“Lovely,” Gene whispers. He looks to the man at my side for a moment and I wonder if he remembers selling Connor that copy all those years ago.
Pointing us in the direction of the wall behind us, he leaves us to explore by ourselves. We round one of the free-standing shelves running the length of the shop and find a shelf of Louisa May Alcott. Like the natural pull of gravity, I immediately seek out whatever copies ofLittle Womenhe might have tucked away in this unsuspecting establishment. He only has three copies, but they are magnificent.
A first edition dated 1868. An early French edition. And a very rare copy in braille.
“Kind of puts that one I got in Arizona to shame, doesn’t it?” Connor says sheepishly.
“No. That oneisincredible. Any collector would kill for it. But these…” My words die in my throat as I delicately pull the French copy off the shelf, careful to remove it from the protective plastic in the meticulous way Gene taught us earlier.
“I know. I think he makes decent money off walk-ins, but most of his sales are to wealthy collectors all around the world. Think foreign leaders, celebrities, European royalty, you name it. He’s got a whole shipping operation in the back.”
“It’s amazing,” I say, unable to stop my eyes from roaming in every direction. I want to see everything Gene has in here.
Connor’s phone buzzes in his pocket. “Come on. Our table’s ready.”
“Okay,so, tell me everything you know about Gene Mullins,” I say through a mouth full of steaming hot deep dish pepperoni pizza. Connor was right; of all the pizza I’ve had in Chicago, this is by far the best.
He laughs. “It’s not all that exciting, I’m afraid.”
“Not exciting? You are closet besties with an eighty-year-old man who deals books to the King of England.”
“Eighty-one,” he quips, before tipping back his beer.
“King of England, Connor.”
“My mom met his daughter, Victoria, in college. She and my dad started double-dating with Victoria and Tom, and they became fast friends. Victoria’s family became my mom’s family.”
He pauses to take a bite as I sip from my Diet Coke.
“Gene built a house on Carova and he’s let my family stay there over the years. My parents have been visiting since before my brothers and I were born, though. It’s how they fell in love with the area. They really wanted to build a house on Carova like Gene did, but it’s way too expensive. That’s why they settled in Avon about two hours south of there.”
“What’s so special about Carova?”
“Carova Beach. It’s on the northernmost end of the OuterBanks. It’s this long stretch of beach, like fifteen miles or something, that’s only accessible with a four-wheel drive vehicle. No paved roads, no streetlights. Not even a restaurant or gas station. But people have built these houses out there and it’s this protected reserve for wild horses.”
Excitement brims in my expression that he doesn’t miss.
“It’s like no place I’ve ever been, Gretch. At night it’s so dark and so quiet, it’s just stars for miles and the sound of waves crashing on the shore. You can be on the beach during the day, lying in the sun and, out of nowhere a family of wild horses will wander into the surf twenty feet away.”
“Wait!” I declare as dots connect in my brain. “Like in Nights in Rodanthe?”
“The movie with Richard Gere and Diane Lane?”
I roll my eyes.Typical.“No. Thebookby Nicholas Sparks.”
“That was made into a movie,” he deadpans.
My face falls flat.
“Yes, likeNights in Rodanthe, Fish.”
“The horses are real? They just run wild along the beach?”
“Well, I imagine there were some cinematic liberties taken with the dramatic music and all, but yes. Not in Rodanthe, though. That’s too far south. The horses are all in Carova up north.”
“But you’ve seen them?”
“Yes.”
