"Hello there," a low, throaty voice says. I follow the sound and watch a young woman come from an opening near the back of the store.
I blink, surprised for the shortest second, then gather myself. The gravelly voice had me expecting an older woman, but this woman is probably about my age, maybe thirty but not a day over.
"Hi," I say, smiling at her.
She walks behind a shabby desk that looks like it's used as a register. A can of pens topped with faux flowers sits beside an outdated cash register. She’s wearing a cute crop-top and high-waisted jeans, and I wonder if she’s from around here. She doesn’t have the hippie vibe most others do.
"Welcome to Books 'N' More." She gazes at me expectantly, her voice completely monotone, telling me she most definitely hates her job. “Let me know if you have any questions.” Her dark, curly hair just barely touches her shoulders and she wears large gold hoop earrings.
I look around the place, then back at her. "Hey," I greet her. "I do have a question."
She stays quiet but nods her head, giving me permission to ask.
"Why the wordMorein the name of the store? I only see books."
Yes, I’m having that kind of day—desperate to get my mind off of Owen and my mom so I’ll chat up some random chick about her store name. The woman grimaces as she steps around to the side of the desk and props a flattened palm on the worn surface. "That would be the work of my crazy grandma. Bless her heart." Her other palm, the one she's not using to balance on the desk, covers her heart. "She owned this place for years. Still does, technically. We didn't realize she was losing it a bit." The woman points to her head and makes a swirl with her fingers.
I wince, in part because I feel bad for the grandma and in part because I'm taken aback by the brutal honesty of this girl.
She notices. "Did I overshare? I'm a say-it-like-it-is person. Blame it on my New York upbringing.”
I smile and instantly like her. "No, you didn’t overshare. I've spent the last six years living in Manhattan. What part are you from?"
I see amusement trickle into her eyes and her lips curve into a slight smile. "A fellow New Yorker, don’t get many of us around here. I grew up in Queens. What's your name?"
"Autumn Cummings."
Not sure I would call myself a “New Yorker,” but I'll run with it.
She extends a hand. "Well, Autumn Cummings who lived in Manhattan for the past six years, I'm Olivia Rhodes. But don't call me that, because only my mother does. I go by Livvie."
I like how fast she talks. I like her tough exterior. Taking her hand, I give it a good shake.
"What do you have in those bags?" She peers pointedly at my hands.
"Fudge, soap, wine, and olive oil."
She raises one eyebrow. "You sharing?"
"You want to eat soap and drink olive oil?"
She barks a laugh. "No but I’ll take some of that wine."
I look at the front door, certain she’s kidding. "Aren't you open for business right now?"
Livvie marches to the door and turns the lock. Then she flips over theOpensign and turns back to me. "Not anymore," she announces. "Pop a bottle. I need a drink."
* * *
"That'sthe saddest reason I've ever heard for coming home," Livvie says after I've told her part of my life story and why I’m back in Sedona. She takes a sip of her wine, shaking her head.
We're drinking from paper cups she grabbed from beside the coffee machine.
I take the tiniest sip. I'm supposed to pick up my mom when she's finished. The last thing I need is to tell Owen I can't make it because I've been day drinking.
"And somehow your reason for being here is not just as sad?" A senile grandmother who'd been running her business into the ground unbeknownst to her family makes for a depressing tale too. Livvie jumped in to try and save it, but she’s ready to sell it and be done with the whole business if she can’t turn it around and make a profit.
Livvie leans back against a row of books. We're sitting on the ground between two bookshelves, hidden away from anybody who might pass by and peer through the store window.
