The Bookshop on Autumn Lane Read Online Free PDF Page B

right. Most people don’t get me.” I walked toward the door, but he paused.
    â€œMy name is Christopher Darlington, by the way. Just in case you feel the need to know my name before I commit a crime.”
    He was so darn proper that I felt like curtsying. For once I decided to use my full name. “I’m Gertrude Brown.”
    His eyebrow shot up and he leaned forward, as if he hadn’t heard me. I suppose even to a Brit it was an unusual name.
    â€œI’m named after my great-aunt Gertrude, who lived here. My friends call me Trudy.”
    Whatever I said seemed to please him. A full grin spread across his very appealing pale lips. “My friends call me Kit. Christopher was my uncle.”
    Something in common and we’d only known each other for two minutes. “Pleased to meet you, Kit.” I held out my hand.
    â€œLikewise, Trudy.”
    There must have been static from that pile of old books. A shock ran up my arm when our hands touched. We both jumped back, surprised.
    And my towel dropped.
    * * *
    Nudity was an embarrassing predicament when I was young. I avoided it in the locker rooms during gym just like every other teenage girl. But when I was nineteen, I spent two years in California, working at various auto garages in the Castro and Haight-Ashbury districts of San Francisco. There, I learned that clothing was a socially constructed idea that I had been taught from an early age. I didn’t walk the streets nude every day like some of the characters I befriended. But I enjoyed the freedom of participating in several events to celebrate the natural state of the human body.
    At first it had been awkward. But by the time I participated in the “World Naked Bike Ride” and “Saint Stupid’s Day Parade” I found nudity to be fun and enlightening. Among the sea of short, large, hairy, and sagging bodies, I learned that my own lanky, small breasted body was just as normal as everyone else’s. It was liberating.
    When my towel dropped, I picked it up and kept going. “Come on in. I can’t offer you a seat. But I can offer you a book.”
    The dog ran ahead of me and barked at Kit to follow. He wiggled so much that I had to nudge him so we could pass through the door.
    Kit seemed to be having trouble keeping up. He kept sucking in air and clearing his throat. I took pity and rewrapped the towel more firmly.
    Making extra room for my guest, I kicked several books out of the way. When I turned around, it was to find that Kit had taken a great deal of interest in the back door and its hinges. His ears were red.
    â€œThe towel’s back.”
    When he pivoted toward me the sun caught his glasses and I couldn’t see his expression. Whatever embarrassment lingered disappeared the moment he noticed the books that filled every corner of the room.
    â€œGood Lord.”
    â€œSimply shocking,” I concurred in my best British accent.
    He ignored my impersonation and scanned the room. “This is . . . impossible.”
    â€œImpossible? I’d call it many things. Ridiculous. Outrageous. But impossible? I’m not getting that same frequency, Kit.”
    He climbed over a pile of books near the door that separated the front and back room to get a better view of the store. “It could take years to go through all these books.”
    â€œI sure hope you’re wrong. I’m giving it a few weeks.”
    â€œYour aunt lived here?”
    â€œIt wasn’t quite so bad fourteen years ago. It was a bookstore. Used and new. She had a lot of books even then. But they were neatly piled up in the shelves and in stacks. Now it looks like there was a great big earthquake.”
    â€œWhat on earth happened?”
    â€œSquatters, supposedly. Although I have a feeling the property management neglected it until I claimed the old place. The upstairs apartment is just as bad. I made it into the shower, however, as you can see.”
    The old