Read Online Yarrow by Charles DeLint - Free Book Online Page A

moment.
    Cat had walked off her anger by the time she reached the Glebe. There was still a dull ache inside her, where something that needed expressing could find no vehicle of expression, but there was nothing she could do about it. Standing in front of The Merry Dancers Old Book and Antique Emporium, she looked up and down Bank Street, wondering what she was doing here. It was going on six and everything that wasn't already closed would be closing soon.
    She didn't really want to have dinner alone in one of the restaurants that had sprung up in the area over the past few years. On the other hand, she didn't want to go home just now either. She decided to go over to the House of SF. If they were still open, maybe she could pick up a book. That would give her something to do tonight. She wasn't going to spend another evening sitting in front of the tube, and she wasn't going to stare stupidly at her typewriter all night either.
    The "Come in, We're OPEN" sign was still in the window when she arrived, and she hurried up the stairs before Peter could change his mind and close. She wouldn't keep him long. Just a book and she'd be off.
    The House of Speculative Fiction— on the blue-and-white sign outside, the sounds "eff & ess eff" were added to the name— took up the ground floor of a half-double on Fourth Avenue. The store itself was in what had once been the living and dining rooms of a ground-floor apartment, while the kitchen, complete with stove, fridge, and sink, doubled as a makeshift storeroom. Beside the sink was a narrow stairway that led to the apartment upstairs where Peter lived. There was also a broader stairway at the front of the store, giving access to the second floor, but Peter rarely used it.
    He could be found behind the low counter everyday except for Thursday nights and Saturdays, when the other owner, burly Rodger Turner— who worked for the federal government five days a week— took over. Yet even at those times Peter was generally about. He looked up now as Cat burst in, and grinned when he saw who it was.
    "How do, Cat. Long time no see. Where've you been keeping yourself?"
    Now that she was here, she wished she hadn't come. She liked Peter Baird. He was a fairly handsome man with short light-brown hair, not tall but taller than she, with hazel eyes that were quick and warm. He was one of the few people Cat felt comfortable with, but right now, after his effusive welcome, she realized that she wasn't up to any sort of extended conversation. She didn't want to seem rude, but—
    "Are you okay?" Peter asked.
    Oh, God, she thought. How long have I been standing here like a dope, not saying anything? She quelled the sudden urge to bolt out the door— because how would she explain that later?— and tried to find a smile. By the look on his face, she wasn't being very successful.
    "I'm fine," she said. "Really. I've just been having one of those days."
    "I know what you mean. But at least you're doing something productive with your time instead of being cooped up in a place like this all day, twiddling your thumbs while the drizzle does its damnedest to keep customers away. Say, how's that new book coming?"
    Cat's lower lip began to tremble, and all the past few months' losses and pressures swelled up inside her. I'm not going to cry, she told herself. A real cat wouldn't cry.
    But she burst into tears.
    Peter had long enough to think, Oh, shit— what'd I say? Then he was up and around the counter, steadying her by one arm as he led her back to his chair. He left her there for the time it took to turn the "OPEN" sign to "Sorry, We're CLOSED," lock the front door, and return to hunch down beside her.
    For a moment he stared helplessly at her, but when her sobs grew louder, he drew her head down to his shoulder. He didn't say anything about everything being okay, or Hey, come on now, realizing that neither had much meaning. If everything were okay, she wouldn't be crying. Instead he just held her until