“Did you see? People all down the block, waiting for the doors to open. There won’t be enough chairs!”
Roy Clarke squirmed uncomfortably. He wanted to stand, but the bookstore owner had supplied a high stool. “I’d better not keep them here for too long then. Just a quick reading, sign a few books, and home.”
“They’re here for you.” Wendy Clarke, his wife, had already helped herself to the free prosecco. “Don’t be in such a rush. They’re our new neighbors. We’re all going to be great friends.”
Roy unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, then rolled them down again. While he appreciated Wendy’s cheerful optimism, he wondered why he’d ever agreed to this.
On their first stroll to familiarize themselves with their new neighborhood, Wendy had noticed a sign on a scaffolded Smith Street storefront that read SMITH CORNER BOOKS: 2 WEEKS ’TIL OPENING DAY! Without hesitation, she’d stepped around the construction debris and gone inside to introduce herself. Roy lingered outside, pretending to be a smoker, even though he was not. The next day, Wendy forwarded him an email from Jefferson, the bookstore’s owner, with the subject Roy Clarke reading confirmed for opening day!! The body of the email was all lavish praise and buttering up. Never in Jefferson’s wildest imaginings could he ever have hoped for “the Roy Clarke” to open his store. Roy didn’t mean to be an ass. It was just that he’d wanted to slip into Brooklyn and discover it quietly, be discovered by it quietly. Not bang in—pow!—let’s welcome the big famous author who, sorry to disappoint, hardly thought of himself as an author anymore because he spent more time making tea and toast than he did writing pages.
Shy Clarke, Roy and Wendy’s youngest daughter, age fifteen, contemplated pretending she’d just gotten her period. Shy was nervous about starting at her new American school later that week. She also felt uncomfortable for her father, who she knew was in agony. Shy’s older sisters had come up with her unusual name right after she was born because she’d seemed to duck and look away whenever they cooed over her. Right now, Shy sat very still in the front row, her pale bare knees pressed tightly together. She wasn’t sure she could endure her father’s misery for much longer.
“Unlocking the doors now,” Jefferson announced. He wore a heavy black-and-green plaid wool shirt, despite the fact that it was the first week in September and seventy-five degrees outside. His long, bushy brown beard looked like it would make a nice home for a family of squirrels.
An excited murmuring throng waited outside on the sidewalk. Jefferson unlocked the glass door and held it open to let them in.
Roy and Wendy had moved to Cobble Hill, the charming brownstone Brooklyn neighborhood just south of Brooklyn Heights, from London almost three weeks ago. People from the neighborhood had actually stood around with their children and dogs and watched the movers moving in their furniture and boxes of possessions with great interest. Wendy wasn’t bothered. She was too busy unpacking boxes and giving orders. Roy watched the neighbors watching them. It was his first inkling that they hadn’t moved to the big city at all, but to a very small village where nothing went unnoticed.
Jefferson’s neat rows of folding chairs filled up fast. There was a lot of hugging. Everyone in the audience seemed to know one another. Roy didn’t know anyone. His agent and editor were both based in London. He hadn’t even told them about the event. Wendy was his agent for this one, bless her.
Roy sat stiffly on his stool in a state of faux alertness. Voices faded in and out. Someone touched his elbow. A copy of Orange, his most popular novel—the novel that had been adapted into an acclaimed HBO series starring Frances McDormand, Drew Barrymore, Kristen Stewart, Kevin Dillon, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, and Hugh Grant and had aired for four seasons—was placed across his stool-braced knees. He blinked and clasped the book between his hands. He would read the part about the firemen. It was recognizable from the TV show, a bit racy, and always made him laugh. His agent, a bright twenty-eight-year-old who had inherited the post when Roy’s longtime agent died, said it was “endearing” that his own writing still made him laugh. He thought it best to endear himself to his new neighborhood if he could.
A shadow passed in front of him.
“Thank you, friends and neighbors. Welcome to your new bookstore, Smith