Abe and Em drifted off to lose themselves in the stacks, and I approached the man behind the counter. He was in his early thirties, with short brown hair that swooped to one side, a flannel shirt (the store was air conditioned significantly), and small, round, wire-framed glasses. He looked approachable and friendly—even doing paperwork, he had a smile on his face. When he saw me he looked up, and it grew even larger.
“Hi!” he said. “Can I help you find something?”
Every movie or book I’d seen or read that featured a record store like this had pretentious, miserable people manning it. I was happy that wasn’t the case here.
“You’re not Leonard, are you?” I asked.
“That’s me! What can I do for you?”
“I think you knew my aunt. Helen Reaves?”
“Oh man,” he said, his face darkening instantly. “Professor Reaves. Of course I knew her. She was your aunt? I was so sorry to hear the news.”
“You were one of her students?”
“Years ago. Eight years, maybe? Best class I ever took. She was so good at explaining what she wanted you to know. It was like she was just an open book, just blowing all her knowledge over the class. Wow, that’s a terrible analogy. She would have flunked me for that,” Leonard said, smiling again, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Actually, speaking of books . . . I’m supposed to get one from you. She said she lent you one and she never got it back?”
“What a memory! Eight years later . . . Of course I still have it. It’s at my house, though. I can call my girlfriend and have her bring it over. She’s home now.”
“Oh, she doesn’t need to do that. I can wait until you close up, maybe?”
“It’s really no problem. She was going to meet me here anyway. I’ll give her a call.”
“Thanks, Leonard. I’ll wait outside.”
“Anything for Professor Reaves,” he responded.
I joined Abe and Em in the back of the store. They were silently browsing bins next to each other, serious looks on their faces.
“His girlfriend is bringing the book. I’m going to get some air,” I said. Abe grunted in reply. Em shrugged.
I made my way through the store and out the door. Remembering what Abe said about concerts in the back, I walked around the building to see a tiny raised platform and a dozen or so folding chairs spread in a loose semicircle around it. I wondered if Leonard owned the store or only worked here. I wondered whose dream it had been to open a record store in the middle of nowhere, to hold concerts where only a few people could attend.
“I saw Conor Oberst here,” a voice said behind me—Sam, sitting on a folding chair, admiring the stage. “It doesn’t look like much now, but they turn on all these fairy lights and there are candles and everyone is so happy to be here. It’s like you’re watching something really special.”
“I can’t picture it,” I said, sitting next to him.
“It’s one of those things. You have to see it for yourself. But the shows are never announced more than an hour or two in advance, so there’s a little bit of luck to it. You have to be in the right place at the right time.”
“It sounds really nice.”
“It was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot.”
“There aren’t a lot of concert venues near me.”
“This one is worth the trip,” he said. Then he looked at me like he’d forgotten I was there. “Hi, Lottie.”
“Hi, Sam. How have you been?”
“I’ve been good,” he said. “What brings you here? One of your aunt’s letters?”
“I have to pick up a book from the guy who works here. I guess she let him borrow it and never got it back.”
“What book?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s at his house; his girlfriend is going to bring it.”
“There you are!” Em said before I could respond. She and Abe carried record-shaped blue plastic bags. When she saw Sam, she waved. “Oh, hi. I’m Em. Please pretend this is the first time you’ve met me.”
“I’m Abe. Lottie’s brother.” They shook hands.
“Em, do you even have a record player?” I asked.
“I think my dad left one somewhere in the basement.”
Abe climbed up on the stage and looked around. “Huh,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“It looks totally different during the day.” He hopped down and sat down on the edge of the stage. Em joined him, and they started comparing purchases.
Sam found a stick and drew a tic-tac-toe board in the dirt. We drew ten straight matches, and then I saw Leonard walking toward us. He had a book in his hand.
“Told you it wouldn’t be long,” he said, handing it to me. “Well, I guess it actually has been a long time. Eight years and ten minutes, give or take.”
I took the book without looking at it. “Thanks. I know this would have meant a lot to my aunt.”
“I’m glad I could help. I just feel bad I never returned it.”
Books have a way of making themselves at home, Aunt Helen had once said. I smiled now, at Leonard, and said, “If she had wanted it before, she would have asked for it.”
When he walked away, I read the title: The Search for Eternity: A History of Juan Ponce de León.
“Who’s Ponce de León?” I asked.
Sam leaned over and read the title, and I swear he did the tiniest of double takes, the tiniest of deer-in-the-headlights, caught sort of looks. Then Abe glanced over and said, “You know, the explorer.”
“Ponce de who?” Em asked.
“Why would she want me to have a book about an explorer?” I wondered.
“He was famous,” Abe said. “You’ve really never heard of him? He found the Fountain of Youth!”
“Supposedly,” Sam said quickly and laughed, and then, as if on second thought, added, “It was probably research. For her books.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “That makes sense.”
“Maybe there’s something written in it?” Abe asked.
I opened it and fanned through the pages, and sure enough, toward the beginning of the book, she had circled the phrase “Fountain of Youth” and drawn a line to the margins, where she’d written S.W. with three exclamation points next to it.
“S.W. Abe, that’s who she dedicated her last book to!” I said, pointing.
“Huh. I wonder who it was. Didn’t she have a friend named Susan?”
“Or Sarah?” I added. “I have no idea.”
Sam had wandered away again, inspecting the stage. After a moment he came back and said, “It’s about an explorer, so maybe she’s trying to send you a message? To find your own way. To never stop looking for . . . stuff.”
“That’s deep, Sam,” I said.
“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “What do you guys want to do next?”
“Give me a minute; I’ll meet you out front.”