Brought to Book Read online

  Brought to Book

  Barbara Cornthwaite

  ©Copyright 2020 by Barbara Cornthwaite

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Author bio here

  Edited by:

  Fonts: Garamond,

  Cover art by: Joshua Markey

  Connect with Me Online:

  Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Barbara-Cornthwaite/e/B00J47TTZM

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/barbara.cornthwaite

  Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3256827.Barbara_Cornthwaite

  Website: https://barbaracornthwaite.com

  The events and people in this book, aside from the caveats on the next page, are purely fictional, and any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental and I’d love to meet them!

  All Scripture references are from the NASB. NASB passages are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE (registered), Copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Snuffed Out

  Chapter 1

  Books by Barbara Cornthwaite

  Chapter 1

  Frank’s Book Store had an antique little bell that tinkled when the front door was opened. It was an old-world place that would have been right at home on a side street in Oxford, or better yet, Hay-on-Wye. As it was, it stood in the center of a mid-sized town in Washington State, flanked by Save-U-Bucks Discount Market on one side and a cell phone store on the other. To be sure, the back of the property shared a boundary with Wilkester College, which seemed appropriate, and a little alleyway connected it to that institution of higher learning. If the path had come anywhere near the English department it would have been ideal. However, it was the Mathematics department that was nearest to the bookstore, and although there are those who see poetry and even music in numbers, all they have ever represented to me is torture and despair.

  Frank himself seemed a little out of place in his own store. Some of his qualities were what you might imagine in a dealer in old books: he was an elderly little man who eschewed modern technology to such an extent that he owned no cell phone and used an ancient computer grudgingly and only for email—finally being convinced that for the sake of his business he needed to communicate with customers and suppliers in a method other than paper letters sent through the post office.

  On the other hand, he was not so delightful a gentleman as you might think. When I first encountered him in his store I expected him to know a great deal about the world of literature, to be in love with the feel and the smell of old books, and to rejoice in a first edition of, for example, Humphry Clinker. I thought he ought to have a twinkle in his eye, a pixie-like sense of humor, and a fount of ready wit, which he used when bantering with customers. Alas, he was a curmudgeon of the first order with no poetry at all in his soul. You could guess that, couldn’t you, from the name of his business? With all the witty and charming possibilities for the name of a place that sold old books, he chose to name it Frank’s Book Store.

  He was not one of the world’s great organizers, nor did he specialize in any particular kind of book. He bought any volume that had covers with words in between and he shelved them all alphabetically by title, so that a racy romance novel like Nights of Passion was right next to a scholarly work like Nigerian Statesmen 1960-1985.

  One day after a particularly frustrating morning of teaching the twenty-three students who attended my American Lit class at the college—apparently for no better reason than being read to sleep—I could not tolerate the odd juxtapositions any longer.

  “Look,” I said, irritation overcoming my natural deference, “do you mind if I move some of the more valuable old books to that empty set of shelves over there?”

  “Then they won’t all be alphabetical,” Frank said.

  “I’ll arrange those shelves alphabetically by author, and when someone asks if you have a book by Edgar Allan Poe, you’ll be able to find it quickly. As it is, you can only find books in your store if you know the titles. You’re probably losing money as a result.”

  His mouth twitched as he thought it over. “You think I’ll make more money that way?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How long will it take you? I don’t want you to start the job and then disappear and leave it all a mess.” He fixed me with a grim stare. I started to feel like I was ten instead of nearly forty-two.

  “I can come in for a couple hours every day until it’s done,” I said. “I’m here almost that often anyway. And I can probably finish in a week.”

  There was another silence.

  “Well, all right.” He sighed as if he had made a supreme sacrifice, and went back to his little desk on which the telephone, a mammoth old desktop computer, and a pile of invoices reposed, leaving only enough room for a mug of coffee and the ledger he was trying to balance.

  It was one of the most enjoyable weeks I had had in years, finding the treasures amid all the twaddle and the negligible books. When I was finished, I pointed out to Frank which books were worth good money and suggested he either advertise them or send them to auction. He did so and made a tidy profit.

  After that it was easy for me to suggest that I should be allowed to organize the rest of the books into groups—at first merely nonfiction and fiction, and then as the months went by into more sophisticated categories.

  As time went on, Frank appeared to forget I was not an employee. Whenever new books came in he’d tell me that I needed to get them shelved, and when someone emailed him to ask if he had any books that were published before 1730, he put the question to me. Eventually, of course, my time filled up with other activities—I did some freelance editing, I started a book club at the library, I began teaching a Sunday School class, I made a few more friends—and my time at the bookstore dwindled to a mere couple of hours a week. I wouldn’t say that Frank was overjoyed to see me when I came in, but he did say, “Oh, there you are!” as if he had been waiting for me.

  He said it with more emphasis than usual on a freezing cold March afternoon when I slipped in after my English Composition class. “I have a question to ask you,” he added.

  “Katrina to the rescue,” I murmured.

  “How hard is it to forge something? Like a literary thing.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Thinking of starting a second business?”

  “No, no, no,” he snapped. “Just answer the question.”

  “Well, it depends on a lot of things. How old is the manuscript? Is it handwritten or printed? Is it a whole book or just one sheet of paper?”

  “Let’s say something handwritten that’s a couple hundred years old.”

  “In that case, you would need to find paper manufactured in that era, since paper is made differently now. You’d also need ink that was right for the period, and a pen—probably a quill pen that was also from
the right era. You’d also need to be able to fake the handwriting of the period, which is hard to do, and if there is already a known sample of the author’s handwriting, you’d have to copy it perfectly. And if you’re making up something for the person to have written, you’d better know the spelling, punctuation, vocabulary, and syntax of the time. It’s not something an amateur could whip up in their spare time and fool people.”

  “Hm. I see.” He turned back to his desk.

  “Do you think you might have accidentally bought a forgery?”

  “No,” he answered shortly.

  Well, that was that.

  I wandered back to my new favorite section: Historical nonfiction. I found the book I had discovered last week: an etiquette handbook from the 1940’s. Dear Emily Post had the answer for every kind of social question: how to politely word refusals of marriage, which kind of thank you note should be sent in which circumstance, what kind of and how many clothes a college student should take with them to school, and what sort of uniform your maid should wear. I smiled at the confident assertion that “a lady never leaves the house without her hat and gloves.”

  The telephone rang—a jarring sound in this age of muted electronic chimes and beeps. I could hear Frank’s grunted “hello.” There was silence as I turned the page to find out in what circumstance a veil might properly be worn with a hat.

  “I told you no before, and I’ll say it again,” said Frank. “It’s no good you calling me and asking me over and over. That’s final.” There was more of an edge to his voice than usual.

  “That’s a threat,” he went on after a moment, “An empty threat. And you don’t frighten me.” The phone clunked as Frank hung up, and I could hear him muttering to himself. I came out from behind the back shelves with my finger still in the book.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It’s that college of yours. Wants me to sell the building to them. Again.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I heard about that. They want to use it as the college bookstore. They’re thinking of turning the current one into a fast food place.”

  “Well you can tell them from me that they can just give up trying. I’m not selling. You tell those people that.”

  “They won’t listen to me,” I said. “I’m only an adjunct faculty member. No clout at all.”

  “I’m not selling.”

  “All right then,” I said. “What was that about a threat?”

  “Nothing.” He turned abruptly back to his work and I went back to Emily Post. I wanted to find out how to dress my nanny. In case, you know, I should ever have one and she should want to dress like someone living in 1945.

  “By the way,” Frank said, “There’s a shipment of books coming in tomorrow for you to shelve. Got them from the Wilkes estate.”

  “The Wilkes estate? The family of the man there’s a statue of in front of City Hall?”

  “Yep. Old fellow finally died—about ninety-five years old. He’s some descendant of the statue man.”

  “He was the man who founded Wilkester, wasn’t he? In 1855 or so?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s what I thought. I have one of his descendants in my writing class. He wrote a paper about it.”

  Frank snorted. “I’ll bet he did. Those Wilkeses think they’re the royalty of Pierce County. They get all kinds of special treatment for being old Matthew Wilkes’s family—college scholarships, opening festivals, leading the Fourth of July parade, being written up in the newspaper whenever they do something…”

  “Matt certainly is proud of his family,” I said charitably. “His paper mentioned that the first Matthew Wilkes saved a bunch of people in a flood, or something, as the town was being founded.”

  Frank rolled his eyes. “When I was a child in elementary school, there was a pageant every year re-enacting that event. We’re all sick of that story around here.”

  There didn’t seem to be any point in prolonging the conversation. Frank picked up his pencil again, and I returned to Emily Post. In case you were wondering, a nanny should be dressed in the cap and cape of a British nanny only if she herself is British.

  The Coles invited me over for dinner that night. It’s amazing how restful it is to be with them, in spite of their crazy household: two parents, three teenagers, two elementary-aged foster kids, and an assortment of pets. Ed and Kim have known me long enough that I’m not self-conscious around them, which is a lovely thing. I hadn’t realized, before I moved, how nerve-wracking it is to go to a place where you know practically no one. Every time you meet a new person you’re making a first impression that you will either have to live up to or try to live down. And when you see those people for the second time you’re trying to remember if you made a good or bad impression on them and wondering what you should be doing to reinforce whatever good they saw and invalidate the bad. And of course it’s stressful and ridiculous to live that way (not to mention the whole fear-of-man thing the Bible is so vocal about), so I determined early on that I would just be myself without any regard for what people thought of me. And thereafter I had to ask myself every five minutes, “Am I being myself? Would I have said that or done that if I were being myself?” And I can never quite be sure.

  Maybe it’s just me.

  Anyway, I met Ed and Kim in college—we were part of the same campus Bible study. They moved up here soon after we graduated, but we kept in touch. In fact, it was Ed’s idea for me to apply for the job here in Wilkester—he’s the Vice President for Academic Affairs at the college.

  Dinner was a little chaotic, as the newest child they’re fostering, aged seven, threw his plate against the wall and ran out the front door in the middle of the meal. I suppose it might have shocked me once, but in the last couple of years I’ve seen them care for several foster kids with trauma issues and throwing a plate of food against the wall ranks as a fairly mild interruption. Both parents mobilized to get him back inside, but the rest of us continued eating. Once little Ben was back in the house, Kim stayed with him in his room to help him calm down, and Ed came back to the table and finished his meal.

  “That didn’t take too long,” I commented.

  “No, he’s getting better. In fact, he kept looking behind him to make sure we were following him. Kim might be down before long.”

  Actually, she didn’t come down for another half-hour. By that time we had finished eating and I had volunteered to start the dishes so the teens could finish their homework and Ed could spend a little time with Mia, the five-year-old. Kim joined me in cleaning up the kitchen.

  “All serene?”

  “Yeah, he’s fine now. I’ll read him his story before bed, but he’s working at his homework now.”

  “There’s such a huge change in him from a few months ago when he first came. Remember that tantrum that lasted twelve hours?”

  Kim nodded. “That was the worst. Sometimes it seems like it’s been so bad for so long, but then I look back and see just how much improvement there has been.”

  “You guys are doing so much good.”

  She looked at me slyly. “You could too…they’re really short of foster parents right now.”

  I laughed. “Can you see me as a foster parent?”

  Kim finished drying the pot she was holding and put it away. “I can, actually. You’d be great.”

  “You know I’d love to, but I work! Not only that, but I work a weird schedule! I only have a two-bedroom apartment!”

  “None of those things are really barriers, you know. And you love kids. You’re good with kids. You like making a difference. I could help you.”

  I kept wiping the counter. There was something in the idea that attracted me.

  “At least think about it,” said Kim.

  “All right, I’ll add it to the list.”

  “List of what?”

  “Things I’m thinking about.” I threw away the paper towel I’d been using and found the broom.

  “Like?”

  “Yo
u know the mission school Carrie teaches at in Papua New Guinea? They’re looking for teachers next year.” Carrie was another old friend from our college Bible study.

  “Wow.” Kim stopped moving to absorb that idea. “Is that something you’d like to do?”

  “Like I said, I’m thinking about it.” I kept sweeping. “My career isn’t really going the way I thought it would. After what happened at UCSC, and then only getting this adjunct professor work afterwards… The chances of me being hired as full-time faculty are very, very slim. You know that adjunct faculty members aren’t paid much—if it weren’t for the money from editing I couldn’t make it. I don’t really want to spend the rest of my life doing this.” I found the dustpan and began to sweep the debris into it. “I used to think of my teaching as something I could do until I got married. But marriage looks more unlikely every year.”

  I can only say that to a few chosen souls. Most people feel impelled to respond with, “Oh, don’t give up hope! My aunt didn’t get married until she was forty-nine!” and I really don’t need to hear that. Kim, bless her, never said it to me.

  All she said now was, “What do your parents think? And your brother?”

  “I haven’t told them. I already know what they’ll say: ‘You have a Ph.D.. Surely you don’t mean to waste it on some elementary-aged kids!’ I can see their point, but I feel like I could be of more use to the Lord doing that than what I’m doing now. I am single. I can pick up and move across the world if I want to. Most people can’t.”

  “You could be used by God in foster care, too.”

  “True. Like I said, I’ll add it to the things I’m thinking about.”

  Kim sighed. “I wouldn’t want to see you go across the world, but that’s selfish. I’ll pray with you about it.”

  “Thanks.” I put back the dustpan and broom and gave her a hug. “You’re the best.”

  Chapter 2

  The weather had warmed up a little bit by the time I went back to the bookstore a few days later. The bell tinkled cheerfully as I opened the door. I remember that because it was the last time I ever heard that sound with pleasure.