“Good afternoon, sir.”
Mr. Whitfield knocked over a pile of books with his leg as he reached out to pat her head. “I’m so glad to see you today! How was Mass? You’re the only Catholics on the whole street!”
Wendy shrugged. It had been the same as always, the rhythm and the music service awakening the deep peace inside of her, while at the same time she was terribly bored. John had fallen asleep, twice, only to be shaken awake by her father, and Michael had yelled out once in the service, “But I don’t want to be quiet!” which drew the judgmental eyes of the priest and the faithful gathered in the pew in front of them. Wendy had been quiet, though she felt ashamed that through almost the entire service, her mind had been lingering on Booth.
“Mass was fine.”
“Glad to hear it. Tell your parents I said hello when you head home.” His eyes fell to the bundle in her hand. “What have you brought with you today?”
Wendy reached into her bag and pulled out two books in perfect condition that she had snatched from her father’s expansive library. He would never miss them. Mr. Whitfield took them from her, turning the books over in his wrinkled hands. He opened the books and let the pages fall, inspected the spines, and finally, smelled the books. “Yes, yes . . . these would be perfect for our window shelf. I’ll give you eight pounds for both of them.”
Wendy gave him a smile. “Can we do a trade instead?”
“Well, I suppose. Let me guess, you want a new book.”
She grinned in spite of her nervousness.
“I have just the book.” He disappeared into the folds of the shop, a whimsical warehouse of books and papers, all overshadowed by the giant printing press in the middle of the store. It wasn’t used, of course, but Mr. Whitfield had turned it into a desk of sorts. Wendy closed her eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of worn, musty pages, the knowledge and adventure that lay between them, the fresh ink, and the old baguette that lay uneaten on a typewriter nearby.
It triggered her first memory of Booth.
She had first discovered the bookstore when she was ten years old, when her mother sent her down the street to get a school-book for John. Wendy had been nervous on her first solo errand outside of the home, and so her mother had sent Nana with her, then much smaller and wilder than the gentle dog she was today. Wendy remembered pushing open the door and letting her mouth drop open. Books! More books than she had ever seen in her life, all waiting to be read! These weren’t the books from school, with their endless pages and lessons; these were adventures! Mr. Whitfield, who unlike Wendy and Nana looked exactly the same as he did then, had insisted that Nana come inside with Wendy and had given her a tour of the store.
“Usually it’s your mother who comes; is she well?”
“Yes, but she is very busy preparing for her Valentine’s Day party,” Wendy had answered with a shy smile.
“Well, I am glad, for even though I’ve been sending your mother home with textbooks for you and your brother for years, I’ve never met the famous Wendy until now.”
When she had first seen Booth, he was in the foreign-language section, a small, dusty corner of the store, sitting on a pile of books, which Wendy remembered thinking was so disobedient and wild. His very long legs had stretched out from the pile, his wheat-colored pants held tight by brown suspenders that stretched over a clean white shirt. Still, he wore no jacket, no undershirt, and Wendy remembered thinking, This boy must be poor. He slammed The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn shut and jumped to his feet, looking at her from underneath his pageboy hat, his bright blue eyes widening when he took in this well-dressed girl, her hair falling in short brown ringlets.
“Can I help you find something, miss?”
Wendy had been confused. Was he teasing her? Then Mr. Whitfield had come around the corner.
“Oh! Wendy Darling, this is Booth, my son. He’s twelve going on thirty.” Booth stuck out his hand, and Wendy shook it with a blush, feeling suddenly so insecure.
Booth looked down at the books stacked in Wendy’s arms and said, “So. What are you reading?” He circled around her, asking rapid-fire questions, his tone polite but insistent as he looked at the books, his fingers brushing one spine and then the next. “Les Miserables. Very sad, but very good. That’s one for the ages. Are you going to read it in the original French? Black Beauty, very good. You’re a girl, so you will enjoy it. Lots of hair blowing in the wind. The Crossing—good. But Churchill can write better, don’t you believe? The Golden Bowl—didn’t like it. The Call of the Wild, excellent choice. Have you read The Wizard of Oz yet?”
Wendy nodded, her tongue tied in her mouth, realizing that this boy was possibly, besides John, the smartest person she had ever met.