The Bookseller's Secret

By Jeff Boyle

"“What about the guy in New York who looks like me?” he asked. “Were you close?”
She gave him a dismissive look as if it wasn’t any of his business but did not duck the question, answering in a near-whisper.
“He was someone I cared about.”
“What happened to him?”
Her eyes grew cold as she stared right through him.
“He died fifteen years ago in the Nine-Eleven attacks.”
April first, the annual celebration of lies, practical jokes and hoaxes. Carson Graham knew he lived as a permanent hoax. Marital nest fouled by another bird, he had taken flight to a new territory and assumed a new identity. Had his departure been the act of a coward or a pragmatist?
Now he’d fled for a second time, to a city where he believed no one would recognize him, identity secure until confronted by Sara Olson. Maintaining cover demanded he stay away from her while at the same time getting close enough to find out how much she knew. This mission impossible caused him to leave his safe zone to obtain information crucial to keeping his secret ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Feb 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463024355

Jeff Boyle

Jeff Boyle’s awards for writing attest to his dedication to excellence. The Rutgers Political Science undergrad, who earned his Master’s Degree in Administration from Nova University, exhibited the same excellence in his baseball card business, The Baseball Card Exchange, for more than twenty years. He also served for a decade on the City Commission in Ormond Beach, Florida.Now this Philadelphia native-turned Floridian is dedicated full time to his writing, and Bold Venture Press is proud to present his first short story collection of literary works, each sharing life’s hidden truths.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Second Chance Books

Carson Graham unlocked the front door of his new store, flipped the closed sign to open, and waited for his first customer. Relocated from Washington, D.C. to Olson Beach, Florida, he’d voluntarily left behind a lucrative career managing vast sums of money, fifteen years sitting at a desk creating profits for his employer. Now he was the proud owner of a used bookstore, open for business at last. A man who once transacted millions hoped to buy and sell second-hand books for dollars. The store would never earn much income. It did not matter. The reward would come from the creation of a small startup business connecting with people, not spreadsheets, in the intoxicating freedom of sole proprietorship.

A refugee from his past, Carson hoped to find a new identity after fleeing two northern cities. Unthinkable national tragedy ended seven years with an investment firm in New York. Fifteen subsequent years of unofficial government work in Washington earned a small fortune in commissions and bonuses but trapped him in suffocating isolation.

Breaking free, cashing in and migrating south, Carson intended to make Olson Beach his permanent home, the smallish city selected for its ocean, subtropical climate, and year-round stream of visitors. A man who had never been south of Virginia quickly embraced the beach town’s southern culture and its slower pace.

After three exhausting months getting the store ready, he relaxed in a tall chair behind the counter, gazing out the window at the busy thoroughfare out front. Sun-drenched palm trees and landscaped medians divided the well-traveled cross-town artery, two eastbound lanes carrying endless streams of traffic to the nearby bridge over the Intracoastal.

The aged commercial building had once been a family-owned office supply store. A crosswalk allowed pedestrian access to the north side of the street. Carson hoped to attract book buyers from the restaurants located over there and from the jewelry shop and yoga studio next door. At the end of the block, City Hall and the attached public library promised potential foot traffic from bookworms and workers on their lunch breaks.

Signing the contract before he could change his mind, Carson had purchased the empty store the day he hit town, right after the same real estate agent put him into a furnished two-bedroom condo on the beach. The showroom’s run-down, expansive floor space needed total rehab, and custom bookshelves had to be designed and constructed from scratch.

He’d begun the daunting project after Thanksgiving, facing unforeseen obstacles and baffling code requirements. Through weeks of dusty, dirty labor, suffering the extremes of central Florida’s winter temperatures, he did most of the heavy lifting before a new air conditioning and heating system could be installed.

Now, framed city and county licenses hung high on the wall to certify the store as legally permitted for its not-so-grand opening. Two large bay windows, their glass surfaces lettered with the business name and the words Buy, Sell, Trade, displayed books that were once best sellers. The wooden sign hanging from a length of pipe above the sidewalk identified the store as Second Chance Books, carrying a personal double meaning for a man seeking redemption.

March 1 had been targeted for the store opening long before he knew the date was Super Tuesday on the 2016 Presidential primary calendar. Hustling to meet his self-imposed deadline, lost in cleaning, painting, and devising a floor plan, he’d been disconnected from national news.

The first person through the door was not a customer but a representative from the chamber of commerce, stopping by to sell a membership. Carson said he wasn’t interested, but the woman persisted, standing her ground and peppering him with pushy questions.

No, he did not want a chamber ribbon-cutting party or anything else the chamber was selling. Member or not, she said they’d be listing the bookstore’s business address and phone number in a free downtown shopping guide. They wanted a business card with his name. Visibly annoyed, he handed it over and ushered her to the door.

Shortly after, two women in yoga outfits carrying rolled-up mats did a brief walk-through without saying a word or making a purchase. As they were exiting, he heard one of them say they should come back when they had more time to browse.

The first sale was to an elderly man with a cane who spotted a John Grisham novel in the display window and came in to claim a bargain at five dollars plus sales tax. Carson rang up the purchase and threw in a free Second Chance bookmark. The old man recalled patronizing the store when it was an office supply fifty years ago, cars parked diagonally on a two-lane road leading to a drawbridge. With so many storefronts now vacant on both sides of the river, he hoped the bookstore would succeed and remain open. Too many empty storefronts gave the town a bad look. Back in his day, store vacancies filled quickly. After the gentleman left, the bookseller regretted not giving his first cash customer some sort of thank-you reward.

A city inspector with clipboard arrived at noon to check Carson’s new fire extinguisher and verify clear access to the rear exit. He made check marks on a form, verbally approving the rear storage room and the ample air space between bookshelves and ceiling.

This is an attractive store you’ve got here, a nice addition to our downtown.

Thank you.

The code enforcer frowned when he was unable to locate a water cooler.

Mr. Graham, you’ve got to have a water dispenser with sterile paper cups. City code says every store has to have drinking water available to the public before it’s allowed to open. We’ve got two local companies. Call one of them and a truck will come out to set up your account with a refrigeration machine and a couple of jugs. And we’ll need a copy of your proof of insurance. You’ve got lots of liability with that sign hanging over the city sidewalk.

I’ll get right on it.

And the sign requires a permit separate from your occupational license.

The bureaucratic red tape never ended. A sales tax return had to be filed every month. Unemployment contributions were to be made quarterly to both state and federal governments. The bank providing his credit card service subtracted monthly rental fees for the machine attached to the phone line and deducted a small percentage from each completed sale.

At least the inspector did not take a look out back. Carson had become an involuntary landlord to a rent-free tenant, providing outdoor shelter to a homeless man who bedded down each night in a small alcove behind the store. A roof overhang protected his nest from the rain. Roaming the streets by day, the poor guy reserved his nightly sleeping spot by leaving behind plastic lawn bags containing all his worldly belongings. The storekeeper let him be, putting out a little food from time to time, allowing the squatter to remain as an unpaid night watchman.

Carson retrieved his insurance policy from a small file cabinet and phoned a bottled water company before sitting at his desk and checking the computer. Alone, facing a quiet afternoon, he fetched several cartons of books from the back room, writing discounted prices in pencil on the first page of each and shelving them in their properly assigned sections. He’d visited a dozen used bookstores within a fifty-mile radius to incorporate the best ideas from each in designing the store setup. Organizing the books required alphabetizing titles and hand-lettering dozens of signs and shelf labels. Popular genres were shelved up front to be more visible to buyers.

The inventory had been pieced together from small purchases on Friday morning expeditions to yard, rummage, and estate sales. The largest acquisition came on a visit to a college town thirty miles away, where a sign announced a bookstore going out of business.

The elderly owner had a ready explanation. I’ve been mindin’ this store for a long time, just waitin’ for my Social Security to kick in, he said. I want to spend more time with my grandkids. It’s your lucky day. You can buy me out.

How much do you need for each book?

Seven cents apiece.

What about hardcover?

Same price, paperback or hardcover, you can have all you want at seven cents a book. I’ve got some cardboard boxes in the back room if you’d like to start packin’.

Flea market dealers had already carted away all the westerns and science fiction, but over the years students from the nearby university had sold the man eclectic collections of serious fiction and nonfiction. Carson eagerly boxed hundreds of hard-to-find titles. He grabbed all the mysteries and thrillers but rejected the romance paperbacks. A deal was struck at two hundred dollars for three thousand books. They filled paper grocery bags after the cartons ran out.

His car could hold only a fraction of the buy, so he called a local rental car company to deliver a van. The old guy helped him load up. It took several more hours to transport the books to Olson Beach, unload, and drive back to return the rented vehicle and pick up his car. The mission proved to be a backbreaking exercise. Inventory, still a work in progress, had grown steadily ever since, with estate sales supplying the richest yields. Some books were temporarily put aside for Carson’s personal reading. Borrowing volumes from the store collection to take home, a privileged perk, filled hours of quiet time.

The pricing and shelving was finished by midafternoon. He watched after-school traffic back up as it waited for the light at the foot of the bridge. Truck drivers stared straight ahead but school bus kids pointed and waved at the man sitting behind the bookstore window.

Late in the day, a woman carrying a file folder stopped on the sidewalk and stepped back to take in the storefront before coming inside. She acknowledged his greeting without looking at him and began checking out the shelves, stopping to take a closer look at books in the politics section.

In sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, the woman projected youthful attractiveness but carried herself with an air of maturity, exact age a guess anywhere in her thirties. Satisfied with her quick survey of the store, she approached the counter.

I like … Her sentence abruptly halted in the split-second she saw his face, her open-mouthed expression frozen in surprise. She gasped audibly before dropping her jaw and mumbling, … I like your store. The wide-eyed woman continued staring at him.

He stood and handed her a business card. Thanks. I’m Carson Graham, owner.

Sorry for the double-take, she stammered … You bear a striking resemblance to someone I knew years ago … my name is Sara Olson. Short quick breaths interrupted her speech.

Internal warnings signaled she could be someone who recognized him from his previous life. On high alert, choosing his words carefully, he tried to lighten the tension with humor. I’ve been in town only a few months. I’m assuming Olson Beach is named after you.

She stood rigid for a moment without speaking. Then after catching a breath she answered, continuing to stare at him.

Actually, the city is named for my great, great grandfather Lars, a Swede who shipwrecked offshore after the Civil War. I grew up here but lived in New York City until last year. My father passed away and left me the family home over on the beach.

Carson flinched at her reference to New York. Her face was not one he could remember. All his colleagues had died after the plane impacted the building’s floors just below them. If she had worked for his company, she would have to be someone who also had also been out of the office on that horrific day. The unlikely possibility triggered paranoid thoughts.

He should have known opening a public business would leave him vulnerable to recognition, even if the odds were a million to one against anyone identifying him from his time in Manhattan. Apprehension growing, he tried to remain calm and conceal his fear, mentally questioning why he’d left years of seclusion only to risk exposure on his very first day, telling himself to stay cool, try to keep this woman talking about herself.

So, you became shipwrecked in New York? he asked.

That’s an apt description of my landing there. I liked the city’s opportunities but always planned on coming home. By the way, most of the used bookstores up north have gone out of business. She was speaking slower now, her breathing more measured, more relaxed.

Opening this one must be bucking a national trend, he laughed. Can I help you find something?

I wish. I don’t have much time for reading these days. I’m here on a mission. She reached into the folder and withdrew a handful of printed half-sheet petitions. We’re collecting signatures for a voter referendum to keep our seven-story height limit on the beach. The city commission wants to rewrite the land code so they can build twenty-five story condos.

I live on the beach, in a six-story building. Am I eligible to sign?

Absolutely, if you’re a city resident opposed to high rises. Have you registered to vote?

No. Not yet.

Please do. I’ll be back to get your signature. I’m chairwoman for BLAST, Beach Lovers Against Sky Towers. May I leave these petitions for your customers?

Sure. I’ll make room for them right here on the counter.

Much appreciated. Our volunteers meet every Thursday night at the riverfront church two blocks north of here. You’re welcome to come join us.

I’m a little too busy to join anything right now, but I’ll be rooting for you.

We need all the help we can get. She read the name on his card and extended her hand. I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Carson Graham. Good luck with your new store.

Watching her leave, he reminded himself the last thing he needed was any more contact with Sara Olson. She’d looked at him like she’d seen a ghost, which technically, he was. Her nervous eyes never stopped trying to read him. Helpless, sensing real danger, resigned to damage already done, he vowed to stick to his story against any challenge.

He hoped she would conclude he was a look-alike of the man she knew years ago, without suspecting his deepest secret:

Carson Graham was not his real name.

Chapter 2

Dead Ringer

Sara’s heart raced as she left the bookstore, every fiber of her being certain she had just stood face to face with Michael Reilly. He had died on Nine Eleven with hundreds of her co-workers, or so she’d always believed. Now he had reappeared, a cruel apparition.

All her instincts screamed it was him. She knew it. She could feel it. Even after fifteen years, the man who identified himself as Carson Graham stood the same height, had the same voice, speech, and smile, features aging could not change.

The company offices had been near the top of Tower One. None of the people on the floors above the plane’s impact survived that morning, only lucky individuals who had been out of the office like Sara, saved by a doctor’s appointment. Michael could have been spared by a similar circumstance. If so, why did he take the name Carson Graham?

She’d had a secret crush on Michael Reilly for a long time, secretly observing him from a distance, loving his style, the way he carried himself and everything about him. Fixated, with no thought of ever revealing her private feelings, Sara wanted to believe she saw hints of sadness in Michael’s demeanor, traces of wistfulness expressed by a man possibly trapped in an unhappy marriage. A lonely heart returning each night to a tiny, empty apartment, she had been guilty only of wishful thinking, of harboring a fantasy inspired by a young woman’s naïve infatuation. Had these benign sins condemned her to eternal punishment?

Of course, he had not recognized her in the store. Michael Reilly never knew she existed, his interactions with a lowly office worker infrequent and fleeting. Her irrational feelings, ultimately doomed, turned bittersweet. Time numbed the shock of Michael’s certain death. The callow girl grew into a woman who embraced her New York isolation. Now it was part of who she was.

Sara told herself to stifle thoughts about the past, deny her suspicions. Accept the most plausible explanation. Write off the bookseller as an odd coincidence, her life path now crossed fifteen years apart by two identical-looking men with different names, one of them now dead.

She still carried the post trauma of Nine Eleven, haunted by survivor’s guilt after the deaths of so many. People said every human being had a twin. Maybe time had blurred her memory of Michael’s features. Or this living double had rekindled unrequited feelings from long ago. But a recurring fantasy had always pictured him alive and no longer married.

If Carson Graham was not an alias for Michael Reilly, she needed to be careful around a man with the same features she found attractive so many years ago. It didn’t help that she was approaching age forty with no current love or prospects, memories of her few ex-boyfriends fading. She resolved to clear her mind and stay away from the bookstore. Leading a grass roots revolution to save the beach would require all her concentration.

The petition drive had entered a crucial stretch. They needed twenty-eight hundred valid signatures to qualify for the ballot referendum. With only a thousand in hand, the goal of four thousand by April 15th seemed almost beyond reach. Volunteers had been dispatched to stand outside the library and at supermarket exits. Others were sent to canvass neighborhoods.

Over the next six weeks, she would have no time for distractions or wild theories about Michael Reilly and Carson Graham being the same person. Still, she’d felt a strange vibe in the bookstore, not unlike her spiritual connection to the Swedish ancestor who washed ashore and built the first house on the barrier island.

That house was long gone but the one she’d grown up in and inherited from her father had been constructed on the same ground, a family home she now would never leave. After two decades in New York, her roots and bloodline had called her back to the house by the sea.

She’d come home to reconnect with the happy years growing up, when the ocean at her back door became a playground for a tomboy intent on becoming as good a surfer as the guys. The beach had witnessed her first kiss, the loss of her virginity, and a decision to resist tradition and grow up to be an independent woman.

Located in the commercial zone, the house was one of only twenty-five remaining, scattered high on the dunes between hotels, condos, and timeshares. Over the years, single-family residences had gradually disappeared, replaced by seven-story structures. Sara was determined to preserve what was left of the city’s low-rise profile and her neighborhood’s historic character.

The beachfront was her passion. She did not want Olson Beach to become a northern extension of Daytona Beach, where towering high-rises cast afternoon shadows far into the surf. In the past year, Russian tycoons had been buying up distressed properties in both cities, underpaying for small, damaged hotels, demolishing the structures and leaving vacant lots. The land values would increase exponentially once government rezoned the properties and removed the limits on building heights.

Daytona had already granted the waivers, and the Russians were now eyeing Olson Beach. Their slick, overdressed, easily recognized representatives had been seen hanging around city meetings and workshops. The threat of afternoon shadows over the beach was only part of the problem. In the city to the south, multi-million-dollar high rise buildings had created a semi-private beach, with scarce parking making the ocean inaccessible to anyone not living within walking distance.

She walked to her car in a trance, still shaken by the encounter with Carson Graham. His condo was probably not far from her house. She dreaded encountering him on a beach walk. But nagging curiosity urged her to go back to his store on some pretense, to see how closely his persona matched the man from her past, but not right away. Nor did Sara want to go home.

Luckily, she had scheduled a dinner meeting with Ellen Parker, her best friend and fellow petition organizer. Strategizing the campaign would take Sara’s mind off the haunting experience that had just occurred with the owner at Second Chance Books.

The out-of-the-way restaurant featured seafood sandwiches, and Ellen had already claimed a booth when Sara arrived. She tried to mask tension she was still feeling.

Hi, Ellen. I hope you’ve been plotting civic unrest. Where do we stand?

We’ll find out when we see how many petitions are turned in Thursday night. I’ve been researching the brothers Kozlov. Turns out they buy and flip properties but there’s no record they’ve ever completed a single construction project, contrary to any promises they might be making to the mayor and our city fathers. Ellen shuffled her notes and continued.

They’ve acquired a dozen parcels on the Olson side of the line over the last eighteen months. Word on the street is they’re willing to donate public parks for the right to build to the sky. It’s all bogus. Their playbook in Daytona has been to first win government re-zonings, then cash in by flipping the revalued properties to actual builders. The potential profits from the rezoned parcels will be astronomical.

Do you have documented proof?

Not enough to go public. All we have is their track record of never building anything. They remodeled the Burgoyne Hotel on the Daytona beachfront and stiffed a lot of subcontractors, many still trying to recover their money. The local good ole boy establishment is not happy.

We’ve got to forget the Kozlovs and concentrate on qualifying for the ballot, Ellen. This information might help later on if we find ourselves engaged in a referendum campaign. For now, we’ve got to keep our eye on the ball, get the signatures and raise the four hundred dollars it will cost to have them validated by the county elections office.

Sara kept fidgeting with the menu, compulsively arranging and rearranging her napkin and silverware before asking Ellen, What’s good to eat here?

"I suggest the crab cake or the grilled salmon. But now I have to