3. Ounce Books
Ann liked this bit. She entered the bakery and the barista – her barista! – smiled at her. “The usual, Ann?”
Her smile was joy. “Yes please, Ben! I’ll put these books on the shelf and be right back.”
The Heartbake manager had let her set up an OBCZ – an Official BookCrossing Zone – in a corner. Ann had stocked a small shelf with free books, each registered and labelled with its BookCrossing ID. A sign read “FREE BOOKS!”
The shelf had a steady turnover. Reading a free book while having coffee: a perfect match!
She arranged her latest paperbacks on the top shelf, moving older titles lower. If they staid too long on the shelf, she “wild released” them into the world somewhere. A park bench. A bus stop.
A new book caught her eye. Not one of hers. 44 Scotland Street by Alexander McCall Smith. A delightful book by a favorite author, and some kind customer had donated it.
Ann glanced inside. Not registered on BookCrossing.com. Not yet.
She returned with the book. Barista Ben had her latte ready and she bent over the cake display in her Mark Twain t-shirt. A lot to be said for a tight top.
“A smiley cake today, please!”
He gave her a smile and put the cake on a plate. She paid, and made her happy way to her own shop. Definitely making headway with Ben.
Ounce Books was her little kingdom. Queendom. Princessipality. Whatever, it was all hers and she loved it.
To tell the truth, it was a fake. Campbell residents might buy a paperback novel here and there, but the big business was done online. Quality second-hand nonfiction and good first editions. More than once she’d made several hundred dollars profit from a single book.
She had a copy of Leni Reifenstahl’s Schönheit im olympischen Kampf, a classic 1937 large format book of stills from Reifenstahl’s documentary of the 1936 “Nazi” Olympics in Berlin. She’d paid two hundred dollars, but it was worth an easy six, maybe seven hundred. Postage would be a killer, though. It was heavy.
She took a bite of her cake, sipped her coffee and turned to the book she’d picked up in the cafe. On the BookCrossing.com website – permanently open on her computer – she clicked the “Register book” link, entered title and author, and the site gave her a ten digit number, which she copied onto a printed instruction label. This went inside the front cover. Outside, more stickers with the site logo of a little yellow book running away on stick legs, arms pumping as it headed for freedom.
She had attended the World BookCrossing Convention in Christchurch earlier that year. The combination of New Zealand’s spectacular fall scenery, great friends, and a lightning romance had made it a weekend to treasure. She had stayed on for a precious week with Tom, who ferried yachts about the South Pacific.
It had been pure magic, but they talked long into that final night, agreeing that their different lives ruled out anything permanent. They chatted on the internet when Tom had a break ashore, but even that contact was cooling.
Ben had possibilities. Younger than Tom, but so very handsome! A pity that his interest in books was slim. He came into the shop to collect cups, but their relationship was mostly pursued in the fragrant atmosphere of Heartbake.
Ann was ready for another whiff. She drained her latte, set it on the empty plate, picked up the freshly registered novel and went next door, smiling her way in.
Nobody on the counter, so she went to the back of the cafe and set the new book on the top shelf, glancing sideways into the kitchen, hoping for a glimpse of Ben.
There he was, and her heart skipped a happy beat before exploding. Locked in an embrace that linked bodies from toes to tongues with never a gap between, Ben and some skinny young blonde were making their own heat in the kitchen.
Ann wasn’t sure how she came to be sitting down at her own counter, alone but for an expensive old German book losing value with each teardrop.
Oh, Tom, Tom. Where was he now? Alone on some swelling ocean when he should be here, comforting her, caressing her, whispering love, telling her she was beautiful.
Just a few days, and so many happy memories. Driving down a scenic highway, snow-capped mountains to either side, golden leaves of fall in glorious splashes on the green meadows. Holding hands in the back seat. Walking in the glowing evening. Kissing beneath a smiling moon.
Tom’s smell had made her shiver as he ran his fingers through her hair, his lips soft on her cheek, her neck, her shoulders.
The first time they’d undressed each other, she had gasped at the glory of him. Tanned from ten thousand summer sea miles, trim and muscled from hauling on ropes and balancing his weight on a rolling deck.
The salty taste of his skin as she kissed his chest through a tangle of dark hair. The hardness of muscle, the blaze of his eyes, the sweet joy as his hands moved on her body.
Oh, Tom!
She opened the book, looking at pictures of Greek temples and columns. Marble athletes coming to life in Riefenstahl’s camera as naked gymnasts posed and moved and hurled the discus, the javelin. One tousled athlete was the image of a younger Tom, skin taut over perfect muscles beneath.
She stroked the page, remembering the times afterwards, hearts slowing, fingers entwining, bodies touching. Her head on his chest as he told sea stories. The light in his eyes as he looked at her telling of her own adventures in life and dreams for the future.
Oh Tom! Come to life for me, darling. Leap out of that book and hold me tight.
She looked up from the page, and saw through misty eyes a man in front of her.
Copyright © 2009 Peter Mackay