The Lesson of the Season

Thomas H. Cook

It was the final minutes of the final day before Christmas, and Veronica Cross wanted only to pass these last moments sitting silently behind the register, her attention fixed on the book that rested in her lap. She had worked at the Mysterious Bookshop for almost ten years, but only on Saturdays, when the owner was at his house in Connecticut , and the store’s full-time employees were scattered about various apartments throughout the city. Her job was simply to buzz customers into the store, answer whatever questions they asked, take their money, bag their purchases, then buzz them back out onto 56^th street. Almost no intellectual energy was required on Veronica’s part, and the small financial supplement her salary added to her “real job” as a freelance copy editor made it possible for her to buy books from other stores, along with an occasional dinner out, or perhaps a discount ticket to a Broadway show.

The dinner and show might be enjoyed alone or with one of her friends, someone like herself, who read good books and could articulately discuss them. As for romance, she'd more or less given up on that. Most men were little boys, needy and selfish, and none had ever struck her as worth the effort it took to dress up and preen and put on a happy face when she well knew that after the first few minutes she'd want only to hail a cab, return home, crawl into bed and open a book.

As for dress, she opted for modest elegance, long solid-colored skirts and dark-hued blouses for the most part, though black jeans with an accompanying black turtleneck sweater were not beyond her. Physically, she was tall, lithesome, and incontestably attractive, but for all that she preferred to blend into whatever woodwork surrounded her. That other people chased distant stars, felt imperial urges, sought fame, or at least notoriety, all of that was a mystery to Veronica because she wished only to be left alone with her books.

She glanced at the clock at the rear of the room, then at her watch to verify the clock's correctness. Both sentenced her to fifteen more minutes of minding the store, and given the heavy snow that had begun to fall outside, she thought it quite likely that she might be able to pass those final moments lost in her book, the store silent all around her, with nothing but the soft tick, tick of the clock to remind her that she was part of an all too human world.

Then it happened.

Someone buzzed.

Veronica glanced toward the door, recognized the mild, faintly hang-dog face she saw behind the glass, then pressed the buzzer and let him in.

His name was Harry Bentham, and he came to the store every Saturday, though usually not during the final minutes of the day, and never during the final minutes of the final day before Christmas when a heavy snow was falling outside.

“Hi,” Harry said quietly as he stepped into the shop.

“Hi,” Veronica replied in a voice that was not without welcome, but which did nothing to encourage a more extended greeting.

Harry slapped the melting flakes of snow that had accumulated on the shoulders of his worn gray overcoat and stepped nearer to one of the shelves.