The bookstore wason Short Street, off Main Street. As the name implied, it was only short and paved, with just a few stores on each side before it met the riverbank. There were trees by the river and some new tables with chairs that weren’t there before. Part of the youth center, if I recalled correctly. There was talk about it at work when the center had first opened. I remembered my dad saying it’d be good for the kids in town. There were a few kids seated there now, talking and laughing among themselves, but I pretended I hadn’t noticed them.
I hadn’t been down here since the center opened, and the training café next door, and now the bookstore opposite.It was a nice little corner of town, especially with the sound of the river and the overhead sun.
The bookstore was a long, narrow shop with a glass front, and I could see Winter inside. He was wearing gray pants and a blue cardigan, putting a stack of books on the counter. He had some facial hair. Not a full beard, but enough scruff to give his jaw definition.
Seeing him made my tummy feel all jittery again, but not in an anxious way. This felt different. Like nerves and excitement, maybe? It was hard to tell.
Like when I was younger, waiting for a birthday, or the first day of spring.
I knocked on the door, and he smiled as he opened it. “Deacon, please come in.”
I stepped inside, trying to rein in my smile. I was excited to see him again, yes. But as soon as I saw all the books, it became something else.
“Wow,” I said. “It really does look like a bookstore.”
There were shelves on both walls, some lined with books, some with books stacked on them. Piles of books on the counter, and boxes and boxes of books on the floor.
Winter put his hand to his forehead. “It’s getting there. We’re doing inventory right now, getting things entered into the system. It’s the most labor-intensive part, but we’re getting there.”
That was twice he’d said we, and I had to wonder to whom he was referring just as a woman came out of the backroom. She was older, had grayish curly hair to her shoulders, she wore a bright green linen dress that matched her glasses, and red lipstick. She stopped and grinned when she saw me.
“You must be Deacon,” she said brightly. “I’m Rowena, Winter’s aunt.” She picked up a laundry basket with ablanket in it and slid it onto a stack of boxes. “Good timing for you to be here because these two just woke up.”
Ah, the kittens.
The reason for my visit.
I went over to her, peering inside the jumble of soft blankets. Two little blue eyes peered back at me and let out a tiny, squeaky meow. Then Winter was beside me, standing close enough for me to feel the heat of his body but not touching.
I was grateful.
He reached in and scooped out the kitten. “This is Bright. He’s a menace.” But then he cradled the cat to his chest and gave it a gentle kiss on its forehead. “He’s a big old meanie to his little brother. He just barrels right over him.”
I found myself smiling at them, then reached in to pick up Merry. “It’s normal for one to be dominant, the leader, if you will. The strongest, biggest.”
“Loudest,” Winter supplied. “Hungriest. Meanest.” He reached over and gave Merry a gentle rub. “Poor little one.”
“As long as he gains weight, he’ll be fine. Is he eating okay?”
Winter gave a nod and a shrug. “He takes his bottle just fine. It’s best to feed this little monster first.” He gave Bright another kiss. “Then Merry can take his time and get all he needs.”
“Well,” I said, “it sounds as though you’ve got them figured out. Seeing they have different needs, even at this age, is great. But you said you had questions?”
“Yes. I made a list.” He went over to the counter and collected a piece of paper. “I wrote things down as I thought of them.”
Then he proceeded to ask me things about toileting frequency, increasing milk, introduction of solids, is thebasket and blanket suitable or should he use something else, how often should he change the hot water bottle...
It was quite a list.
He’d tried googling such things but found conflicting information, and he was petrified of doing the wrong thing.
His worry for them and his affection toward them was sweet.
He heated up some of their milk and showed me how he’d been feeding them. He’d taken to it so well and was doing just fine. The kittens seemed to be doing well, and I had no doubt they’d be growing by the minute.
They were so cute, as all baby animals were, but the way he was with them—the way he held them and talked to them—made me feel warm and swoopy inside.
“You have no reason to be worried,” I told him. “You’re doing a great job.”
