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Authors: Anjali Banerjee
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
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role is to free up your vertebrae so your own body can repair any damage and return the bones to their correct positions. It’s the body’s innate intelligence.”
My innate intelligence is telling me to run away now. For all I know, the entire town of Fairport knows my intimate secrets.
I take a deep breath, unclench my hands. “May I help you find a book?”
She bustles past me, turns into the Cooking section. “I’ve only just returned from California. I’ve got to have a cookbook I saw there.”
“What book was it?” I can’t tell a cookbook from a travel guide, but I pretend to be the next Rachael Ray or Padma Lakshmi or whoever is the current guru of the Food Network.
Lucia touches the books, her red-nailed fingers flitting along the spines like giant lady beetles. “I can’t remember the title or the author.” A strange look passes across her face—a fleeting expression of terror.
“Can you be more specific?” I gaze at a cryptic ocean of subcategories—diet, diabetic, vegetarian, Chinese, Indian, quick meals, gourmet. Sandwiched in among the new books are collectibles—Betty Crocker, Pillsbury, True Grit. “What letter did the author’s name start with? We could look up the book on the computer.”
“Computer?” She stares at me blankly, as if all words have tumbled out of her head.
“Are we looking for a type of ethnic cooking?”
She motions with her hands. “Yes, Californian!”
California is not an ethnicity. “What kind of Californian?”
“Wonderful recipes from the coast.”
“Okay, a coastal city—Los Angeles, San Francisco.”
“No, the East Coast.”
“The East Coast of the United States?”
“No, California.”
“The east coast of California is Nevada.” I keep my voice polite, helpful.
“The book was big, kind of square. There was food on the front—maybe a curry bowl? Maybe a bright green cover. Colorful. Maybe rice? Or noodles. The arrangement was perfect, all the food so appetizing and enticing.”
I show her various books, but she keeps shaking her head. The knot tightens in my neck. A high-pitched, quirky voice slides through the air. It’s so beautifully arranged on the plate—you know someone’s fingers have been all over it. The smell of baking muffins drifts in, probably carried on the wind from the bakery down the street.
Lucia goes on talking and talking. A headache creeps across my forehead. I don’t care about cookbooks. I don’t care about rice or noodles or finding exactly the book she discovered in California. Lucia Peleran and my perfect, happy sister should get together to discuss the menu for the wedding, but I can’t stand this another minute.
“Stop!” I say, interrupting her monologue.
She freezes, her mouth half open.
I pull one book off the shelf, then another, and another, and throw them all on the table until they form several tall piles. “Here are cookbooks, dozens of them, hundreds. Just choose one and be done with it!”
Lucia gapes, her mouth opening and closing in slow motion, her eyes blinking. She narrows her gaze at me. “Well,” she says, “divorce can make you crazy, too.” She snatches a book from the top of a pile, and the whole stack comes crashing down.
Chapter 11
“Another strikeout?” Tony says after Lucia stalks out in a huff.
“I’m not playing baseball here.” I shelve the cookbooks, one by one. I don’t know what came over me. “We need to get rid of some of the oldest books. Donate them to charity—”
“Don’t you dare.” Tony grabs Pasta Galore from my hands. “Your aunt would have a fit. The old books give this place its character.”
“We’ve got an overload of character here. Way too much stuff.”
Tony clutches Pasta Galore to his chest, as if the dog-eared paperback holds the key to his survival. “Why do you think your aunt chose you? Not to clean out her inventory!”
“I’m good with numbers. I have a strong business sense. She knows I’ll spruce up the
My innate intelligence is telling me to run away now. For all I know, the entire town of Fairport knows my intimate secrets.
I take a deep breath, unclench my hands. “May I help you find a book?”
She bustles past me, turns into the Cooking section. “I’ve only just returned from California. I’ve got to have a cookbook I saw there.”
“What book was it?” I can’t tell a cookbook from a travel guide, but I pretend to be the next Rachael Ray or Padma Lakshmi or whoever is the current guru of the Food Network.
Lucia touches the books, her red-nailed fingers flitting along the spines like giant lady beetles. “I can’t remember the title or the author.” A strange look passes across her face—a fleeting expression of terror.
“Can you be more specific?” I gaze at a cryptic ocean of subcategories—diet, diabetic, vegetarian, Chinese, Indian, quick meals, gourmet. Sandwiched in among the new books are collectibles—Betty Crocker, Pillsbury, True Grit. “What letter did the author’s name start with? We could look up the book on the computer.”
“Computer?” She stares at me blankly, as if all words have tumbled out of her head.
“Are we looking for a type of ethnic cooking?”
She motions with her hands. “Yes, Californian!”
California is not an ethnicity. “What kind of Californian?”
“Wonderful recipes from the coast.”
“Okay, a coastal city—Los Angeles, San Francisco.”
“No, the East Coast.”
“The East Coast of the United States?”
“No, California.”
“The east coast of California is Nevada.” I keep my voice polite, helpful.
“The book was big, kind of square. There was food on the front—maybe a curry bowl? Maybe a bright green cover. Colorful. Maybe rice? Or noodles. The arrangement was perfect, all the food so appetizing and enticing.”
I show her various books, but she keeps shaking her head. The knot tightens in my neck. A high-pitched, quirky voice slides through the air. It’s so beautifully arranged on the plate—you know someone’s fingers have been all over it. The smell of baking muffins drifts in, probably carried on the wind from the bakery down the street.
Lucia goes on talking and talking. A headache creeps across my forehead. I don’t care about cookbooks. I don’t care about rice or noodles or finding exactly the book she discovered in California. Lucia Peleran and my perfect, happy sister should get together to discuss the menu for the wedding, but I can’t stand this another minute.
“Stop!” I say, interrupting her monologue.
She freezes, her mouth half open.
I pull one book off the shelf, then another, and another, and throw them all on the table until they form several tall piles. “Here are cookbooks, dozens of them, hundreds. Just choose one and be done with it!”
Lucia gapes, her mouth opening and closing in slow motion, her eyes blinking. She narrows her gaze at me. “Well,” she says, “divorce can make you crazy, too.” She snatches a book from the top of a pile, and the whole stack comes crashing down.
Chapter 11
“Another strikeout?” Tony says after Lucia stalks out in a huff.
“I’m not playing baseball here.” I shelve the cookbooks, one by one. I don’t know what came over me. “We need to get rid of some of the oldest books. Donate them to charity—”
“Don’t you dare.” Tony grabs Pasta Galore from my hands. “Your aunt would have a fit. The old books give this place its character.”
“We’ve got an overload of character here. Way too much stuff.”
Tony clutches Pasta Galore to his chest, as if the dog-eared paperback holds the key to his survival. “Why do you think your aunt chose you? Not to clean out her inventory!”
“I’m good with numbers. I have a strong business sense. She knows I’ll spruce up the
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