“I’ve been an agent for twenty-three years, and my wife is a painter. I understand the whims of creativity painfully well. But you’ve proven partying and destroying your image online isn’t giving you the pump-priming you need. My gift to you is a new source of potential inspiration. Take walks. People-watch. Pick up a new hobby. Make friends who don’t want to use you. Go find something new to read. I hear they have a lovely bookstore there.”
Rasul pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t as simple as a lack of inspiration, not at all, but he wasn’t going to bring that up. In fact, the one thing he’d figured out was all the partying was an effort to keep from thinking about the problem. Giving Elizabeth the corner of his mental carpet meant she’d wrench it up with one yank, leaving him no choice but to examine the mold and writhing insects beneath.
“Ten days,” she said. “I’m going to contact you in ten days, and you’re going to tell me about your progress. I won’t tell you what that has to look like except that you’ll have to convince me you’re moving forward enough for this to continue. It goes without saying that if I see a single social media post from you or about you, it’s over.”
That made him panic. “Look, I can’t help it if other people talk about me.”
“Let me rephrase: if I see a post that makes me think you’ve end-run me, we’ll have a problem.”
He didn’t relax. “Adina has a lot of photos. A lot.” And a few naughty videos, some of which made him sweat at night.
“Oh, trust me, she’s receiving a similar call from her agent, though I think that relationship is beyond saving. If I see any photos from her, I’ll do my own investigations. Don’t worry about her or anyone else. Do whatever you have to in order to finish this book.”
With that, she hung up on him.
Grimacing, Rasul pocketed the phone and stuffed his hands in his pockets, no longer interested in the quaint scenery. Which direction was his apartment? Of course, he didn’t want to go there anyway. He had some welcome gala for new faculty that night, but that wasn’t until eight. It was four in the afternoon now. Way too many hours to kill.
He started wandering.
There were a lot of shops on University Avenue. An Indian restaurant, Italian restaurant, a Wiccan shop, comics store, art gallery… huh. This place had a little more culture than he would have suspected. There were a lot of bars, and they were tempting, but going there was a step backward, not forward. He considered Café Sól, a charming, understatedly elegant coffee shop, but it looked more crowded than he was ready for right now.
University Avenue eventually led to a small highway, and after crossing at the light, Rasul noticed the street name had changed, as had the businesses dotting it. Main Street Copper Point was more what he’d expected to see in this one-horse town. A community center, Lutheran Church, library, tae kwon do club, and Christian book and supply store. He wondered what the people who shopped there thought of the Wiccan store on the other end of the street.
There was also a bookstore, as Elizabeth had suggested, and the name made him laugh. Moore Books. Twenty dollars said the owner’s last name was Moore, and what a quaint but understated pun. It was a proper ramshackle bookstore too, the towering, overcrowded shelves visible through the tall antique windows. As Rasul approached, he saw that though it was clearly a historic building, the stairs had been replaced with a sloping ramp to the side with a reasonable gradient.
Rasul ascended the ramp and pushed open the door, his heart sighing with a sense of rightness as a slightly discordant bell announced his arrival and the scent of old paper hit him in the face. The floors creaked too, a well-polished but ancient hardwood, and the ceiling above him was made out of legitimate tin. The shelves were packed with books, but they were well-organized and clearly labeled. A small front-facing shelf boasted new releases, but also store favorites and local interest titles.
Both of Rasul’s books were included, with prominence, in the store favorites section.
Only a handful of patrons were visible in the maze of shelving, and the few in his line of sight barely spared him a glance before resuming browsing. The middle-aged woman in one of the armchairs near the front window regarded him slightly longer, but even she soon returned to her own business.
This bookstore, Rasul decided, feeling the truth ring in his soul, was a good place.
“Hi. Welcome to Moore Books. Can I help you find anything?”
Rasul turned to the speaker, a white man about his age wearing a button-down blue shirt and a tan cardigan. Except for his light brown hair, he looked like a young Fred Rogers, down to the navy sneakers.
“Just browsing, thanks.” Rasul ran a hand through his hair and tugged at his ponytail. “Nice store.”
Mr. Rogers’s doppelgänger brightened slightly. “Thank you. I’ll let you wander around, but if you decide you need any assistance, find me at the checkout desk.”
The man turned and disappeared into the stacks. Rasul watched him go.
He certainly acted like the owner, but if this was who’d listed both of Rasul’s books as his favorites, he’d given no indication he knew who Rasul was.
Whatever. He was grateful for the privacy, however he got there.
Rasul wandered, taking everything in. The whole first floor was fiction, broken into genre: general fiction, mystery, science fiction/fantasy, romance, horror/thriller. It was a large area, both in width and length, running all the way to the back of the building. The upstairs, however—accessible via some deliciously creaking and curving stairs or a sleek, modern elevator—was all nonfiction and children’s books. The children’s area was charming and quite full of people. Another large recommendation area was on full display here, though these suggested reads were provided by the town’s librarian.
There were also two cats, a prim gray tabby with a white tuxedo belly, judging Rasul severely as he passed by its perch on top of a low shelf in the general fiction section, and a longhair gray tortoiseshell nested in the middle of an educational toys display upstairs. He also encountered a teenager in a store apron shelving titles, and when she saw him, she squealed and dropped everything in her hands.
“Ohmygod, you’re Rasul Youssef.”
He smiled his patented smile for fans: welcoming, charming, but not exceptionally inviting. “Hi. Sorry to make you drop your things. Can I help you—”
But she’d already run off, disappearing into an area marked STAFF ONLY.
Rasul picked up the books from the floor, slid them into the appropriate places on the shelf, and gave the cat a hesitant pat. The cat meowed at him, rubbed his hand, and burrowed back into the toys.
After this Rasul meandered to the first floor again, trying to decide what he wanted to browse first. The general fiction section mostly gave him angst at the moment, so he wandered into the genre shelves. He lingered over a book by Lois McMaster Bujold he hadn’t even known was out, set it aside to purchase, and picked up another title by an author he hadn’t heard of. He was leafing through it when Mr. Rogers reappeared, smiling in that helpful way bookstore owners had.
Rasul waved the book in the air between them. “You read this one, or hear about it? Any good?”
Rogers came over, focusing on the cover, then brightening. “Oh, yes. It’s excellent. Highly thought-provoking, but not at all heavy. I believe they were nominated for a Hugo.”