Chapter 2: The Rusty Page's New Hire
The bell above the door chimed its bright, clear note, and the firefighter stepped inside.
Kenny, who had been re-alphabetizing a section of poetry that had fallen into anarchic disarray, froze. The man from the street filled the doorway, the afternoon sun framing him in a halo of dusty gold. Up close, he was more. The sun-bleached hair had hints of darker wheat at the roots. The blue of his eyes was the shade of the lake Kenny had passed on the drive into town—sharp, clear, and deceptively deep. He wore a dark blue t-shirt that stretched across a chest and shoulders forged by real work, and a pair of jeans faded to softness.
“Afternoon, Maggie,” the man said, his voice a warm, easy baritone that seemed to vibrate in the quiet space.
Maggie looked up from her ledger, a slow smile spreading across her face. It was a knowing smile, one that made Kenny feel transparent. “Evan Buckley. To what do I owe this rare literary visitation? Run out of kindling?”
Evan—Buck—grinned, and it transformed his face. The slight weariness around his eyes vanished, replaced by a charming, self-deprecating energy. “Very funny. No, I’m here on official business. Mrs. Finley sent me.”
“Did she now?”
“She says she left her shopping list here. On a little blue notepad. Claims it’s a matter of national security.” He leaned casually against the counter, his gaze drifting past Maggie and landing on Kenny. There was a flicker of recognition, a slight nod of acknowledgment for their moment at the window. “Also, she wanted me to make sure her ‘rescue party’ didn’t scare off your new helper.”
Kenny felt a flush creep up his neck. He put down the copy of Whitman he was holding. “No rescue required. The display was… atmospheric.”
Buck’s smile widened. “Atmospheric. I like that. I’ll tell her you said so. She’ll probably use it in her next bridge club story.” He extended a hand across the space. “Evan Buckley. But everyone calls me Buck.”
Kenny crossed the floor, the old boards creaking under his sneakers. He took Buck’s hand. The grip was firm, warm, calloused in a way that spoke of ropes, tools, and physical labor. It was a stark, pleasant contrast to the softness of book paper. “Kenny. Just started.”
“So I heard.” Buck held the handshake a beat longer than strictly necessary before letting go. “The gossip mill’s been working overtime. New guy in town, loves books, moved into the bakery apartment. You’re the top headline.”
“Great,” Kenny said, rubbing the back of his neck. “No pressure.”
“None at all. Just don’t rob the bank or run off with the mayor’s wife and you’ll be fine. The bar is low.”
Maggie snorted, sliding off her stool. “I’ll find Dottie Finley’s list. It’s probably under the romance paperbacks. She gets distracted.” She shot a look at Kenny that was pure, unadulterated scheming. “Kenny, why don’t you show Buck the new section you were planning? Get a local’s perspective.”
She vanished into the stacks before Kenny could formulate a protest.
An awkward, charged silence descended, filled only by the faint hum of the old radiator. Buck pushed off the counter and ambled over, his boots solid on the floor. He glanced at the shelves Kenny had been organizing. “Poetry, huh? Not really my thing. I need a story. Something with a plot I can follow.”
“Poetry has plots,” Kenny said, surprised by his own defensiveness. “They’re just emotional ones. Internal.”
Buck raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Internal, huh? Okay, professor. Sell me one. Something with a little… fire in it.”
The challenge was there, laced with a playful curiosity. Kenny’s mind blanked for a second, scanning the spines. He bypassed the gentle ruminations, the nature odes. His hand stopped on a well-worn collection. He pulled it out. “Ariel. Sylvia Plath.”
“Plath.” Buck took the book, turning it over. “The lady with the oven.”
“That’s reductive,” Kenny said, the words coming out faster than he intended. “That’s just the ending. The rest of it is pure voltage. It’s about fury and blood and bees and fathers and rebirth. It’s the loudest quiet poetry you’ll ever read. It burns.”
Buck was staring at him now, not at the book. The playful glint had softened into something more focused, more genuine. He looked down at the cover again, then back at Kenny’s face. “You talk about books like they’re alive.”
“They are.”
“Huh.” Buck tapped the book against his palm. “Okay. I’m trusting you. Wrap it up.”
“You’re buying it?”
“I asked for fire. You sold me fire. Seems fair.” He followed Kenny to the counter. “So, you’re Maggie’s new weapon in her war to save this place?”
“Something like that. Curator of the saucy section, officially.”
Buck laughed, a rich, easy sound. “God bless you. This place could use some sauciness. It smells like my grandma’s attic in here. In a good way,” he added quickly, glancing around as if the books might hear and take offense.
Kenny rang up the sale, his fingers fumbling slightly with the old cash register. “You’re not much of a reader, then?”
“I read. Manuals. Incident reports. The sports page. Not this.” He gestured with the bagged book. “But maybe I should. Broadening horizons and all that.” He leaned on the counter again, his voice dropping to a more conversational tone. “So you escaped the city. Why here?”
The question was simple, but it felt huge. Kenny met those lake-blue eyes and decided on a shred of truth. “It was too loud. All the time. Not just the noise. The… expectation. The crowd of it all. I wanted quiet. Not silence, just… a different kind of sound.”
Buck nodded slowly, as if he understood perfectly. “The sound of dough being rolled. Of Mrs. Finley’s display falling over. Of Maggie grumbling about her ledger.” He smiled. “It’s a good sound.”
“Yeah,” Kenny said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It is.”
Maggie re-emerged, waving a small blue notepad like a trophy. “Found it! Tucked right next to The Princess Bride. Dottie’s tastes are nothing if not eclectic.” She handed it to Buck, her eyes dancing between the two of them. “All sorted?”
“All sorted,” Buck said, straightening up. He took the notepad and tucked it, with his book, into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Thanks, Maggie. Nice to meet you, Kenny. Really.”
“You too.”
Buck headed for the door. His hand was on the handle when he paused, turning back. “Hey, Kenny.”
“Yeah?”
“That internal plot. How does it usually end?”
The question hung in the fragrant air. Kenny felt everyone’s future tense in it. He shrugged, a small, hopeful gesture. “Depends on the poet. Sometimes in ruin. Sometimes in a kind of peace. Sometimes it just… stops, right in the middle of a thought.”
Buck considered this, his head tilted. A smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I guess I’ll have to read and find out.”
The bell chimed. The door closed. The space he left behind felt different—charged, slightly off-kilter, as if the atoms in the room had been rearranged.
Maggie sidled up to the counter, her expression one of supreme satisfaction. She didn’t say a word. She just began humming a tuneless, happy little song as she straightened a pile of bookmarks.
Kenny looked down at his hands. He could still feel the imprint of Buck’s calloused palm. Outside the window, the afternoon light was deepening to amber. He listened to the quiet of the shop, a quiet that now seemed to pulse with a new, potential energy. It was the sound of a story beginning, and for the first time in a long time, he had no idea what the next page would hold. He only knew he desperately wanted to turn it.