Would Kerry’s love of other people’s book dedications lead her to a satisfying ending?
BY ANNA BELL
The breeze was warm. Spring was in the air, and it took Kerry by surprise. It dawned on her that it must have come and gone last year without her noticing.
Everywhere she looked there were signs. Daffodils brightening the flowerbeds and buds on the trees threatening to blossom. Yet last year she only remembered it being cold and dark, as if the season was reflecting her mood.
She walked past her favourite second-hand bookshop. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been in, searching the shelves for dedications handwritten on the title pages. Little love messages captured in space and time, anonymous, mysterious.
Kerry used to delight in finding them, but now, reading about other people’s love reminded her of what she’d lost.
The window of the shop was always the same; Brian, the owner, didn’t believe in change. Yet today it was different, and it stopped her in her tracks.
The books were balanced in a pyramid that was almost artistic and definitely Instagrammable. A book caught her eye. A beautiful old hardback copy of Wuthering Heights. Not first-edition old, but old enough.
Kerry hesitated. She had a soft spot for Wuthering Heights; it had started her off on her collecting hobby. Over the years she’d amassed many copies.
Despite the tragic romance at its heart, she found that it brought out the amorousness in lovers. Those hand-scrawled love dedications were always the best.
She noticed movement. There was a hand waving in the window.
She followed her gaze up the arm to see a man who was definitely not Brian. He pointed to a couple of the books and then beckoned her in. She shook her head and pointed towards the direction that she was heading.
The man wrinkled up his face and beckoned her in again.
This time he pointed at Wuthering Heights, and she laughed as he started to do jazz hands around it.
Much like spring, her laughter caught her off balance. She hadn’t heard it for so long. Before she knew it, she’d pushed open the door, causing the bell to jangle.
The smell of musty books hit her, packing a nostalgic punch, but that was the only thing familiar. The untidy shelves now had a semblance of order, and the usual trip hazard of messily stacked books at the foot of bookshelves had disappeared.
“I knew no one could resist jazz hands.” The man put his hands on his hips and smiled.
“The
