Jessie A Mystery Romance

Chapter One

The book’s the thing , whispered the invisible angel on his shoulder.

As if Sam Gold didn’t already know that.

When the double doors opened at noon, the estate sale was immediately thronged with other used book dealers, as well as jewelry hoarders, classic car aficionados and the curious.

Sam walked quickly. So did his competition. The mingled aromas of vintage paper and leather-bound books were pure seduction. He lived for this.

The usual suspects flocked around the boxes of classic American literature, which was Sam’s specialty. Inwardly, he groaned at the press of humanity. He was reluctant to edge his broad shoulders into the fray for the first-edition Faulkners, Weltys, Vonneguts, Updikes, and Kerouacs. Or that’s what he imagined stuffed the overflowing boxes that had been packed up from the estate of a Pulitzer prize-winning dead author whose possessions—from muscle cars to argyle socks—had been mish-mashed into a glorified indoor yard sale.

Like locusts snatching leaves, his competition swiftly descended upon the boxes of vintage literature, quickly emptying them and exclaiming softly over the treasures. Still, Sam hung back. With a passion, Sam hated touching strangers, even by accident, so he walked over to where the vintage children’s books were piled less carefully than they deserved.

A lone woman perused the vintage kids’ books. She was younger than him and very attractive. A redhead with bouncy, shiny hair that swung just past her shoulders, she looked as if she’d just stepped out from a shampoo commercial. She dressed like a 70s’ hippie in hand-embroidered bell-bottom Levi’s and a faded denim work shirt, worn unbuttoned and tied at the waist over a man’s sleeveless white undershirt.

His eyebrows went up.

No bra. He noticed them right off—small, but exquisite. He looked away politely but reluctantly, tearing his gaze from the natural beauty of the tall, slender ginger woman to the manmade beauty of the books.

Redheads had always been his preference, not that he had pursued a woman for years. He was getting a little old for the chase, or so he told himself—his long, dry stretch without a lover was really about preventing further heartbreak. He considered himself a committed bachelor. He was married to his books, his house by the rocky breakwater, and his cats, in that order.

As if she knew him, she stared at him with expectation in her stunning turquoise eyes. He was momentarily startled by such a familiar gaze.

Suddenly, Sam picked up a vintage children’s book—one that he knew had an intriguing storyline and gorgeous illustrations. At the same moment, she grabbed it, too—he had it by the front cover, and she had it by the back. It had been open and face down on top of a box, its covers spread invitingly like the wings of a butterfly.

Without letting go of the book, the redhead said, "Excuse me, sir, but I’m buying this book."

Sam took a firmer grip on it. "Excuse me, miss, I’m buying this book for my neighbor’s granddaughter," he said calmly.

Please let go! she implored him.

"No. Could you ‘please let go,’ he replied calmly. The Princess and the Goblin is meant for a little girl named Cindy Foster, whose parents are overseas in the military."

She looked as if she didn’t believe him. "This book is illustrated by Jessie Willcox Smith, which is also my name—I collect books illustrated with her work. It’s the only first edition I’ve found."

Likewise. Her book illustrations are highly sought after.

I know, she said. That’s why I want it.

Sam held his ground. She held hers.

Each apparently thinking the other would surely let go, Jessie tried to yank the book from him. The vintage book separated across the spine with a loud snap. She fell to the floor with a thump, sending the already precarious towers of kids’ books crashing down around them.

Alarmed, he tried to help her up. I’m so sorry! Are you all right? he asked.

She let out a sharp cry of dismay, but did take his offered hand to help her up. He was startled that she weighed so little. He was middle aged and had a bad back from decades of lugging boxes of books. That should have hurt. A lot. But it didn’t.

She looked at the destroyed book in her hand and like a siren winding up, wailed, Nooooo!

Sam thought of a proper swear word but didn’t voice it. Drama. Of course. What else could he expect from a woman that pretty and that young?

One of the estate sale workers ran over. "You two? You’re out of here! Now. And someone has to pay for that. He took the price tag off the book cover and taped it on an inventory sheet on his clipboard. Well, Sam?" he said to the familiar book dealer.

My apologies. Of course I’ll pay, Sam said gruffly. Someone had to take personal responsibility for this debacle. Standing there red-faced and close to tears, the young woman was clearly unable to do that. He handed over two twenties and a ten and quietly put away his wallet.

And then, something unexpected happened.

His eyes met hers and he foolishly smiled at her across the mess they had made. She smelled of Ivory soap and minty toothpaste. She looked contrite and shrugged sheepishly. She looked so darn sweet with her big blue eyes and russet-colored eyelashes. So innocent.

Oh, boy, are you in trouble, the angel on his shoulder whispered in his ear. And I’m not talking about the book.

They were marched to the exit like naughty schoolchildren. Sam was chagrined at being 86-ed from his favorite local indoor estate sale venue, as well as having to pay fifty bucks for a vintage kids’ book that was now torn in half.

Jessie turned to him outside the building. I don’t know what to say except... I’m completely mortified.

Embarrassment is overrated and overpriced, he told her.

She giggled through her tears. You’re very nice about this. I’m truly sorry we got kicked out.

He shrugged, as if it wasn’t important, though it was. He was not overly chagrined at her, but at himself. He knew better than to not give into a woman, because in his experience, a woman like her—that pretty—would not give in if she really wanted something. And apparently, she wanted something. That book.

Sam sighed. He should have let go of it.

Regret is a long walk down a short pier, said the angel on his shoulder.

The willowy redhead fetchingly twisted strands of her hair around her index finger, gave him an apologetic look and said, I want to make it up to you.

It’s fifty dollars. I was at least fifty percent at fault. Forget it. That was a lot of entertainment for twenty-five bucks.

No, I can’t forgive myself or forget it. I wronged you and little Cindy, for whom you wanted the book.

She was adorable with her pouting lips. Now he was close enough to smell her shampoo. Strawberry.

Too late now, said the angel next to his ear. You’re smitten.

He felt sheepish and knew his face was flushed from wrestling with her over the book.

Cheer up. It’s not the end of the world, he said.

I know, but drat! she said. I don’t know what came over me.

Sam hoped to mend, at least figuratively, what he had torn. She looked like she had had a bad day, a bad week, maybe even a bad month. Her eyes were sad, as if she had the weight of something pressing deep on her soul. For a long time.

I don’t usually let things get out of hand, as this incident certainly did. I should have been a gentleman and let go, but I guess I wanted the book just as badly as you.

It’s quite a find, she offered.

"It was. Now it’s nearly trash."

Was it really for a little girl?

He chuckled. Yes. You should see her. She looks like a young Shirley Temple, if you know who that is.

Of course I do.

When I give Cindy a book, she turns into a 150-watt bulb with a three-way setting for smiles. You could get a cavity from her sweetness. I wanted to see that smile.

Aww. I’m sorry for the little girl. I just had to have that book. I don’t know what got into my head, except for... pure greed.

Ah, so she finally admitted it.

Well, then, he said as politely as he could.

Has that ever happened to you? Your head says no, but your hands say yes?

He laughed in embarrassment at the double entendre. She was flirting with him!

You win. Take it home. Sam handed his half of the torn book to her.

Thank you! she breathed in surprise. You paid for it, so... She made a motion to get her wallet from her handbag, but he patted her soft hand for a moment.

Never mind the money. It was all my fault, really. My enthusiasm far outweighed my common sense and my usual manners.

Same here.

That’s enough apologizing on both our parts, Sam said. What’s done is done.

She nodded. Unlike most women, she seemed to hang on his every word. This was not an everyday occurrence in the life of Sam Gold and his pulse quickened further as he spotted her naked ring finger. When was the last time he had even done a hand check? Years ago.

She saw him glance at her fingers and hid her hand from him in her jeans pocket with a half-smile, and then lifted a russet eyebrow at him.

Thus encouraged, he rambled onward. Despite our clichéd cute meet, I am pleased to meet you, Jessie Smith.

Who? she asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Jessie Willcox Smith? he continued, confused for a moment. Like the book illustrator? You did say your namesake was on the book cover.

Right. She looked embarrassed.

"I was listening to you, Jessie. That’s what gentlemen do. They listen."

She laughed and the sound was sweet and musical. That’s very unusual in a man.

But not a gentleman. It would be less than courteous not to listen when a lady speaks. May we please start over? Hating that he was usually reluctant to even shake hands with anyone, he made himself do it anyway. He held out his hand in a too-gallant introduction.

She shook his hand firmly, but delicately, with the tips of her fingers.

Ah, so she’s shy, too, he thought.

He seemed to amuse her easily. How much could he get away with as a middle-aged man with a bad back, a book-hoarder’s house, and two tiger-striped cats without names? He was intrigued by her, but he assumed she’d give him about twenty more seconds of her time and flee down the street to disappear forever. He supposed that would be just as well. She was too young for him. That should have been the end of the story.

But it isn’t, whispered the angel on his shoulder.

He perked up. The angel on his shoulder was never wrong.

She chattered on to fill up the gap between them. I was born Jessie Willcox, but when I got married to Jared Smith, I just decided to keep my maiden name as my middle name. It seemed fitting for a children’s bookseller to have a name like that. Everyone remembers it. She paused. I would have married him just for the name.

He laughed, but his ray of hope faded at the mention of a husband. There are a lot of Smiths in the world. You had millions from which to choose a husband.

Her expression changed. After a fleeting eye flicker away and back, she said, I should tell you that I’m a widow. My husband was a firefighter—he died on September 11, 2001, in New York.

He was startled. I’m sorry for the tragic loss of your husband. I hope you are doing all right now.

I am. I still miss him sometimes, but I have places to go and things to do. Books to covet, buy and hoard. And sell, if I can bear it.

To her inquisitive eyes, he offered, I’ve never married. I’m convinced that it must be all of the books in my house. No room for hers. You know?

Yes. So, now you know my name. What’s yours?

I’m Sam. Sam Gold. My name is not as interesting as your name, Jessie Willcox Smith. The only story I have about my own name is that it used to be something unpronounceable, like Guildersteinhemwallenfoot when my great-grandparents arrived on Ellis Island in 1881. The immigration officer, shortened it to Gold.

Guildersteinhemwallenfoot? she said in perfect imitation of the way he had said it.

He laughed. Not precisely, he admitted. It was something like that. It’s easier for my customers to remember that a guy named Sam Gold sells books than some fifteen-syllable name.

True. What’s in a name?

All of one’s personal history, he said.

Indeed. She cringed like she’d been struck.

He searched her face for a clue as to what he had said wrong. What’s your book specialty? he asked gently.

Her face cleared of whatever had upset her. I collect vintage children’s books. I sell them—the ones I can bear to part with—at many of the New England flea markets.

I do all of the flea markets around here, but I haven’t seen you around.

"I’ve seen you, she piped up. You were in New Hampshire, last summer, at a roadside flea market with a table of first edition John Fowles, Eudora Welty, and some Sylvia Plath."

Yes! I did go to that. Never one to forget a face, he wracked his brain and could find no memory of seeing her. Ever. You should have said hello. I thought I knew everyone on the circuit. How could I have missed you at my tables?

When I had a free moment, I walked over. But suddenly, you were talking to a customer and haggling over the price. I didn’t want to interrupt and then, someone walked over to my own tables, so I ran back to tend them. And the moment was gone. Whatever clever thing I planned to say to you, I lost it.

Sounds like something I would do. What a shame we missed each other. Do you come often to Port Sapphire?

I’m in and out of the area, she said. Perhaps we would have met last summer if you had stepped away from your table to see mine.

I don’t do that too often. I tell myself that someday, I hope to sell more books than I buy.

She laughed. We are both prisoners of our book lust, it seems.

Say anything to keep this going, advised the angel on his shoulder.

He couldn’t bear the thought that she might end their conversation and walk away. What was on your table that day? he asked, talking shop with her, just to keep her talking.

"Let me think. That day, I had a first edition of George MacDonald’s The Light Princess, a smattering of Beatrix Potter, some Book House sets and firsts of Winnie-the-Pooh."

Nice children’s inventory, he said. It’s difficult for me to get away from the tables. I don’t socialize all that much at the flea markets. It’s my business, so I am pretty serious about it. I also choose my friends carefully at flea markets. People do steal books, you know, even other vendors, so I rarely chat while I am at the flea market, except about the books on my table—I try not to get distracted from that.

She’s quite a distraction, isn’t she? remarked the angel on his shoulder.

So, what kinds of friends do you have, Sam?

I have just a handful of friends, mostly from college and beyond, and my next-door neighbor, the grandmother of Cindy. We all have common interests in fine literature, good poetry, politics and the last vestiges of the American peace movement. I also have friends who share tickets to live local music, and ones who like to go look at IKEA bookshelves with me.

She laughed. "I like everything in IKEA."

The Swedish meatballs, too?

Yes! So, whose poetry do you appreciate? she asked.

"Pablo Neruda. Especially, The Captain’s Verses: Love Poems. Robert Frost. Walt Whitman. Others."

Impressive. Novels?

Keep going, you’re on a roll, said the angel in his ear.

Writing or reading? he said.

She looked surprised. You do both?

Yes. I write and self-publish mystery romance novels. I have moderate success in ebooks, less in print.

How wonderful. I’ll have to read them. What an age we live in.

It is. From my point of view, there isn’t much to talk about with other people unless they are interested in books and ebooks, music, peace, politics, and technology. I might be an introvert, but I’ve become comfortable in my own skin, by this age.

She assessed him with her eyes. You’re not as old as you pretend.

I’m fifty-seven but thank you. He looked at her with a question in his eyes.

She digested this for a moment, her eyes measuring his face.

Ladies rarely discuss their age, said the angel in his ear.

She glossed right over the age issue and said, I’ve been a bookworm since I learned to read and never wasted much time on anyone who didn’t want to read books. And except for buying and selling books, I really don’t have a social life. Our type of work is not conducive to being the life of the party.

Your focus on bookselling, like mine, probably explains your single status for the last twelve years.

Twelve?

Since your husband died. Now he was confused again. Isn’t that what she had just told him? He scratched his head.

Right. Thank you. She directed the conversation back to him. What about your stories of singlehood? Her blue eyes were curious and an almost-smile quirked at the corners of her full mouth.

Oh, please! Adventures of a lifetime bachelor? Another time, perhaps. If you ever get insomnia, call me and those stories of an utter yawn fest will put you out like a light.

I do get insomnia sometimes. I’d call you for that cure. She briefly touched his arm and