Top Shelf (Seacroft Stories Book 1) Page 6

  “Well, I could call Ina at the Bell,” Kenneth said, sounding like he hadn’t thought of it until now, “but sweetheart, I don’t think Naomi would be very happy with that idea.”

  “What?”

  “Because they weren’t able to find someone else to take over the gallery on short notice, so they’re going to continue with the exhibition and broaden the scope. They want three more pieces from you! She says she’d always wanted to include more of your work, but with the restrictions on the space, there wasn’t room. You can do it though, right? Three pieces? You’ve only got a few months to go.”

  Seb hurried over to the work table and flipped through the fashion book again. The woman in the traffic cone hat who’d caught his eye. A man farther back in a set of crocheted swim trunks. They’d make a cute couple.

  “I can do that.” He could, if he slept six nights a week instead of seven.

  “That’s my boy. I already told Naomi you would. We should celebrate. I’ll bring the champagne?” The last question was a verbal leer, but Seb was already running his fingers through the pages of the book, planning where to take it next.

  “Sure,” he said. This unlikely book, forgotten on the bookstore’s top shelf, was about to send his career into light speed.

  6

  O n Sunday, Martin woke up with a mattress spring poking him in the back and a fight roaring in his ears.

  “I’ll call the lawyer!” a woman’s voice said.

  “You and your lawyers.” This was Brian. Martin shifted just enough to get off the spring and then lay still, burying his head under a pillow.

  “I wouldn’t have to use the lawyers if you would answer the goddamn phone.” Jess. The screen door banged open and shut. Loud footsteps came up the hall.

  “Why would I answer my phone? So you can nag me some more?”

  “I’m just asking you to be fair!” Jess and Brian were in the house, coming up the front hall. Martin’s pillow wasn’t doing much of anything besides making it hard to breathe.

  “I’m being fair!” They were right outside the living room now. “You wanted half, you got half.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  Martin lay frozen on the pullout while his brother and former sister-in-law argued in front of him.

  “Look at this, Jess! I don’t even have a goddamn bed for my brother to sleep in!”

  Martin’s eyes widened, and he tried to pull himself up to sitting. The blankets slipped down to his waist. He’d slept in one of his old Mount Garner History T-shirts and briefs, which seemed like totally acceptable attire when he and Brian were alone in the house. With Jess here, he didn’t feel like he could get out of bed.

  “Um, good morning?” he said, hoping one of them would take the hint.

  “Hey, Marty. Sorry about all this.” Jess smiled at him, the same kind smile she’d always given him.

  “Don’t be nice to him!” Brian took a step forward, planting himself between Jess and Martin. His big frame cast Martin in shadow. “He’s not part of this. Say whatever you came here to say, take whatever thing you think is the rest of your fair share, and then get the hell out.”

  Jess’s eyes went teary. Martin’s chest twisted, and the line of tension in Brian’s shoulders softened a bit too.

  “You’re a real jerk, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you want from me!” Brian’s voice was strangled.

  Martin searched desperately for a way to escape. Unfortunately, there weren’t many options short of dumping himself onto the floor and crawling under the mattress.

  “I can’t keep living like this!” The words cracked in Jess’s throat. “This in between where we’re not together but still not finished with each other. I don’t know who I am!”

  Adrenaline burst through his body at the distress in Jess’s voice. Martin really shouldn’t have been here. Never mind they were technically in his room, as much as the living room could be considered his. He needed an escape.

  “Can I go make some coffee? Maybe we can sit down, sort out—”

  “Shut up, Smarts, This isn’t about you.” Brian didn’t even bother to turn around, and Martin nearly bit his own tongue as his cheeks flushed. Their invasion this early on a Sunday morning had left him with no choice. Silently, he slunk out of the room.

  As hurt and panic washed over his scalp and down his throat, he found clean clothes in the dryer. It was time to leave. He’d grabbed his phone as he’d snuck out of bed, but his coat and scarf were by the front door, where Brian and Jess had moved their argument. Instead, he grabbed an old hoodie of Brian’s, then took off into the backyard at a near run.

  His bicycle was in the garage. Neither Brian nor Jess, who were now yelling on the front porch, said anything as he made his way out onto street.

  “You’re the one who said you couldn’t do it!” Jess said.

  “You’re the one who left!”

  Across the street, a man walking a small dog had stopped to watch the show. He didn’t so much as glance at Martin as he pedaled away.

  It was cool for October, and still early in the day. The ride kept his core warm, but his fingers, nose and ears were red and burning by the time he stopped. He was at the beach, and the cold stretch of ocean was deserted. Struggling, he wheeled his bike out onto the sand. He let it fall against an old log before collapsing right next to it.

  It was windy, and the waves were up, rolling and crashing to shore. The sound was soothing, blocking out the roar in his head. He sniffed and pulled his limbs closer. A lone seagull padded up the sand on knobby legs and webbed feet, stopping a few feet away to stare at him with belligerent eyes. No doubt it was looking for a snack: old bread or discarded French fries.

  “I’ve got nothing.” He had nothing. No things. No career, no home. He couldn’t stay. He’d needed Seacroft to be a reprieve, a sanctuary. When Brian came to get him, he’d thought his brother’s concern was real. It had been such a relief. But that concern had been temporary, and now Martin had no one to turn to and no place to go.

  A figure appeared down the beach, moving confidently where the sand was wet and firm as the tide went out. As he got closer, the white-blond hair under his knit cap became visible.

  A small flock of sandpipers scurried ahead of Seb—because of course it was him—and took off when he neared, flying in tight formation over the surf. The guy had to have an entire production company that followed him around to ensure he always made an entrance.

  Martin had no desire to deal with Seacroft’s favorite son. He shifted, ready to take his bike and pedal onwards, even though he had no destination in mind.

  “Dr. Lindsey, I presume!” Seb’s voice cut through the roll of the waves.

  Martin scowled at him. “Don’t call me that.”

  “What, do you expect your students to just call you Professor?” Seb smirked at him.

  He didn’t have students. One more thing to add to his Nothing List.

  “Or maybe sir?” Seb’s blue eyes danced.

  “What do you care?”

  Seb laughed, apparently oblivious to Martin’s turmoil. “I bet the girls loved you. They’d swoon whenever you walked across the quad in your sweater vest, wouldn’t they? Tweed Tuesday? Wooly Wednesdays?”

  Martin glared, but it only seemed to encourage him.

  “Let’s see. Threadbare Thursdays. There’s always that one sweater that you can’t throw out because you wore it the night you finished your dissertation. And Fleecy Fridays because let’s not forget that height of fashion.”

  “Would you shut up?” Martin leapt to his feet, wobbling in the soft sand. He was so tired of this man, this town, all of it.

  “No wait! I forgot. It’s Turtleneck Thursdays! Although, sometimes you mix and match and wear those on Tuesdays. Sometimes with tweed!” He clapped his hands together in delight. The sound ricocheted inside Martin’s head.

  “What do you want?”

  “Just being sociable. I know it’s not
a skill set they promote in your usual circles, but trust me, if you’re going to succeed in the cutthroat world of previously-owned literature, it’s something you might want to work on.”

  Succeed. That wasn’t really even an option, was it? Not anymore.

  “I’ll take my chances as an anti-social failure then.”

  Seb shrugged, the leather of his jacket creaking. “That’s the spirit! Join the outcasts and losers club like me!”

  “You and I have nothing in common.” Martin fought a shiver. He’d been still for too long, and the cold was seeping from his fingers up his arms and into his chest.

  Seb bit his lip as he eyed Martin, and whatever he saw made him laugh softly. “Rough night? Got a little carried away with Seacroft’s vibrant club scene?”

  Martin glared at him for another second, but then he blew out a long breath. “Rough morning. I’m too old to be sleeping on a couch.”

  “I get that.” Seb scratched at his head through his hat. “Got plans for today? We could go grab a coffee or something.”

  “The last time we spoke, you told me to get the hell out of your apartment.”

  Seb grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I owe you an apology. You got caught in the crossfire of a family disagreement. I was a dick to you, and that wasn’t fair. The least I can do is buy you a coffee.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yeah I do. My grandmother would kill me if she knew how rude I had been.” Seb slung an arm over Martin’s shoulders. Martin couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him. He wanted to recoil and press farther into it at the same time. So, despite his misgivings, he allowed himself to be led back to the street.

  They stopped at a small coffee shop, where they each ordered. Then Seb also asked for a medium coffee in a large cup.

  “Who’s that for?” Martin asked as the server passed them three paper cups.

  “Cassidy. She’s probably already at my place by now.”

  “Your place?”

  “Yeah. You coming?”

  Martin hesitated. Seb must have seen his discomfort, because he offered a kinder smile than he normally did. There was less superior amusement, more sympathy.

  “Come on,” he said. “This is still part of the apology. Cass is coming over to work on her portfolio. You didn’t get to see it last time. Come for a minute and check it out. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Martin had a long list starting with his own experience and ending with the limitless worst-case scenarios his brain could conjure up, but he followed Seb to the bookstore and up the creaking staircase to the apartment.

  “I let myself in,” Cassidy said as they came through the door. She took the third coffee from Seb. “You’re out of soy milk again.”

  “I only keep it around for you,” Seb said. “Tell me again exactly how one milks soy? Last I checked, it’s not a mammal.”

  Cassidy laughed. Her smile grew as she spotted Martin. “Hi! Seb didn’t tell me you were coming over!”

  “We ran into each other.” Seb set the tray of drinks down on a little table. Martin hesitated by the door until Seb lifted one of the paper cups and held it out to him.

  Stalking back out into the cold was still an option. He could go home. Jess had probably left, but Brian would still be there. Martin didn’t feel like talking to him.

  “You okay?” Seb’s question snapped Martin out of his brooding.

  “Fine. Thanks for the coffee.” He held the cool blue of Seb’s gaze and shivered. Seb looked away for a change.

  “Martin wants to see your portfolio,” Seb said as he passed Cassidy.

  She straightened again and grinned. “It’s pretty awesome. Come see!”

  It was pretty awesome. She pulled out the long tube of heavy paper and unrolled it across the living room floor. The papers were thick and longer than he was tall. The ends kept trying to roll back, but Martin let her choose books from the shelf to hold them down.

  “What do you think?”

  What did he think? He could barely take in what he was seeing. Each page featured a monochromatic landscape, long shadows stretching from spindly trees, and roads that extended into a horizon that looked miles away.

  The depth was staggering. A pale moon seemed to shimmer in one, as a figure in a field danced in the moonlight. Martin wanted to get down on his hands and knees, press his face to the floor, and see if anything else was on the page, some addition that created the third dimension. “You did this?”

  “Girl’s got skills,” Seb said behind them. He sat at the desk beneath the window, hunched over a book with a small utility knife in his hands.

  “Is it chalk?” Martin asked.

  “Charcoal,” Cassidy said.

  “It’s amazing.” He didn’t know how to tell her what it made him feel, especially the one lonely figure, its back to them as it trudged up the long endless road in the middle of the page.

  “She has an eye for shadows,” Seb said.

  “Do you really like it?” Cassidy asked, her arms crossed over her chest.

  Martin could barely tear his eyes away from it as he nodded vigorously. “I don’t know a lot about these kinds of things, but this is really good.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Cass is going to art school next year. New York or Rhode Island. The big time!” Seb didn’t look up as he spoke.

  “If they take me.” Cassidy didn’t sound confident.

  “They’ll take you.”

  “But—”

  “Professor, tell her they’ll take her.”

  “Oh.” Martin stuffed his hands into the front pocket of his stolen hoodie. “My background’s in history. I don’t know much about—” He broke off when Cassidy’s expression clouded. She chewed on her lower lip and scuffed her shoes on the floor. Seb arched an eyebrow at Martin, a silent command not to screw this up. “But these are really amazing. If it were up to me, I’d accept you for sure.”

  Cassidy’s smile said she could tell he was improvising. “Thanks.”

  Martin glanced over her head at Seb again, who considered them both for a moment before he nodded and went back to his book.

  Cassidy bent to roll up her drawings. As she returned the books to the shelf, Martin wandered over to the table, watching Seb slice through the cover with a steady hand.

  “Do you ever make drawings like Cassidy’s?” Martin asked.

  “No one’s drawings are like Cass’s.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  Seb set his knife down again. “I can draw, if that’s what you’re asking. But I started working in repurposed books after art school, and it’s where I focus all my time now.”

  “And people are okay with you cutting up their books?”

  “I’ll say,” Cassidy said from the other side of the room. “You should see how much some of his pieces sell for!”

  Seb shrugged off her compliment. “It’s just a book. I agree that the writer’s work has value. But a book is a mass-produced consumer product. If I worked with old VHS tapes or CDs, no one would give me a hard time.”

  “But if they—”

  Seb waved him off. “People get so hung up on preserving books, but the books I use are at the end of their lives. They’re on the top shelf of a used bookstore in a town that most of the world doesn’t even know exists. If I don’t turn them into something new, what do you think happens to them?”

  “Someone would buy them eventually.”

  “Downstairs, we shelve from the middle,” Cassidy said from across the room.

  “So?” Martin’s brow furrowed.

  “The newest books go in the middle of the middle shelf. The books that don’t sell get pushed to the outside and then eventually up or down a shelf. The ones on the top and bottom shelves are the oldest books in the store. No one is going to buy them. Some of them have been here for years.”

  Martin’s frown deepened, his lips pressing together. He’d always believed books had to be taken car
e of. Shared maybe, but never disposed of. What Seb and Cassidy were saying made sense, though. There was a separation between the words written and the paper they were printed on.

  He tilted his head, trying to understand what Seb was doing from this new perspective. “So you carve out the words you don’t want and keep the ones you do?”

  “Found poetry. It’s where I started, like the book you had the other day. I mostly work in images now, though.”

  “The birds?” The book of songbirds sat on the far corner of the table, feathered inhabitants watching him carefully.

  “That’s not one of my better pieces, but yes.”

  Not one of his better pieces? Martin hadn’t had a chance to really look at it the last time, but it was cut so intricately, so many small layers revealed. The work and patience it must have taken was incredible.

  “Seb shows his stuff in galleries all over the place. I saw one on a field trip to Wilmington last year!” Cassidy came and sat at the table, pulling out a heavy gray book from her backpack.

  Seb smiled at her. “I’ve been lucky enough to develop a bit of a following.”

  “More than a little! Your Shakespeare project sold for more than six thousand dollars!”

  “Shakespeare project?” Martin tried not to sound judgmental. Apparently, nothing was sacred under Seb’s knife.

  Seb laughed. “It’s not about the money. And Shakespeare’s overrated. I was doing him a favor. I cut out anything that wasn’t a dick joke or some other kind of innuendo. It was still surprisingly intact when I was done.”

  Cassidy giggled. As the apartment lapsed into silence, Martin hovered where he was. The two artists hunched in front of him, intent on their work.

  “Well, I should get going.” Better to head off the inevitable awkwardness. They clearly had a plan for the day, and he was intruding. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “You can stay for a bit, if you want,” Seb said without looking up. “I don’t have TV, but there’s all the books you can handle downstairs, and the Wi-Fi password is ThisIsMine27, no spaces, with the first letter of each word capitalized.”