Dedication

For Richard and Oscar and Agnes

Epigraph

I am a man who, sauntering along without fully stopping, Turns a casual look upon you and then averts his face, Leaving it to you to prove and define it, Expecting the main things from you.

—WALT WHITMAN, LEAVES OF GRASS

ONE YEAR AGO

“Did you see? People all down the block, waiting for the doors to open. There won’t be enough chairs!”

Roy Clarke squirmed uncomfortably. He wanted to stand, but the bookstore owner had supplied a high stool. “I’d better not keep them here for too long then. Just a quick reading, sign a few books, and home.”

“They’re here for you.” Wendy Clarke, his wife, had already helped herself to the free prosecco. “Don’t be in such a rush. They’re our new neighbors. We’re all going to be great friends.”

Roy unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, then rolled them down again. While he appreciated Wendy’s cheerful optimism, he wondered why he’d ever agreed to this.

On their first stroll to familiarize themselves with their new neighborhood, Wendy had noticed a sign on a scaffolded Smith Street storefront that read SMITH CORNER BOOKS: 2 WEEKS ’TIL OPENING DAY! Without hesitation, she’d stepped around the construction debris and gone inside to introduce herself. Roy lingered outside, pretending to be a smoker, even though he was not. The next day, Wendy forwarded him an email from Jefferson, the bookstore’s owner, with the subject Roy Clarke reading confirmed for opening day!! The body of the email was all lavish praise and buttering up. Never in Jefferson’s wildest imaginings could he ever have hoped for “the Roy Clarke” to open his store. Roy didn’t mean to be an ass. It was just that he’d wanted to slip into Brooklyn and discover it quietly, be discovered by it quietly. Not bang in—pow!—let’s welcome the big famous author who, sorry to disappoint, hardly thought of himself as an author anymore because he spent more time making tea and toast than he did writing pages.

Shy Clarke, Roy and Wendy’s youngest daughter, age fifteen, contemplated pretending she’d just gotten her period. Shy was nervous about starting at her new American school later that week. She also felt uncomfortable for her father, who she knew was in agony. Shy’s older sisters had come up with her unusual name right after she was born because she’d seemed to duck and look away whenever they cooed over her. Right now, Shy sat very still in the front row, her pale bare knees pressed tightly together. She wasn’t sure she could endure her father’s misery for much longer.