“And?” I prompt.

  “Well, Elsie and I have been thinking we should have an amnesia-themed month, if that’s not too insensitive to you. Amnesia is a popular romance trope, and the book club would enjoy a lighter read for a change.” One thing I’ve already picked up about Pam is that once she’s on a roll talking, there’s no point trying to stop her so I let her finish. “But usually February is our romance month, so we would also have to explain what happened to you when we put the book forward, which could be a good thing as you wouldn’t have to repeat the story to every single patron you don’t recognize. But it could also backfire…”

  “How?”

  “You know how people are, nothing ever happens in this town, and once the word is out you have amnesia, a bunch of busybodies could pop into the shop just to snoop.”

  I cross my arms on my chest. “I’d rather deal with a few curious customers than having to explain a million times why I can’t remember anything of the past seven years.”

  “Great, then that’s settled.”

  “Have you already picked a book for the club?”

  Elsie replies before Pam has a chance. “We were undecided between a lighter Remember Me? by Sophie Kinsella and a nonfiction title, The Vow, the Carpenters’ true story. That couple’s story is so similar to yours, but at least you remember being with Sam, even if you don’t recall marrying him.”

  Because it didn’t happen, I want to say. But I keep my reply practical instead. “Why don’t we let the book club decide? Can we put a poll in the newsletter?”

  “I’ll set it up in our Goodreads group so I can pick a definitive end date for it. We need to account for enough time to stock the book.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I finally make it to the office and shut myself in with the baby. For the first ten minutes, I relish in the quiet. In the next ten, I organize the desk. By the half an hour mark, I’m already bored to death.

  I even peek at Bram hoping he might give signs of awakening, but he lets out a peaceful, bubbly snore in reply.

  Resigned to the need for human interaction, I exit the room and ask Pam to show me our method to stock the shelves. She gave me a rough idea this morning, but nothing beats a practical lesson.

  I help her carry up the boxes of new arrivals from the basement, and we set up a little sorting area in the faraway corner of the shop where we won’t be bothering patrons.

  As I open the first box, I can hardly contain my excitement at the treasures hidden underneath. Each book is a unique story, a different world, or adventure.

  As Pam and I shuffle books out of the boxes and discuss their placement—top, middle, bottom shelf, cover forward, spine only, front table new releases, and the honorary window spots—I can’t help but notice again none of the books are from Marley Press. Jackie, my partner at Wilkins and Marley in my universe and former colleague in this reality, did leave Bucknam and founded her own publishing house—totally stealing my idea—even in this version of the world. But in this dimension, the company only bears her name. Still, the titles published are eerily the same.

  “Pam,” I say. “I can’t help but notice we don’t stock anything from Marley Press, is that intentional?”

  Pam makes a gagging noise. “Gwak, you—we—hate them, they only publish rubbish with no spine—pun intended.”

  Despite myself, I blush. “Oh. But surely we can find at least one quality book in their catalog?”

  “Not a one, trust me. You always tell me they’re everything that’s wrong with publishing.”

  Mortified, I’m scrambling to come up with a reply when an ear-splitting, high-pitched wail rips through the store.

  Saved by the baby!

  “Guess someone’s hungry,” I say, leaving the last few books for Pam to sort alone.

  I free Bram from the stroller and retire to Mommies’ Heaven to nurse him. While the little mothersucker goes to town on my breasts, I reflect on what Pam just told me. I keep hearing Yashika’s voice as she begged me to publish a—frankly stellar—novel and me refusing in favor of publishing yet another empty, ghostwritten celebrity memoir. True, the company I built in my other life makes money by the bucket, but at what price? And couldn’t we make the same if not more publishing worthy stories?

  When Bram is done eating, I ask Jo if she can play with him for a while. She’s started another fairy tale and looks like she has a mind to say no. Then she must remember her support isn’t voluntary anymore and that if she wants her new dress, she has to work for it because Jo reluctantly drops her book and goes to Mommies’ Heaven with her brother while I stalk Pam around the shop.

  My clerk is helping a middle-aged woman choose her next great romance with the competence and enthusiasm of a real booklover who clearly enjoys her work. Once she’s shipped the customer out of the store with a stack of shiny new paperbacks, I corner her behind the counter.

  “Pam, can you show me the store’s books?”

  “Oh,” she yelps, and jumps back, frightened. “Caroline, you scared me.” She recovers quickly. “You want to see last month’s figures or what time frame are we talking about?”

  “How quick does our accounting system update?”

  “It’s basically instantaneous, why?”

  “Then can you pull up this year’s and last year’s balances? With only a few days left in December, it should be an accurate enough number.”

  “Okay, let me tell Elsie we’re going into the office.”

  A few minutes later Pam brings up the accounting program on the office’s computer and with a few expert clicks prints out two reports, which she hands to me.

  I stare at the numbers, flabbergasted.

  I point at the long string of characters at the bottom of the email. “This is how much we made last year? Net?”

  “Yes.”

  “After paying my salary, your salary, Elsie’s salary, cost of goods, taxes?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Pam, this number is too big. We would have to sell too many books. The store can’t physically contain all this paper.”

  “Well, no, but fifty percent of our profits are from the online store.”

  “We sell online?”

  “Yep.”

  “And don’t shipping fees sink us?”

  “No, most of our online sales are for eBooks?”

  “eBooks? How is that even possible?”

  Pam spends the next twenty minutes explaining our partnership with a major eReader producer and how the move has saved the shop during the Great Pandemic. How people choose to buy from us for the superior quality of our virtual storefront, recommendations, and curated editorial lists. Then she praises my business acumen and basically tells me I’m a luminary.

  I’m still too shocked to believe her.

  “But if I make this much, plus Sam’s income.” I don’t know how much he makes exactly, but it can’t be pennies. “Why do I live like a pauper?”

  “What do you mean you live like a pauper?”

  “My house is crap, I don’t have a nanny, a maid, or a chauffeur, and our car is a minivan, a minivan, for Pete’s sake. And all my clothes are rags. You know I don’t own a single designer item?”

  “Well, my, Caroline, has this amnesia thing given you a princess complex?”

  “Why? What’s wrong with wanting a few comforts?”

  “For one, we aren’t in a Downton Abbey episode. You’d never want a nanny to raise your kids.”

  So I keep hearing.

  “Maura, the woman who cleans the shop, helps you at the house a few times a week. And you don’t need a chauffeur. Where would he even drive you? The five blocks to your house? Which, by the way, is a gorgeous home and not crap by any standard.”

  “It’s no Manhattan penthouse, though.”

  “No, but you wouldn’t want Jo, Will, and Bram to grow up in the city. And you drive a minivan because it is one of the few cars that can fit three car seats.”

  “Okay, but if I don’t spend on clothes, cars, or anything else fun, where does the money go?”

  Pam shifts on her feet, deeply uncomfortable. “I’m not your personal accountant, but if I had to guess I’d say you have the kids’ college funds—”

  “Do you know how much those are?”

  Still uncomfortable, Pam says, “About fourteen hundred each, I think.”

  “Per month?” I ask.

  Pam nods. “Then there’s the mortgage on the shop”—she taps the papers in my hands—“which is not counted here as you wanted to keep the walls and the business separate.”

  “And how much is that?”

  “Twenty-five hundred a month. And the mortgage on the house. Jo goes to a public school, but you’re in the best school district in New Jersey so your house must’ve cost a small fortune and the property tax is a bitch.”

  My head is swirling with possibilities. So far, I’d assumed Jersey Caroline was a business failure, but here she is, sitting on a golden goose and doing nothing about it.

  “If the shop is such a success, why have I not made it a franchise?” I fire at Pam, maybe a little too harshly.

  She takes a step back and bumps against a cabinet. “You-you meant to, but you wanted things to happen slowly as you needed to find the right partners for every new location?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Co-owners who are as passionate as you about books and who share the same integrity. I believe you were in talks with five candidates for three new locations in the northeast. You can find everything in your correspondence.” She takes another step back as if to leave the room.

  A sudden thought occurs to me. “Pam,” I stop her.

  “Yes?”

  “Were we, I mean, are we friends?”

  “Yeah, sure, we’re great friends.”

  “So even if I’m your boss you’re not terrified of me?”

  Pam bites her lower lip. “You’re being a little scary right now.”

  “But I’m usually not.”

  “No,” she confirms. “You’re the best boss ever.”

  “And how does that work with us being friends and me being your boss, too? Do I just let you do whatever you want?” I ask, thinking of the obese cat she brings to work every day.

  “Well, you trust my judgment? I guess?”

  “And what happens when you screw up?”

  “This is a bookshop, not NASA. There isn’t much damage I can do… but you’re always very understanding even if I mess up.”

  I consider this statement. “Can you give me an example of a mistake you made, and I didn’t berate you for?”

  Pam thinks for a second. And just when I’m convinced she’s about to bullshit me with an, I never make mistakes, she talks, “Like take that time I ordered two hundred copies of A Court of Mist and Fury instead of twenty. You didn’t get mad at me, you just told me they’d sell eventually and not to worry.”

  That doesn’t sound like me at all. If an employee at Wilkins and Marley made a mistake that big—comparatively speaking, which would account to making a print order of two hundred thousand copies instead of twenty—I would’ve fired them without a second thought.

  “Did my attitude prompt you to do better in the future?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  “Well, yes. I felt so bad for making the mistake that I organized a Night Court-themed costume party with henna tattoo artists and a sort of speed dating area where people could mingle and search for their Fae mate.”

  “And did it work?”

  “Yes, we sold every single copy of the book and gained a lot of new customers. Two of them even got married last year after meeting at our party.”

  I absorb all this info, digesting it.

  Pam must take my silence the wrong way because she says, “Now I’d better go check if Elsie needs my help.”

  She heads to the door as if she couldn’t wait to get away from me, which she probably is.

  “Thank you, Pam,” I say. “And sorry if I’ve been a little… intense. It’s just that not remembering anything about my life is driving me crazy.”

  Pam’s features soften and a smile comes back to her lips. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, glad I could help.”

  Thirteen

  Baby Shark, Tururuduturu

  I spend the rest of the afternoon leafing through my emails and computer files with all my plans for the franchising. This is brilliant. If other locations performed like this one, I could replace the loss of Borders, become a household name in book distribution. I could be a millionaire.

  I don’t know why I’m so excited when, in fact, I already am a multi-millionaire. I’m simply stuck in an alternate reality for reasons still unclear.

  A knock on the door interrupts my reverie.

  “Mom,” Jo pokes her head in, holding her brother in her arms. “Bram is getting restless, he might want to go for a walk, and I’ve run out of games to make him play. And we need to leave anyway if we want to get to the dress shop before it closes.”

  I look at the clock mounted on the wall opposite the desk and, oh my gosh, I left my seven-year-old daughter to take care of a baby alone for three hours.

  I scramble to get up and relieve her of the chubby mothersucker. Balancing him on one knee, I squat down to be face to face with Jo. “You’ve been a fantastic assistant today; I couldn’t have asked any more of you.” I kiss her forehead. “Now let’s go shopping.”

  Jo shows me her brightest smile, tooth gap and all, and I ruffle her hair before getting up.

  We leave Pam and Elsie in charge of closing the store, and once on the streets, I awkwardly have to ask Jo for directions since I’ve no idea where the dress shop is.

  Bram enjoys the first five minutes of the change of scenery and then drops sleeping like usual. Strollers are made of magic.

  When we enter the boutique, the owner greets us in a tone a few octaves out of a tolerable hearing range.

  I must make a terrorized, mommy-who-just-put-her-baby-to-sleep face because next, the owner—a red-haired middle-aged woman with an uncanny resemblance to the actress playing Lilah Folger senior in Snowpiercer—starts whispering, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t notice little Bram was sleeping.”

  I must know her well if she’s on a first-name basis with my kids. Now the question is, can I fake my way through Jo’s dress exchange without having to explain the whole amnesia situation?

  “What are you doing back so soon?” Lilah Folger asks—since I don’t know her name, that’s what I’m going to call her. She bows ever so slightly in Jo’s direction. “Is something wrong with your dress, sweetheart?”

  “No, Mrs. Parry, but Mom has agreed to buy me the princess gown, the pink one with the tulle skirt.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Folger aka Parry sends a dubious glimpse my way. “I thought your daddy had ruled it out.”

  “Yes, but I’m working to earn the difference. Mommy has hired me to be her personal assistant throughout the holidays.”

  Seeing Jo so proud of her hard work is heartwarming and fills me with pride as well. She’s an extraordinary mini-human.

  “How wonderful,” Mrs. Parry says. “Should I just pack the new dress, or are we trying it on?”

  This last question is addressed to me.

  “She’s trying it on,” I say. Mostly because I want to make sure price was the only reason Sam didn’t buy Jo the princess gown.

  It must’ve been, because when Jo twirls out of the fitting room, she’s a vision. She admires herself from different angles in every mirror in the shop. Jo is so young but already so feminine, and I have to admit the dress is super cute. Flower appliqués cover the bodice, and the blush tulle skirt reaches to her mid-calves.

  I give Mrs. Parry a nod and go to pay while Jo gets changed again.

  For a moment, as I approach the cashier, I panic. Does Jersey Caroline have enough money? Do I even have my wallet in my bag? I check, and yes, it’s there. I take a random credit card out and hand it to Mrs. Parry, following with trepidation as the POS machine processes the payment. When “transaction approved” appears on the screen, I quickly sign the receipt with a sigh of relief.

  “Is everything all right, Caroline?” Mrs. Parry asks. “You’re awfully quiet today.”

  Before I can lie with a non-committal I’m fine, Jo rats me out, “Mom has amnesia, she can’t remember anything from the past seven years, including having me or Will or Bram, or not even marrying Daddy.”

  And I want to say the expression on Mrs. Parry’s face is pure shock, but I also detect a sort of delighted enjoyment.

  “But how is that possible?” she asks, no doubt craving more juicy gossip.

  “I slipped on the ice and hit my head, but the doctor says the injury isn’t serious and that I should be alright in no time. Now, sorry, but we really have to go,” I fake smile, hoping the tidbits of gossip are enough to stifle her interest. “Dinner time.”

  If nothing else, having kids and schedules to follow is a great excuse to get out of any situation.

  ***

  When we arrive home, Sam hasn’t returned yet. Mom hands me a happy Will and informs me they spent the afternoon mostly playing with his toy cars in the bathtub.

  “You do smell good,” I say, picking up my son. “All fresh and clean.”

  Now that he is in my arms, Will clings to my neck with the usual desperation. To say goodbye to my mom and thank her, I have to strain my neck to one side while Will struggles to keep me in place.

  Once Mom is gone, and Jo disappears upstairs to admire her new dress, and while Bram still sleeps in the stroller, I take a minute to sit with Will and have a chat.

  I drop on the couch and convince him to let go of my neck to look me in the eyes.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Why you don’t love me anymore, Mom?”

  I might not be the best mother in the world or not have been at the job for long, but even I know how to answer the accusation. “Of course, I love you. What makes you say that?”