Chapter Six: Openings and Optimism
"What d'you think?" Lizzie asked Sarah with the kind of anxiety she normally reserved for exams and first dates. Not that it mattered. It really didn't matter what she wore, how she looked wasn't important. People wouldn't look twice at her, not unless they were buying a drink or a book or a book an a drink. The service ven-diagram she found herself at the center of wasn't what she wanted. Hell, it was shit, but it was something. She could smile for money. And it was good money.
"I like it."
"For the millionth time, no one asked you, Mike." That was snappy. She was stressed. He was stupid. She could be snappy. "Sar?"
"Too much."
"Too much? You dress like a billionaire!"
"That's your boss."
"He's not a billionaire," Lizzie retorted, retreating into her room and tearing off one of the few dresses she owned and didn't hate.
"He so is!" Sarah shouted, giggling as she filled Mike in about Harry's unexpected charitable donation to local art. Not that he liked art. Lizzie had wondered more than once why he'd done it. Had it been to show off? He didn't seem the type. In everything else he was simple, unassuming, so why then? She'd been too distracted by Sarah's overwhelming success to have any idea what had happened. Not that she was jealous. Not anymore. Right?
"Not a billionaire."
"Millionaire then."
"Okay, that maybe."
"And he hired you?" Mike asked, playfully. "Ow!"
"There's more where that came from," Lizzie glowered, holding up her other shoe threateningly as she leant out of her room, jeans barely buttoned and shirt yet to be selected.
"It was a joke."
"Not now, sweetie," Sarah cooed, kissing his forehead. Ugh. Clothes. Lizzie tried to ignore their disgusting behaviour. Couples were the worst. "Liz is stressed."
"Lizzie is gonna kill you both if we don't get something soon," Lizzie snapped at them.
"I don't know why you're worrying so much," Sarah said, not for the first time. "You'll be great. It'll be great."
"It'll be a shit show," Lizzie retorted, delighting in the grimace that would contort Mike's face. "Opening day always is."
"Then why are you worried?"
"Because I want to be employed, that's why."
"Nothing to do with the fact your boss is oh so dreamy?"
"Sar!"
"Liz!"
"I need a drink," Mike sighed, getting up from his chair and receiving orders from his girlfriend and her best friend as a result. The night devolved into name-calling, drinking and eventually Friends re-runs, because the show was approaching its finale and Sarah was too addicted to be freed from its sit-commy grips.
Lizzie only half-watched. Her mind was too wrapped up with the fate of Adhara Books, her job and the man she was starting to, if not respect, then like. She wasn't sure how he'd ever been a cop. He didn't give off cop-vibes. He was kind, sweet even. Sure, sometimes he had the kind of thousand-yard stare she'd seen in people who'd lost more than anyone should have to, but the rate people seemed to die around him it wasn't surprising. Godfather, godson's parents, friends, since when had England been so dangerous?
But this was his second chance. Sure, she wanted it to work for him, but not just that. She had to believe second chances existed, because if they didn't, she was approaching thirty with no prospects, no life and an apartment she could barely afford. Her first influx of wages had gone on bills she owed, Sarah and Harvey. Both of them tried to refuse it, but both accepted after threats of physical harm and tears.
The morning was rainy. The sky was grey. Far below on the street people were rushing, umbrella's up and winds keeping their clothes pressed against them. Lizzie didn't know if she'd slept, she just kept picturing an empty shop and Harry looking like a sad little puppy. God, she didn't know if she could take those puppy eyes.
Sarah had settled on a grey jumper, Lizzie had argued but eventually agreed. She paired it with simple black jeans, her battered boots as polished as she could make them and the leather jacket she wore everywhere. Then, when she was done looking at herself for the thousandth time, she stuffed a hastily made sandwich in her mouth, snatched up her umbrella and left for work.
For work. A few weeks ago that idea would've been impossible, insane even. Rejection after rejection, all because Joe knew everyone in town and warned them off her. And for what? A bruised ego? A stupid sense of entitlement. What was left was a bunch of charity cases and idiots and Harry. Maybe he was still both, maybe he wasn't, but he was kind. Kind and hopeful and actually appreciative of what she had to offer.
She wondered how he was coping.
The answer was badly. Harry had dealt with worse. He'd saved an entire country from a Dark Lord for God's sake, but as he sat in the backroom, nursing a hot mug of tea and avoiding what was waiting for him in the belly of the shop, he realised this was far, far worse. At least against Voldemort, he'd just been doing what he was told, going through the motions of someone else's plan, even when that plan wound up with him being killed. This? This was his dream and if he was wrong, well, then it could all come crashing down around him.
Not for the first time, he wondered if this was a mistake. Not leaving, but setting up a shop, planting roots that could wither and die in his hands. He could've been anything, done anything. Magic was good like that. A confundus charm here, a falsified CV there and suddenly he could waltz into any job he wanted. It was technically illegal, but when had that stopped anyone?
He shook himself, fantasising about being a conman wasn't what he should be doing. Neither was hiding between sacks of coffee beans, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
They'd done everything they could. Ordered stock. Passed out flyers. Harry had even managed to get some corvert help from Houria to craft and install the letters and logo that was now hammered into the brickwork above the door. More than once, Harry had stood on the street look at the howling wolf, shaggy black like Sirius had been, his heart far too full to go inside.
So it had to work. He just needed someone to walk through the door. Hopefully a few someones, that would be nice. But someone was a start. Someone was interested. Interest led to sales, sales led to actual real money - not that that was really a problem - and something else. Something he'd travelled halfway around the world to find. Peace. Worth. A sense of achievement that wasn't so drowned in blood it wasn't worth having.
Had it always been this hard to breathe? Did the world always spin like this? He tried to take a deep breath, faltered, tried again. Failed. Everything pulsated around him. Faces he'd long since tried to bury swam to the forefront of his mind. Fred. Sirius. Remus. Tonks. His parents. He'd left them, he'd left and for what? The doors wouldn't open. He'd fail. He was going to fail.
There was a knock at the door.
He was there in a second, surprised to see the form, not of Lizzie, but Jackson. Clad as usual in an obnoxiously loud Hawaiin shirt, the large man nodded to Harry and almost stooped under the doorway as he carried in a rectangular brown package. As soon as the door shut, he removed his hat and out buzzed Houria, his black eyes flicking around the shop and his tiny teeth barred in a grin.
"Mr Potter, ah, pleasure to see everything up and running."
"All thanks to you," Harry said stiffly, never taking his eyes off the door. If Lizzie arrived and saw Houria, well, he didn't fancy being closed down for a breach of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.
"Then allow me to extend a gift. Consider it a much-needed addition to this fine establishment." He clicked his fingers and the brown paper leapt from the package Jackson had been carrying, falling gently to the floor and revealing a black chalkboard and easel. Another click and suddenly chalk began to bleed onto the board, first words and then a large cup of coffee combined with a detailed picture of a book.
The sign, for that was what it was, read:
GRAND OPENING
Adhara Books
Free coffee with your first purchase, today only!
"This is amazing."
"Technically it was rather easy," Houria shrugged, flying over to the counter and sitting on the edge so his short legs dangled off the side. Oscar, who had been happily curled up on the countertop, opened his big eyes to regard the fairy with mild interest. "But your sentiment is appreciated, even if it is inaccurate. Jackson, if you please."
With a small nod, the man hoisted the chalk board up onto the easel and with delicate finesse, he placed the sign and its stand in the centre of Harry's display. He had to admit it brought everything together rather well.
"Well, thank you."
"My pleasure. Besides, it is in my interest to ensure you have a business, after all." He gave another toothy grin and buzzed over to Jackson. "Now, I am aware you have staff of No-Maj variety, Mr Potter. So, allow me to simply say 'good luck'."
The unlikely pair left, he wasn't waiting long for Lizzie. She practically barrelled into the shop, ever the force of nature he'd come to know her as.
"Morning, boss." She shook off her leather jacket as she took an appraising look around the shop. Her hair was tied up in its usual colourful bandana, but her smile somehow seemed to be brighter. Funny from the girl who'd not wanted the job. "Hey! We got a chalkboard. Nice!"
"A friend just dropped it off."
"Look at you making friends."
"I can make friends."
"Surrre." She rolled her eyes, a movement that should've been mocking but somehow on her face appeared affectionate. She rolled her shoulders, stretching neck and let out a contented sigh as she approached the dormant coffee machine."C'mon, let's get this set up."
Lizzie led, as she always did, with the coffee machine, whilst Harry paced nervously up and down the shop. He checked the shelves. Checked them again. When he was on his third trip around the bookcases, he heard Lizzie say to him.
"They're all there."
"I know."
"Then why're you burning a hole in the floor?"
"Why d'you think?"
He heard the smile in her voice. "I thought cops were supposed to be smart."
"We are," Harry shot back irritably, not looking at her as he carefully looked through the 'Fantasy' section.
"Really? Then how come I'm the one looking at all your customers?"
The sound of blinds being yanked up made him turn around and to his utter bewilderment, he was greeted, not with an empty street or people hurrying by in the Seattle rain to work, but a reasonable queue of six or seven people. He noticed the curator from SAM among their number and had to resist beaming at the hulking form of Jackson, free of his concealing hat. There were others too. Short men in suits, stared desperately at the coffee machine. A tall willowy woman with a floral bag, with a young child pulling excitedly at her hand.
"Guess the flyers worked."
"Guess so," Lizzie grinned at him. "Do you want the honours?"
"Go ahead." When she arched an eyebrow, he added, "you earned it."
He hung back slightly, like a statue on the stairs. Painfully aware that his arms were hanging stupidly at his sides, he hastily picked up the stock clipboard and clawed a pen from his jacket - a light grey one that he'd got especially from a small shop nearby. At least look like you know what you're doing, Potter.
Lizzie had no such issue. As confident as ever, she strode purposefully to the door and flipped over the sign so that closed now faced them and open greeted their would be customers. With a final nod to Harry, she pulled open the door and took a step back to allow their tiny crowd entrance.
They didn't swarm in, all except the young girl who could be no more than fourteen and practically sprinted over the 'Fantasy' section that Harry had been curating only moments earlier.
"Annie, no running!"
"Sorry," the girl, Annie, mumbled.
"Sorry about her," the woman, presumably Annie's mother, breathed to Harry. "She always gets so excited to look at new books."
"Don't worry," he had to resist kneeling down, like he did with Teddy. But he remembered being twelve, hell, at twelve he'd fought a basalisk. She probably didn't want patronising, or what she'd think of as patronising. So he simply said, "Same here."
"See! It's not just me. Ooh, mom! Look at this one! IT'S GOT DRAGONS!" The woman stooped down to talk to her daughter at a much quieter register, their conversation not going unnoticed by the scowling businessmen or, rather bizarrely, a smiling Jackson. It was the first time Harry had ever seen the large man do anything other than glower. It was as refreshing as it was alarming.
Before long, Adhara Books was filled with the soon of hissing and grinding, burbling and quiet muttering as Lizzie took orders from the businessmen. The customers gathered around the machine, before accepting their cups and eyeing them warily. Everyone knew a commuter's greatest love was coffee, Harry just hoped his was good enough.
There were dubious nods, but also deep long swallows. Harry grimaced as he watched scolding hot drinks descend into his customers' bellies, but was even more perplexed as they gave seemingly contended looks, set down their takeaway cups, and left.
"Erm, thank you!" Harry called after them, in his best impression of a real-life bookshop owner who definitely understood what that meant. Beside him, Lizzie chuckled.
"They liked it," she explained. "Well, Stu didn't, but he hates everything."
"You know them?"
"They're like Seattle's coffee gurus, they go anywhere that's new and try it out. Forums, remember?" So that really was a thing. "Yeah. Yeah, they're sweet really. Except -"
"Stu?"
"Yeah." She took up the cups and discarded them into the small bin beneath the counter. "This is good, though. Really good."
"You sound surprised."
"I might've been kind of worried."
"Now you tell me."
"Now it doesn't matter." She shot him a grin before her dark eyes noticed the approaching mother and child who had been so enamoured with Harry's fantasy books. No, their fantasy books. This wasn't just his venture anymore. That much was obvious from how Lizzie's back straightened, her eyes shone and a smile, not a smirk or a grin, lit itself up on her face. She actually cared.
"Hey there, how can I help?"
"Just these, please." The woman's voice was crisp, hiding the hint of stress beneath a mask of calm. Harry knew the look all too well. It was the same Andromeda had worn when Teddy had been growing up and she'd been left to deal with it on her own. "And a peppermint latte."
"Excellent choice, coming right up." There was a lot of complicated movements that Harry hadn't quite mastered and doubted he'd ever be as good at as Lizzie. She chatted happily to the woman, even engaging with Annie over what books she'd bought - even though Harry knew for a fact she had no idea what they were. Lizzie's speciality was, as she'd said several times, real things not dumb dragons and stupid wizards. If only she knew.
Confident that his newest and only employee had it covered, Harry let himself drift around the shop. Greeting customers, mentally logging what they were interested in and what they glossed over. Lizzie's history section was going down well with the SAM curator, who had picked up one of her selections and was reading the blurb with interest.
"Excellent choice," Harry said, mirroring Lizzie's own customer service. There was definitely a difference to Britain. At home, he was lucky if a member of staff acknowledged his existence, let alone spoke to him. America, he was learning, wasn't built on casual service and dark glowers. There was a polish, a shine even.
"Ah, thank you," the curator said evenly. Then, as if catching himself he added, "and thank you again. For your donation."
"My pleasure." Just not in the way the curator knew.
"I believe we never exchanged names, I know yours, of course. My apologies. Earnest Wilson." A hand was offered, then shook.
"Good to know," Harry nodded, a little awkwardly. He wasn't great at this part of things. But he wanted to be. He would be. "So, what do you think, Mr Wilson?"
"Please, call me Earnest." It took everything he had not to shorten it to Earnie out of sheer childish malice. "And it's delightful. Very avant-garde, I must say. Certainly an improvement, the last people who were here, well, I hope you don't think too little of me if I say they were rather dreadful."
Harry, who already thought little of Earnest, simply said, "not at all."
That seemed to relax the curator. "But that is behind us. I wish you luck, Mr Potter. I really do. And -" he held up his book rather proudly "- if you keep bringing in stock like this, well, all the better."
"Actually, that was my associate. Lizzie." Shock marred the man's face as his eyes flashed to the counter, where Lizzie was taking notes for an order with a pen she'd hastily stuffed in her hair only moments previously.
"A woman of taste then," he managed to say, although Harry could practically feel the compliment being drowned by the bile in his tone.
"I think so, but I'm sure you've got plenty to get back to."
"Umm?" The curator looked puzzled, then dragged himself from the revelation that Sarah's brazen friend was not the type of person he'd had her down for. "Oh yes! Plenty. Yes, yes. Lots to do." His fingers flexed on the book. "You know, on second though, maybe another time." He replaced it on the shelf. "Another time, yes." He coughed and then rather awkwardly forced a smile and said, "take care now."
With not so much as a sideways glance at Lizzie, he left. It always baffled Harry how people could let their own prejudices get in the way of what they actually wanted. He was clearly interested, and when he thought that Harry, the millionaire doner to his fabulous gallery had been behind it, then he was all for it; but when it was Lizzie, a woman he'd no doubt been judging for years because of her lack of interest in art and 'poor taste', yes, that was a different story altogether.
But, he'd rather lose that sale than pander to the man's ego.
The morning drifted on and after an initial rush, things quietened down. Jackson had purchased a hefty stack of fiction, all from romance through to horror, without a word to either of them and quite contentedly accepted a latte from Lizzie. Oscar, who had initially been wary of so many new people, had happily curled up in a rare patch of sunlight in the window and was earning plenty of admiring looks from people outside. A few came in. Most walked by without a word.
Harry found himself pacing again, much to Lizzie's amusement.
"It gets like this," she said sagely as she cleaned down the machines behind the counter. "Mid-morning, mid-afternoon. It's always quiet."
"This quiet?" He looked around the practically empty shop, save for a thin man who had disappeared upstairs and was, Harry was sure, just reading books that he wanted to read without actually buying anything.
"Sometimes. You're used to going out and finding stuff, right? Dead bodies, break-ins, whatever." She was far more accurate than he wanted to admit, so he simply nodded. "Here, people come to you. Just be ready when they do."
"And if they don't?"
"We have coffee and books, trust me, someone'll come." She patted his arm in a 'trust me' type gesture. "How about some practice? Take your mind off it."
He reluctantly agreed and together he and Lizzie whiled away the morning, talking about everything and nothing, while Harry made progressively better and better coffees. He was still nowhere near as good as Lizzie, but better than he'd been several weeks before. Slowly, he felt the knot in his chest beginning to unwind. There was a lot of truth in what she'd said, he was used to action, chaos. Sitting still had never been his life, but that's why he'd longed to leave it.
That didn't stop his instincts trying to take over, his nervous jitteriness whenever the door opened or the overthinking that was attempting to cloud his mind. But as the morning wore into the afternoon and customers appeared on the lunch breaks to peruse the shelves, take advantage of free coffee and ask how his first day was going, those nerves began to quiet down.
Maybe, just maybe, he was the right path, after all.
