I thumbed through the messages and returned several calls. While I listened to Mrs. Ball rattle off the license plate numbers of every car she spotted rolling the stop sign near her house, I paged through the newspaper in search of Annette.
"I'll send a deputy out to watch that intersection," I promised. "Bye now, Mrs. Ball."
Once I reached the Lifestyle section, I found Annette's smiling face. She was gorgeous as always but it was her confidence that radiated from the page. She had her arm resting on the counter inside her shop, piles of books at her back. I remembered her wearing that dress several weeks ago, the aqua one with the funky print along the hem. After the interview, I'd dragged her into the storeroom, ducked under the skirt, and offered my congratulations with my tongue.
A sidebar listed her top new releases of the past summer as well as her all-time favorites, plus recommendations for younger readers. The page was loaded with bright photos of Annette's shop and close-ups of her chatting with customers. They were great shots and Annette looked amazing. The article, that was another story.
The reporter went for the lady bookseller angle, favoringladyoverbook. I would've been on board with a good boost for women-owned businesses but the interview centered around her personal life rather than her career.
The reporter seemed to draw connections between Annette's favorite books and her marital status, writing, "It's no surprise this lover of all things Jane Austen is holding out for Mr. Right. When asked about her own experiences with romance, Ms. Cortassi demurred but later admitted she was 'very single.'"
I would've been all right with "single." I could've taken that punch and gone on fighting but "very single" knocked me out. I was on the ground, my eyes crossed and stars spinning over my head, and it took me a full minute of reminding myself that interview took place amonthago to get back up.
Blinking down at the newspaper, I skimmed the last paragraphs. Thankfully, I wasn't tempted to put my fist through a wall while reading but I still resented the hell out of this reporter. I had a mind to write a letter to the editor, complaining about that reporter's lack of professionalism. Readers deserved better than reporters who saw nothing more than a woman's bare ring finger.
And I wanted to talk to Annette about this. About thevery. We were going to get a few things straight, yes, we were. There was nosingle, novery, none of it. Even if the interview hadn't aged well, I wanted to hear that from her.
I pushed out of my chair and pivoted, facing Annette's shop. It seemed like she had some customers in there but I could go in through the back door and wait until she was finished. We'd talk, we'd make sense of this impasse, and then I'd take my woman home with me. Keep her home with me.
19
Curdling
v. The condition when a food mixture separates into its component parts.
Annette
The last thingI expected to see this afternoon was my mother and sisters marching through the village like they were storming the beaches. My hands froze over the stack of books on the counter as I watched them descend on my shop in near-identical outfits: yoga pants, neon sneakers, t-shirts emblazoned with the regional middle school's mascot, a fuckton of makeup.
"What do I owe you, dear?" Cindy asked, snapping me out of my surprise-visit-induced stupor.
"Sorry about that," I murmured, blinking down at the counter. I added the last of Cindy's selections and pivoted the sales screen toward her. "Twenty ninety-seven."
She thumbed a few bills from the purse she kept belted around her waist. Some would call it a fanny pack. Cindy wasn't one of those people. She called it a cross-body bag and didn't have time for anyone who tried to correct her.
"I have twenty-one dollars and two pennies for you," she said, sliding the money toward me, "for a nickel back."
I bagged her books, my gaze continuously pinging over her shoulder at my family as they neared the shop. I was able to convince myself they were in town for reasons other than visiting with me. Perhaps they wanted ice cream from the local creamery or craved some fried fish goodness from The Galley. Better yet, they were getting their steps in with a harbor view today. All perfectly reasonable.
"I think you'll like this one," I said, gesturing to the newest in a series about a family of hunky, swoony California winemakers. "Steamy. Real steamy. But a lot of substance, too."
"I bet you're right," Cindy answered, her smile wide and her eyes glittering with the joy of getting lost in a new story. "If you don't mind, I'm just going to browse a bit more. Poke around. See if I can't blow the whole paycheck."
"Be my guest," I said with a forced laugh. I couldn't find any humor with my family on the sidewalk.
When the door chime announced their arrival, I played busy. My focus on the box of new releases in front of me, I called, "I'll be right with you. Just looking over next week's new titles. I know one of them is going to fly right off the shelves and I won't be able to—"
"We're not here to talk about books, Annette," Nella said.
"Well, not right now," Lydia added.
"But can we talk about that dress real quick?" Rosa asked, zigzagging her finger in my direction. "Because the cut is fine but the color is a crime against your skin tone. I swear to god, Annette, I'm going to clean out your closet one of these days and get rid of all the pastel. Baby shades don't work for you."
"You're right," Nella murmured.
Glancing up, I worked hard at pulling a surprised expression. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy seeing my family. I did. I also liked the time and space to mentally fortify myself for those interactions. And wine. I liked wine.
"Oh my gosh! What are you guys doing here?" I asked, holding my arms wide but staying behind the counter. Not in a million years was I acknowledging that comment about my dress. I loved this pale pink sundress and I wasn't parting with it for anything. My sisters could lapse into full-on Fashion Police mode on me and I didn't have one good shit to give about it.
