the money from The New Yorker was going to be a real windfall. She wanted to buy something really nice for the professor from it. She had already bought little gifts for everyone in the boarding-house, she had something small and thoughtful for each of them, except for Steve Porter. She had decided that she didn't know him well enough to buy him a present.
And she had thought of buying something for Mother Gregoria too, but she knew that given her circumstances, the Mother Superior wouldn't be allowed to accept it. What she had decided to do instead was send her a copy of The New Yorker when her story was published. She knew how pleased she would be, and how proud of her. It would be gift enough just knowing how much she had helped her, and even if Mother Gregoria never answered her, Gabriella knew in her heart how much the Mother Superior still loved her. It was just very hard not being able to see her. It was the first Christmas she hadn't spent with her since she was a child. But that couldn't be helped now.
Gabriella walked into a handsome bookstore on Third Avenue and looked around. They had new books, and a section of old leather-bound books as well, and even some rare first editions. And she was shocked to see how expensive they were when she browsed through them. There were even one or two that cost several thousand dollars. But she settled on something finally that she thought would really please him. It was a set of very old books, by an author she had heard him use as an example to her very often. They were leather bound, and obviously had been much read and held by loving hands. There were three volumes, and when she paid for them, she doled out her money slowly and carefully. She had never in her life bought anything as expensive, but he was worth it.
“That's a great choice you made,” a young Englishman said, as he counted her money. “I bought them in London last year, and I was surprised no one snapped them up immediately. They're very rare editions.” They chatted for a few minutes about the books, and then he looked at her curiously and asked her if she was a writer.
“Yes, I am,” she said cautiously, “or I'm starting to be. I just sold a story to The New Yorker, thanks to the man I'm giving the books to.”
“Is he your agent?” he asked with interest.
“No, a friend.”
“I see.” He told her he wrote too, and had been struggling for the past year with his first novel.
“I'm still on short stories.” She smiled. “I'm not sure I'll ever get up the courage to write a novel.”
“You will,” he said confidently, “although I'm not sure I'd wish that on you. I started out doing short stories, and poetry. But it's awfully hard to make a living at it.” He was sure that she already knew that.
“I know,” she smiled at him again, “I've been working as a waitress.”
“I did that too.” He grinned. “I was a bartender in the East Village, then a waiter at Elaine's, and now I work here. I'm the manager, actually, and they let me do some of the buying. The people who own the store live in Bermuda. They're retired, and they bought this because they love books so much. They're both writers.” He mentioned two names that instantly impressed her, and then he looked at her curiously. “I don't suppose you'd want to give up waiting on tables?” He knew the tips could be good, but the hours were long, and the conditions usually gruelling.
“It just gave me up, actually.” She laughed. “I got fired this week. Merry Christmas.”
“The woman who usually works here with me is having a baby, and she's leaving for good next Friday. I don't suppose you'd be interested, would you? The salary is pretty good, and you can read all you want when business is quiet.” He smiled at her shyly then. “And they say I'm not too dreadful to work for. My name is Ian Jones, by the way.” He extended a hand and she shook it and introduced herself to him, excited about the offer he'd made her. He told her what the salary was, and it was more than she'd been making at Baum's, including tips, working twelve hours a day. And this was exactly the kind of job