Haunting Jasmine Read Free Page B

light, and while you’re at it, more copies of the books that are in high demand? Like the titles I saw on display at the airport—”
    “Not again!” Auntie stops in front of a window display, hands on her hips. “What a mess. Ay, Ganesh!”
    The books are all used classics by Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Charlotte Brontë.
    “Like right here,” I tell her, pointing at the display. “Organizing this. Arranging newer books face out. Maybe typing up your recommendations on little cards—”
    “You must get to know my store before you rush into giving advice.” She gathers up the old books. Behind us, a slim volume slides off the shelf and lands with a thud on the floor. Altering Your Living Space. “Oh, stop your complaining,” she says to the book, then throws it back on the shelf.
    I follow her into the Classics section, where I help her shelve the books. “So the display in the parlor—”
    “Is for newer books.”
    “Do you classify them by title, or by—?”
    “Author. Other questions we get: Do you sell stamps? Do you have a copy machine? Do you have the Internet? No, no, and no.”
    “But why not? The Internet would draw more customers. And maybe add a little café.”
    “Restroom is in the hall,” she says, ignoring my suggestions. “Then they want to know, do I give them a discount because they are spending so much money? Ay, Ganesh.”
    “Surely you don’t get many people asking questions like that. I mean, your store is so out of the way .” And the weather is miserable.
    “Out of the way! I’m most central in this town. People can’t live without my bookstore.”
    Can’t live? She’s the queen of overstatement. I follow her to the Literature section. The dust is thick on the windowsills. She extracts a series of hardcovers, which she arranges in the front window display.
    “There, back to normal,” she says.
    “Do you consult the bestseller lists? I understand the independent bookstores have their own recommendations—”
    “This is not just any bookstore. Sometimes I wake up, and everything is moved. Books here, books there—”
    “Who moves them? Tony? Customers?”
    “Who knows? Someone who wishes the classics were not forgotten. The culprit included a few different authors in this display so I would not know who is to blame for the switch. Now come. I’ll show you around. We’ll have tea.”
    I don’t have time for tea. I need an espresso. “Does this happen often?” I say, following her down the hall.
    “Now and then,” Auntie is saying. “This and that. Items left behind. People appearing and disappearing. Men sleeping here all day, what gall.” She pats my cheek, her gnarled fingers like dry leaves against my skin. “Speaking of gall, what’s happening with that pile of dung you call an ex-husband?”
    The word ex-husband sends my heart plummeting. “I still have to deal with him, unfortunately. We’re selling the condo.”
    “Could you not keep it for yourself?”
    “I can’t afford the mortgage on my own.” No more sunlight spilling across hardwood floors, cozy meals in the breakfast nook, sunsets viewed with Robert’s arms around me. “Don’t tell Ma and Dad.”
    “I won’t say a word,” Auntie says, hugging me. “But I worry about you.”
    “I’m okay, except the divorce cleaned me out.” I should frame my latest bank statement, highlight the nearly zero balance.
    “Do you need money?”
    “No, no. I’ll be okay. You take care of yourself.” A lump rises in my throat. I hug her again, and her warmth banishes my uncertainty.
    “You’ll forget Robert while you’re here. The authors will help you.” She points to framed prints on the walls, pen-and-ink drawings of famous authors. Charles Dickens. Laura Ingalls Wilder.
    I try not to laugh. My aunt has always been eccentric.
    “The authors will help you,” she says again. “Their words. That man with the large forehead is Edgar Allan Poe. And of course, there’s Jane Austen. This is