The Bookshop on Autumn Lane Read Online Free PDF Page A

Ironically, a broom stood near the door. The cleanest broom in the county, for sure.
    I pulled my hand away from my nose, testing for biological hazards and dead animals. A stale, mildly sour smell permeated the air. I was grateful that there was no stench of rot. Spying the refrigerator, I decided to hold my gratitude. Unless Aunt Gertrude had an epiphany before she left on her cruise, chances were I’d be scrubbing that for the next month.
    I pulled off the scarf that covered my hair and wiped my face. Suddenly, this was overwhelming. The prospect of walking away looked brighter and brighter. It was going to take a lot to get this place cleaned up and ready to sell. Maybe Reeba Sweeney could sell as is and I could take a loss.
    And then what?
    Hunger sent yearnings for rice noodles in Vietnam and curry in Thailand through me. Flashes of wise monks and hidden temples gave me courage.
    I spotted a small path through the main room and stepped with one foot in front of the other, as if I were on a balance beam, toward a window above the couch. Climbing on the armrest, I steadied myself against the wall and reached for the window latch. Then I threw up the window sash and let a wave of fresh air spill into the room.
    I made my way further down the path to the bedroom. Clothes and books and magazines again. Boxes in the corner. But there was a bed. A glorious, marvelous bed. Only a few clothes rested across its surface. I climbed over a pile by the window, slipping and sliding on things I could not name, and once again opened the window.
    I hopped over a broken chair to see if the bathroom was still intact. I flipped on the light to reveal a dingy room with—what else? Books. But at least they weren’t in the toilet. There was some access to the sink. And even though there were rust spots and corrosion all over the white porcelain fixtures, the water was working. Reddish-brown liquid burst from the pipes in gargling spurts that eventually cleared and became even.
    Within minutes I had every window in the apartment open. Fresh air wandered to the furthest corners. Raising my arms above my head, I took a deep breath and did the mountain pose. Breathing in and out, I let that single yoga move wash over me.
    Okay. This was doable. Armed with a breeze and an idea of what I needed to do, I tackled the one room I wanted most. The one I could finish by the end of the day. The bathroom.
    * * *
    I set down the sponge I had used to scrub the tub, grateful that Aunt Gertrude had hoarded cleaning supplies. There were five duplicates of every bathroom cleaner in existence under the sink.
    I dried off with the towel I had retrieved from Lulu. I hadn’t had a shower since that campground outside Joliet. It felt wonderful to be clean.
    While I blotted my long hair, I studied the books that covered the floor. Aunt Gertrude apparently favored books that looked like short-story collections and old magazines for her bathroom reading. The thought of her sitting in here until she finished made me laugh. I attacked the stack between the toilet and sink, tossing the larger books out the window to the alley below.
    A muffled grunt caught my attention.
    A high-pitched bark erupted from the floor below me. My sleeping friend heard something too.
    â€œHello? Anyone out there?” I yelled. No reply. I must have imagined it. I picked up another handful of books and tossed them.
    A shout erupted from the alley. Did I hear someone say “bloody”?
    A man lay sprawled across the mound of books and magazines I had just thrown away. Wrapping the towel around me, I shoved my feet in my boots and tromped down the staircase and out the back door to investigate.
    A tall, golden-haired man lay on his back, arms and legs flailing about. Black-rimmed glasses hung from one ear. He held a hand over his nose.
    I skirted a pile of magazines to get to him. “Can I help you?”
    He gawked at me and adjusted his glasses. With better vision he