Bea felt butterflies in her stomach at the thought of imminent business. For a long time now sales had been poor, and those words sounded like celestial music.

“Well, we’re here to assist you in anything you need. What we don’t have in the shop we can find for you in a matter of days or even hours.”

“That’s good to know. Are you the owner?”

“I’m Bea. This is my father-in-law’s bookshop, but we all work here, all the family . . .”

“Your husband also works with you? How lucky.”

“I’m not sure if I agree with you,” joked Bea. “Are you married?”

“No.”

Bea swallowed hard. Once more she’d said too much. That was the second personal question she had asked that promising customer for no reason.

Alicia read her thoughts and smiled. “Don’t worry, Bea. My name is Alicia.”

She held out her hand, and Bea shook it. Julián, who didn’t miss a thing, also lifted his hand, trying his luck. Alicia shook it too.

Bea laughed. “You have such a knack with them, you should have kids yourself.”

As soon as she’d said those words she bit her tongue. Bea, please shut up.

The woman called Alicia didn’t seem to have heard her. She was gazing absently at the full bookshelves, lifting her hand and almost caressing the books without touching them. Bea took advantage of the fact that she had her back turned to have another good look at her.

“You might like to know that we offer special prices for collections . . .”

“May I stay and live here?” asked Alicia.

Bea laughed again, this time without much conviction. She looked at her son, who would clearly have handed over the shop keys to the stranger.

“Steinbeck . . . ,” she heard her murmur.

“We have an entire new series that includes a number of his novels. It has just arrived . . .”

Alicia picked up one of the volumes, opened it, and read a few lines at random. “It’s like reading a musical score.”

Bea thought she was talking to herself, lost among the books, and had forgotten about her and the child. She left her alone and let her wander through the bookshop undisturbed. Alicia would pick up a book here and there and leave it on the counter. A quarter of an hour later she had piled up a respectable tower of books.

“We also do deliveries . . .”

“Don’t worry, Bea. I’ll send someone around to collect them this afternoon. But I’ll take this one with me. This card has convinced me. It says: ‘Recommended by Fermín: The Grapes of Wrath, by the roguish Johnny Steinbeck, is a symphony of words suitable for alleviating cases of stubborn stupidity and favoring the prophylaxis of the meninx in cases of cerebral constipation provoked by an excess of adherence to the norms of official idiocy.’”

Bea rolled her eyes and pulled the card off the cover. “Forgive me, this business of recommendation cards is one of Fermín’s latest ideas. I try to find them all and pull them off before the customers discover them, but he keeps on hiding them all over the place . . .”