Me:Ban. Block. Delete.
Ivy:I volunteer to mediate. But by “mediate,” I mean “stir.”0:)
Me:Don’t you have a stage to dominate?
Ivy:Not until tonight. In the meantime, send a pic of your roof so I can text a contractor, a lawyer, and possibly a priest.
Me:It’s fine. He nailed things. It held. (That sounded…)
Lila:I’M SCREAMING.
Me:Out. Both of you. I have customers.
Ivy:Wearecustomers. Support your local chaos.
I kill the screen before my smile gives me away and ring up a stack of romances for a shy college kid who whispers, “Do these end happily?” like she’s begging for proof the universe keeps promises.
“They do here,” I tell her, bagging the books like keepsakes. “That’s the shelf rule.”
When the bell rings again, I brace for another wave, but it’s only Grayson from the post office, hat tipped back, carrying a bundle of mail that looks like it lost a fight with a small boat. He thumps it onto the counter and leans his elbows there like he’s about to deliver bad news with a grin.
“Morning, Bailey,” he says. “We’ve got catalogs, a flyer for theBack Bay Harvest Bash,and one fancy envelope that smells expensive.”
“Smelling mail is a federal offense.”
“Only if you get caught.” He winks at Daisy, pockets a muffin when he thinks I’m not looking, and disappears back into the weather.
I sort the stack. Catalog. Catalog. A postcard from a grateful customer traveling through Maine. A flyer asking for volunteers for the pumpkin regatta (no). A cream envelope with an embossed edge and no return address.
My palms go cold the second I touch the paper. Not in dread. Not quite in hope. In recognition.
I slide a nail under the flap and ease it open.
For the children’s corner,the note says in neat, stubborn loops.To keep the light on. — A friend
My throat goes tight. The check is generous without being showy, almost like the person who wrote it knows the exact line between help and insult. I turn the paper over, looking for a signature I already know won’t be there.
I fold the note back in and tuck the envelope under the counter with the care you give fragile things nobody else sees.
Daisy watches me watching myself. “Good thing?” she asks quietly.
I nod. “Good person.”
She doesn’t push. She passes me a napkin and a look that saysI’m here if you need to fall apart like wet cardboard.
A gust rattles the windows. The lighthouse answers with a low groan, like an acknowledgment between old friends. I glance up toward the lantern room, praying she holds together this season.
“Okay,” Daisy says briskly, switching gears the way people who love you do when they sense the cliff edge. “Inventory. New arrivals. Which of these would you recommend to a woman who wants a book boyfriend who apologizes promptly and has excellent carpentry skills?”
“Does he also read labels before washing sweaters?” I ask, defaulting to banter because it’s the rope I know the knots on best.
“Hot.”
I laugh, and we fall into the easy rhythm of our morning: me tagging new stock and her taste-testing frosting “for quality assurance.” The bell rings; we serve. The bell rests; we breathe.
By late morning, the drizzle starts—the soft kind that makes the world smell clean and the town move slower. A class of third graders squeezes in, damp and excited, as their teacher distributes scavenger-hunt lists with items likeFind a book with a dog,Find three different fonts,Find the word lighthouse.They fan out like bees. I answer questions, point to spines, and ignore the kid trying to barter me his plastic dragon for a sticker.
When the last small body bounces out and the door closes,A Page in Timehuffs like it’s just finished running a race. I lean both hands on the counter and let the silence fill my bones.
