The Dickens with Love by Josh Lanyon Page B

Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia is a classy gift.”
    Maybe you can help me…
    “ A Christmas Carol is a classy gift.”
    Now where had that come from? Not that it wasn’t true. And, in fact, Dickens sold quite well—
    continued to sell quite well—around the holidays. But I didn’t want to think about Dickens right then. It reminded me of the promise I had made Mr. Stephanopoulos.
    Worse, it reminded me of Sedgwick Crisparkle.
    No sooner had I re-resolved to think no more about Dickens, Stephanopoulos or bloody Professor
    Crisparkle than the fates seemed to conspire to keep the latter in my mind. Constantly. A customer asked for The Secret Life of Bees. Another asked for The Backyard Beekeeper: An Absolute Beginner’s Guide to Keeping Bees in Your Yard and Garden.
    Up until then I’d felt I was doing a very good job of not thinking about Sedgwick or the night before, but I couldn’t help remembering his bee pollen comment that morning—it felt like a lifetime ago. I had liked him. A lot. Although he was clearly a nut.
    After an hour or two of hell I was rescued from the book floor and sent to man one of the registers up front. I considered that a reprieve. The extent of required socializing amounted to asking if it was cash or credit and if the customer had a membership card.
    I rang up a few hundred books on automatic pilot and the line to the bank of registers never grew any
    shorter. I spared a glance for my fellow sweating, flushed sales associates. We were like the last centurions, backs to the wall, facing down the barbarian hordes.
    At one point I knocked a stack of bookmarks to the floor. Smothering an unholiday-spirited curse, I
    knelt, scooped them up, rose from behind the desk. “May I help you?”
    Sedgwick Crisparkle stood on the other side of the counter.

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    37
    Chapter Six
    Infuriatingly, my initial reaction was a totally illogical leap of shocked delight. This was followed by a far more understandable surge of wary hostility.
    “Hello,” he said when I didn’t speak.
    I nodded curtly.
    He persisted in that polite conversational tone. “You have no idea how hard it was to track you
    down.”
    I was torn between horror that he must have spoken to my former colleagues, one of whom—at
    least—obviously knew what I had been reduced to, and flattered confusion that he was trying to find me. I was also aware of the line of customers shifting and grumbling restlessly behind him.
    “Is there something I can help you with?” I asked frostily.
    “Oh.” He offered a self-conscious peep of the dimples and set an enormous stack of children’s books
    on the counter.
    I began ringing up books. Three Cups of Tea, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Lightning Thief, a
    paperback edition of The Boxcar Children —which I nearly dropped. It’s hard to remain unmoved at the sight of a big, strong man buying cute little children’s books. I did my best. “Did you want these gift wrapped?”
    “Yes. Look, do you have a break soon? I need to speak with you.”
    “No.” I kept ringing up books. Who were all these books for? He was probably married. Married,
    closeted, and enjoying a short break from real life.
    “No, you don’t have a break?”
    “No. I mean, yes. I do not have a break. I already had it. And no. I am not going to speak with you on or off my break.” It occurred to me that I was passing up an opportunity I could not afford to pass up if I wanted to earn Mr. S.’s commission, but pride and anger was working me like an intrusive hand up a
    puppet’s sleeve. In fact, I was getting angrier by the minute as I relived the various humiliations of my day.
    Not that they were all his fault, but a good portion were.
    I finished ringing him up and delivered the total. He barely blinked as he handed over his credit card. I slid it, handed it back to him. Nodded to the gift wrap table at the end of the aisle. “They’ll take care of you over there.”
    He didn’t