. A daybed acts as a couch against the wall with an extra-large plush chair in the corner next to a cone fireplace. Bohemian décor and potted plants accent every corner.

“It’s my mom’s style—I—ah—can’t get myself to change it,” he admits.

“Don’t. I love it. What’s that pile of rocks and tarp in the corner of the garden?” I ask.

“My mom’s koi pond and a waterfall—it’s been there since she was a child. She desperately wanted a pet and was allergic to dogs and cats, so my grandfather build it for her when she was a child,” he describes. “She loved it.”

“That’s ashamed they’re gone,” I reply and wipe the condensation away from the glass to see better.

“Not gone. The fish are dormant now, but in a few weeks or so, when the weather warms up, they’ll emerge.”

“Cool.”

“Let me see. I’m sure I have band aids somewhere.” He pulls open a few drawers without any luck.

“How about that?” I point to an ancient metal first aid kit with a small padlock that sits on the shelf above the refrigerator. Scrawled across it in black marker, it reads in capital letters: FOR EMERGENCY ONLY.

“Nah, that was my grandfather’s. I don’t have the key, and whatever is in there must be rotted.” He opens another drawer and flaps a band aid in the air. “Ah ha!”

#

Summer arrives, and I’m grateful to spend my time out of the heat in the cool corners of the bookshop. Some days Elijah joins me on the floor in one of the aisles; we sort through the books and share personal stories.

“Don’t get me wrong—I grew up in a bookstore and I love reading too, but do you really think books can save the world?” he asks.

“Old books represent a time when things were cherished and not disposable. We need that back, and maybe I can’t save the world all at once, but bit by bit I can make a change.”

“I believe in you, Annie,” he says, “If anyone can make a change, it’s you. Look what you’ve done here.” He smiles thoughtfully before leaving to help a man with an order.

I marvel at my progress. I’ve added twinkly lights and some of Elijah’s mom’s plants from the back to the well organized romance section. The mysteries and thrillers now sit in the darkest part of the shop to give it the spooky ambiance it demands. We even cleared an area by the front window for two leather armchairs with a plush area rug I got for free when the coffee shop remodeled.

The front doorbell rings, and I join Elijah in directing the customers. Mrs. Jenkins, my favorite regular, compliments Elijah on the improvements.

“I can’t wait to see what you do with the display up front,” she gushes.

“Annie deserves all the credit. I’d be lost without her,” Elijah admits.

I smile proudly. We lock eyes for a moment before Mrs. Jenkins squeezes his arm. “Someone show me to the new and improved romance section. Love is in the air!” she squeals and gives me a knowing glance.

I’ve grown fond of Elijah, and I can’t be sure, but I like to think he feels the same way.

#

Early one morning, I walk to the shop full of energy and optimism only to find Elijah poring over his ledger.

“Everything, ok?” I ask.

“No, Annie, it’s not,” he answers without looking up and drags his hands through his hair, causing it to stick out at different angles. “I need to sell.”

“What! No!” I exclaim. “We have more customers, and now that the weather is improving, that will help. I can check the coffee shop; they may have an extra chalkboard sign we can use. I have ideas for the front window, too. Surely that will bring people in—and maybe—”

“It’s not enough. We’re in the red and I—can’t—I wasn’t meant for this. I appreciate all your improvements, but there’s no point continuing.”

“I’m not stopping, Elijah. We can’t give up.”

“We don’t have a choice.” He disappears into the room in the back.

I go about my normal routine as my mind reels on how to bring in customers. Elijah spends the rest of the day on the phone.

#

The next morning, I’m surprised to see Elijah clean shaven and in a dress shirt and tie. “What’s the occasion?” I ask.

He smiles sadly. “The real estate developers will be here soon with the papers. They offered me a great deal for the land. They’re putting up condos.”

"Elijah, no,” I breathe.

“I’m a failure, Annie.”

“You’re not. It’s—”

“It’s a digital world, like your dad says—no one cares about books.” He shrugs. I run off like an insolent child to the storeroom, grab a pack of oyster crackers, and head straight for the koi pond in the garden.

The water reflects the blue sky, and glows under the sunlight. When the crimson and marigold colored fish break the surface, it’s magical. They glide, loop, and intertwine in smooth, gentle motions under the lily pads. I toss a couple of crackers in the black water and the greedy fish clamor for a nibble.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, easy ladies. There’s enough for everyone.” I don’t know whether they are male or female, but they’re so elegant I can only assume they are ladies. They climb over and under each other, churning up the muck. When it gets to be too much, I throw a handful of crackers to the other side of the pond. The fish swim to the other side in a rush, and in their wake something catches my eye. A bright beacon of light shoots out from the murky depths. It’s too enticing to ignore. I grab a pair of large tongs from the grill and plunge them into the water. A couple of curious fishes watch. I retrieve a small key with a blue twisty tie.

Back inside with the key pressed firmly in my palm, my stomach drops and my heart pounds at the sound of deep rising voices on the other side of the door that leads to the shop. It’s the real estate developers. I search the room until my eyes land on the metallic first aid kit. I climb the counter and retrieve it. The key fits into the small padlock, and it pops open. I lift a piece of parchment paper to reveal a book. I recognize it in a heartbeat with its violet blue jacket and eyes peering at me—The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I carefully open it and scan. A first edition, and in mint condition too! It’s easily worth $500,000 or more.

The door opens, and Elijah appears with two men in suits following him. Elijah looks at me with confusion as I lift the rare book and say, “Don’t sign those papers!”