The Bookshop on Autumn Lane Read Online Free Page B

in the road. And the truth was I had no real choice to make.
    The bookstore was mine. It had been mine for the past year. In her infinitely warped sense of justice, Aunt Gertrude had left me with the one thing she knew I wouldn’t want.
    I could give up and walk away. Tell the lawyer I wanted no claim to the store, its contents, or its back taxes.
    Or I could take a chance. Fix it up. Sell it. I could have the last laugh. After I paid the taxes and reimbursed my father for the money he leant me when I had my appendix out last spring, I would be clear and free. I could finance my trip to Asia. And then say good-bye to Truhart forever.
    I had never been someone who had been averse to risks or taking chances. In fact, very little frightened me. But for some reason, this store scared the crap out of me.
    I squeezed through the door. The front room had been bad enough. But it was almost tomblike in the back room. The sound of my own breathing and the panting of the dog at my knees filled the space. Outside, a car revved its engine at the only traffic light in town. The faint sounds of someone laughing down the street traveled on the wind. There was life out there.
    My gaze wandered to the stairway that led to the apartment upstairs. I had no idea what to expect up there. More books? A dead body?
    The dog moved past me. He sat down in front of a particularly hefty book and raised his ears. His dark eyes framed by the sable mask made him seem intelligent when he stared at me that way. He looked more ready to do this than I did. And if the wimpiest dog in the world was ready to take on the challenge, how could I walk away? We had come halfway across the country, after all.
    â€œAll right, buddy. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
    I reached down and grasped a book at my feet, clearing a path for both of us.

Chapter 3
    T here was nowhere to put the books that were piled everywhere. Never one to let tiny problems keep me from getting things done, I opened the door and threw them into the alley. It would do until I had a better option. I made a mental note to look into the cost of renting a dumpster, or even better, a junk-hauling service. If that didn’t work, I could always start a bonfire.
    I cleared enough space and eventually reached the bottom of the staircase. My hands were dust-covered, my back was sweaty, and my hair was coming loose.
    I took a water break twice, sharing my bottle with the dog. I let him lap it up midair, caring little that I spilled on a dictionary at his feet. The tome was so old it probably still included the words spiffy and golly . By the time I reached the stairs I was out of patience. I brushed aside the books and let them tumble down the open rail to the floor below.
    By then, the dog was asleep next to my suitcase in the middle of the path I had made. At least one of us seemed content. Too groggy to care about the falling books, he opened his eyes, made sure I was still nearby, and rolled on his side with a moan, dead to the world.
    Finally I stood at the top of the stairs, in front of the door to the upstairs apartment.
    â€œOh, please, let there be a shower and clear path to it,” I said to no one. I held a precautionary hand over my face, turned the tarnished brass handle, and pushed.
    â€œCrap.”
    Since when had Aunt Gertrude become such a pack rat? Sure, I remembered the small apartment being cluttered with things she collected over the years. But never like this. Aunt Gertrude had either lost her marbles at the end, or the intruder Reeba Sweeney mentioned had been a very messy squatter.
    Everywhere I looked there was junk.
    Cereal boxes, baskets, cans of food, empty containers, dead plants, and grocery bags littered the ground. Pill bottles, tissue boxes, and pots and pans cluttered the counter of the small kitchenette. Piles of blankets, coats, magazines, and shoes were scattered across the couch and chair in the living area. And, of course, more books.