Chapter 4: Booms and Blooms
The following Saturday, The Rusty Page was buzzing with a gentle, insistent energy Kenny had come to recognize as peak small-town commerce. A line three-people deep snaked from the register, a mix of locals clutching their picks for the weekend and a few curious out-of-towners drawn in by the new website’s “Local Gems” feature.
Kenny moved with a rhythm that was now second nature: scan, chat, bag, repeat. His fingers flew over the old register’s keys as he discussed the merits of a new historical mystery with Mrs. Henderson.
“The protagonist is irredeemably rude, but the plot about the missing lighthouse lens is fascinating,” he said, sliding her purchase into a crisp brown bag.
“I can forgive a rude woman if the history is solid, dear,” she replied with a wink, shuffling off to make room for the next customer.
At the cluttered desk in the back nook, Maggie was a symphony of efficient chaos. The phone was wedged between her shoulder and ear, her glasses perched on the end of her nose as she peered at the computer screen, her fingers tapping the keyboard with decisive stabs.
“Yes, Gladys, the entire ‘Pacific Northwest Ferns: An Illustrated Guide’ series. All six volumes. I have them bundled with a ten percent discount for the club… No, the shipping is flat-rate for orders over fifty dollars. You’re a hero, dear. The ‘Save the Slugs’ campaign can wait until next month.” She hung up and immediately called out without looking, “Kenny, that’s the seventh bulk order for the Local History and Hobbies section this week. I’m going to need you to build another shelf. You’ve created a monster.”
“A literate, gardening monster,” Kenny called back, handing a receipt to Mr. Jacobs, who was buying a book on antique tool restoration. “It’s a good monster.”
He felt a flush of uncomplicated pride. The section had been his idea—a curated collection of regional field guides, memoirs from old orchardists, pamphlets on local pottery techniques. It was stuff other shops might consider clutter, but here, it felt like sharing the town’s skeleton, its hidden marrow. People were hungry for it. They wanted to know the place they lived in, not just inhabit it.
The bell chimed again. Kenny glanced up, expecting another customer, and his rhythm faltered for a single, gratifying beat.
Buck stood just inside the door, holding two cardboard coffee carriers, each supporting two cups. He was in dark jeans and a soft-looking black t-shirt, and he smiled, not at the room, but directly at Kenny. He leaned against the doorframe, content to wait and watch.
Kenny’s heart did a quick, two-step tap against his ribs. He focused on the last customer in line, a teenager looking for a specific manga volume. He found it, rang it up, and as the kid left, the shop exhaled into a temporary calm.
“Don’t mind me,” Buck said, pushing off the doorframe and walking in. He set one carrier on the counter. “Brought reinforcements. Black dirt-water for the prodigal bookseller, and something with enough sugar and foam to constitute a dessert for Maggie.” He handed the other carrier to Maggie as she approached, kissing her cheek.
“You’re a good boy, Evan,” she said, plucking a cup and taking a long sip. She closed her eyes in bliss. “You remembered the extra caramel drizzle. I forgive you for scuffing my floor last week with those giant boots.”
“That was a life-saving mission! Mrs. Pickles was stranded on the top shelf.”
“Her name is Penelope, and she’s a Persian, not a pickle. And she was napping.” Maggie took her coffee and retreated to her desk, a sly smile playing on her lips as she conspicuously busied herself with invoices.
Buck turned his attention back to Kenny, who was finally taking his own cup. The coffee was hot, perfect. “Busy morning,” Buck observed, his voice low.
“The new section’s a hit,” Kenny said, nodding toward the now-depleted shelves of local guides. “Turns out people want to know why the old mill pond is shaped like a boot.”
“It’s because Old Man Gable’s donkey was stubborn and dragged the dredging equipment in a circle,” Buck said, taking a sip from his own cup. “It’s a good story. You should stock it.”
“Maybe I’ll write it.” The words left Kenny’s mouth before he could think, a fragile, whimsical idea given air.
Buck’s eyes lit up. “You should.”
The simple affirmation warmed Kenny more than the coffee. He looked down, fiddling with the plastic lid. “Thanks for this. It’s… a nice surprise.”
“Saw the line from across the street. Looked like you were holding the literary front line all by yourself.” Buck leaned on the counter, reducing the space between them to just the worn oak surface. “So. ‘The Tulips.’ I’ve been thinking.”
Kenny’s head snapped up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. All week, actually. It got into my head at the worst times. During a drill, I was picturing these red flowers just… sucking the oxygen out of the room. It was distracting.”
“Good distracting or bad distracting?”
“Honest distracting.” Buck traced a whorl in the wood grain. “I kept coming back to what you said. About them being a demand. Something bright and alive and screaming when you just want quiet.” He paused, choosing his words with the same care Kenny had seen him use with the poetry. “Sometimes, after a bad call, everything feels too bright, too loud. Even the quiet is loud. My own couch feels like it’s shouting at me to just… be normal. Relax. It feels like a demand I can’t meet. So I don’t go home. I go for a run, or I come here.”
The confession was offered quietly, a piece of something heavy placed gently between them. Kenny heard the echo of Plath’s sterile hospital room in Buck’s own living room, the same oppressive weight of expected recovery.
“The tulips aren’t the enemy,” Kenny said softly. “They’re just the thing that makes the silence unbearable. Because they prove life is going on, with or without you.”
Buck held his gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. He nodded, just once. “Exactly.”
Maggie’s voice, deliberately bright, cut through the moment. “Evan, be a dear and move that stepladder from the middle of the history aisle before Mrs. Henderson returns and declares it a deathtrap. Kenny, the system says we have two copies of ‘Ferns of the Coastal Range’ in the back. Would you mind?”
It was a transparent, merciful interruption. Kenny welcomed it, the weight of the shared understanding still settling in his chest.
“On it,” they said in unison, then smiled at the coincidence.
Buck moved to deal with the ladder. Kenny slipped into the back room, the familiar, comforting scent of old paper and dust enveloping him. He found the fern books on a pallet of new arrivals, their covers cool and glossy under his fingers. He stood there for a moment in the quiet, dim storage, listening to the muffled sounds of Buck and Maggie talking lightly in the main shop.
He wasn’t just a transplant anymore. He was part of the ecosystem. He had ideas that worked, a routine that fit, and a person who brought him coffee and shared silent, monumental understandings over the counter of a bookstore. The chaos he’d fled in the city was a dull roar compared to this vivid, specific quiet.
When he emerged, Buck was by the door, preparing to leave. The ladder was neatly folded and stored.
“Duty calls?” Kenny asked, placing the books on Maggie’s desk.
“Always,” Buck said, but he didn’t move immediately. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got a twenty-four-hour shift starting tomorrow. But I’m off Tuesday. Maybe… ‘Daddy’?”
Kenny felt a laugh bubble up, unexpected and light. “That’s a big one.”
“I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
“Tuesday,” Kenny agreed. “After closing. We can… we could maybe not talk in a coffee shop. My apartment has a balcony that faces west. The sunset is… it’s something.”
The invitation hung there, a step beyond the public booth, into private space.
Buck’s smile was slow and deep, reaching his eyes and carving genuine lines of pleasure into his face. “I’d like that. Text me your address.” He pointed a finger at Maggie. “No discounts on my favorite reads while I’m gone. It ruins the mystery.”
“We’ll see!” she trilled.
With a final, lingering look at Kenny, Buck pushed open the door and was gone, merging into the foot traffic on the sidewalk.
Maggie appeared at Kenny’s side, sipping her coffee. “Sunset on the balcony, hm? And you’re going to explain the decidedly non-light-hearted poem ‘Daddy’ to him? Charming.”
Kenny felt a blush creep up his neck. “It’s just… a discussion.”
“Of course it is, dear.” She patted his arm, her touch warm and knowing. “The best ones always start that way. Now, about that new shelf. I was thinking right there, where the ladder was. It’s a demand the space is making, and we’d better meet it.”