His name was Julian Cole, and he first came into Pages on a rainy Tuesday in April, looking for a book that did not exist.
"It's called The Cartographer's Daughter," he said, dripping on the mat. "I think. Or maybe The Map maker's Daughter. My grandmother used to read it to me. I can't remember who wrote it."
"Neither can I," said Lily from behind the counter. "Because there are about six books with that title, and two of them are terrible."
He laughed. It was an easy, open laugh that made her look up.
He was tall and handsome, with neatly kept brown hair, warm eyes, and a gentle smile that made people feel at ease around him.There was something kind and sincere about his face, and his quiet manner made him easy to approach. He spoke softly, listened attentively and carried himself with a natural warmth that made even strangers feel welcome.
He was studying law at night and teaching English to children in the mornings. He had the careless manner of someone who had never had to be afraid of the next hour.
"Which of the six should I read?" he asked.
"Depends. Do you want to be comforted or surprised?"
"Both?"
"Then the third one," she said, and went to fetch it.
He came back the next day. And the next. Each time he bought a book, and each time he found something to ask her about it. Soon he was coming at the end of her shifts. He walked her to the bus stop, talking about nothing and everything, and every time she told herself that it did not mean anything.
"You never talk about yourself," he said once.
"There's nothing to say."
"I don't believe that." He looked at her sideways. "You answer every question as though somebody is going to use it against you."
Lily said nothing. The bus pulled in. She got on without waving.
But he was at the shop the next afternoon, holding a paper bag.
"What's that?"
"A peace offering. Fresh bread. I'm told the bakery on the corner makes the best in town." He put it on the counter. "You looked hungry yesterday. I hope I didn't overstep."
She stared at the bread. Something prickled behind her eyes.
"Thank you," she said.
It was a small thing. But no one except Martha had ever noticed she was hungry.
That Saturday, he came to the house.
She hadn't told him where she lived. He had followed her bus, which was a little alarming, and had come to the front gate with two second-hand books and a nervous smile. Martha, hanging out washing in the yard, took one look at him and said, "Come around to the kitchen, young man. Quickly."
They sat at the kitchen table. Martha poured him tea. He told them about his grandmother and the cartographer's daughter, and the little room above the bakery where he lived, and Lily found herself laughing despite herself.
It was the first time she had laughed in that house in years.
She did not notice the figure standing at the window of the back stairs, arms folded.
"Who is that?" said Clara, later, in a voice like a blade being drawn.
"A friend from the bookshop."
"He's good-looking."
"I suppose."
"I saw him in the garden." Clara stepped closer. She smelled of expensive perfume and something sharper. "What's his name?"
Lily should have lied. She should have said she didn't know. But she was tired, and happy, for the first time in so long that she forgot to be careful.
"Julian," she said. "Julian Cole."
Clara smiled slowly.
"What a lovely name."