The bookstore is crowded with shoppers lingering with coffees in their hands and market bags over their shoulders. The store is warm and cozy, and the new flooring, a faux-wood laminate, looks surprisingly real and inviting.
I breathe in the familiar scent of fresh coffee and paper, my new favorite combination and fixation.
Paper flowers made from donated used books decorate the walls. There are comfy-looking chairs with well-loved pillows just begging to be rocked in. On the large-screen television mounted on the wall, the state poet laureate is reading from her latest book, her beautiful words scrolling by in bold captions.
I notice that the table display set up near the television looks nicely picked over. Meaning the shoppers have noticed the poet and bought her books. Chloe is so, so damn clever. Such a smart businesswoman. She’s turned her aunt’s failing café into a thriving, homey place.
I drop my purse at my feet and lean my elbows on the counter with a dramatic sigh.
“Extra-large?” Chloe’s eyes sparkle as she takes my order.
“Heck yeah, and Chloe, please,” I say, “tell me you’re not sold out of peanut butter crisps yet.”
The luster of her smile dulls a bit as she nibbles on the corner of her lower lip. “Oh Gracie, I sold out. The kids’ event…” She waves her hand toward the gathering.
I shake my head. Just my luck, but hell, I can’t really be mad. “Next time,” I say. “I’ll get herebeforestory hour.”
“Text me in the morning, and I’ll set one aside for my favorite sister-in-law.”
“I’m your only sister-in-law.”
Chloe laughs, waving me off before she walks away.
As she heads to the back to make my coffee, the woman reading in the middle of the circle motions me over.
Carol Miles is one of my mother’s best and oldest friends. And by oldest, I mean Ma and her crew of ladies have been tight since, like, high school.
Carol recently separated from her husband, Earl, who owns the shop where my brother Franco works as a mechanic.
Small-town life is something else.
You can’t sneeze without someone you know sending their blessings your way.
Carol is standing holding a colorful book, but by the looks of it, story hour just ended. Most of the parents and kids are wandering past the folding chairs toward the waist-high kid-friendly bookshelves. A brand-new lightbulb-shaped area rug rests on the new flooring, and a sign hand-lettered by Chloe reads, “Great Ideas Start th Play.”
I steer clear of the kids’ section and anything kid-related these days. And while I’m not exactly triggered being around kids, I still sort of go out of my way not to hang with them. There are times when seeing a baby clutching its mother’s shoulder in line at the grocery store will bring me to tears. It’s not a good look when I’m in line with people I don’t know, but here at the bookstore… No, thanks.
I grab my purse and head over to greet Carol. I tiptoe between the folding chairs and lean forward to kiss both her cheeks.
“Gracie. You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she says a little too loudly. “Your mother told me about the water damage at the shop.”
“Thankfully, it’s not that bad. The building owner wants to make sure we have all the permits and inspections in order before we reopen. Won’t be long now,” I assure her.
I live with my parents. Every night since the store closed, I’ve had to listen to my parents’ worries about my finances. The last thing I need is one of my surrogate moms piling on the concern.
“Well, you know you can come help Bev at the shelter. She’s always looking for volunteers.”
Chloe approaches us with my coffee in her hands but looks rushed. “I have a customer at the register,” she says. “Be right back to chat.”
I ignore the way Carol is looking at me and get back to the matter at hand. “With all the fosters Ma brings home, our house is already like a shelter,” I remind her.
“Ummm…Excuse me?”
We both lower our eyes to a little boy, maybe five or six years old, who is looking up at Carol. “Can you help me find a copy of the book you read for story hour? My dad can’t find it.”
The boy is pointing toward the shelves, when a muscled wall of a man ambles between the rows. I see a familiar set of broad shoulders and a sultry, warm smile.
“Coffee?” he calls out. “Is that you?”
