Instead, I say: “I need your signature on the lease renewal.”
Something shutters in her expression. The moment—whatever it was—passes.
“Right. Business.” She moves toward the counter, reaching for a pen. “Where do I sign?”
Before I can answer, the door crashes open.
Grandma Hensley sweeps in, takes one look at Jessica and me standing too close with paperwork between us, and stops dead. Her expression shifts from surprise to interest to something that looks disturbingly like she’s filing information for later blackmail purposes.
“Oh!” She presses a hand to her chest with theatrical surprise. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t realize you had company. At seven-twenty in the morning. Before business hours.Alone.”
She says “alone” like it’s a word with seventeen syllables and several implications.
“It’s not—” I start.
“Mr. Avery was just leaving,” Jessica interrupts smoothly. “He had very boring paperwork. Nothing interesting happening here whatsoever.”
“Of course not.” Grandma Hensley’s smile suggests she believes absolutely none of this. “I’ll just browse until you’re finished with your...paperwork.”
She moves toward the stacks with the casual air of a woman who’s absolutely going to eavesdrop on everything.
I should leave. Should take the hint and go.
But Grandma Hensley is already settling into a chair with a clear sightline to the counter, and Jessica is signing the documents with aggressive penmanship, and somehow I find myself drifting toward the shelves instead of the door.
“I need a book for my great-grandaughter’s sixteenth birthday,” Grandma Hensley announces, abandoning all pretense of not being involved in our conversation.
“Kira?” Jessica asks, referring to Hazel’s daughter.
“No, it’s Kira’s cousin. She’s going through a rough time. Parents divorcing. Feels like her world’s ending. Needs something that reminds her love is real, you know?”
Jessica’s entire demeanor softens. The tension in her shoulders releases. This is her element—matching books to hearts.
“I have exactly the right one.”
She moves through her shop with the confidence of someone who knows every spine by memory. Runs her fingers along a shelf in the Young Adult section, pulls out a book with a cover that’s been obviously well-loved.
“This one,” she says, bringing it back to the counter. “It’s about a girl rebuilding her life after her parents’ divorce. Finds herself through art and friendship and eventually love, but the love story is secondary to her learning that she’s complete on her own.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“It is.” Jessica’s smile is genuine, warm—the smile she reserves for readers, not landlords. “I’ve recommended it to three other teenagers this year going through similar situations. All three came back to thank me.”
She doesn’t mention that she probably hand-sold those books at a loss. Doesn’t talk about how she remembers every customer’s story and matches books to hearts like she’s some kind of literary therapist.
She just does it because it matters.
I watch from the stacks, pretending to examine a display of beach reads, and my chest warms. This is who she is. Not the struggling business owner or the tenant I’m threatening to evict. Just Jessica, using stories to make people feel less alone.
Making the world smaller and kinder, one reader at a time.
“Now,” Grandma Hensley says as Jessica rings up the purchase, “what about you, dear? How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine, Grandma Hensley.”
“Are you? Because I heard about that rent situation.” She shoots me a look that could peel paint off walls. “And I want you to know?—”
“It’s handled. Everything’s fine.”
