Rosie sighed, looking weary. This seemed to be a battle the two of them had fought before. Emma might have expected Sylvia wouldn’t be a very easy patient. When had she ever taken the easy route? Her grandmother loved causing trouble, which was one of the many reasons Emma adored her.
“You know you’ll heal better if you take it easy,” Rosie said in an ultra-patient tone. “You’re great at the crutches and the knee scooter, but why use them when you don’t have to? We rented the wheelchair. We might as well use it.”
“Fine,” Sylvia grumbled. “But this thing makes me feel like an old lady.”
“Youarean old lady,” Olive piped up from the back seat.
Emma winced. Olive basically had no filter whatsoever. Kind of like her great-grandmother. Maybe that was why the two of them seemed to get along so well.
“Thank you for the reminder, my dear,” Sylvia said, sounding amused rather than annoyed. “I’m definitely not as young as I once was. I suppose it’s fine this once.”
Emma and her mother helped her grandmother from the car to the wheelchair. It didn’t really take both of them, but Rosie seemed happy for Emma’s assistance.
“Want me to push her in?” Emma asked.
Rosie shook her head. “I’ve got it. Go ahead and help Olive.”
The two of them headed to the rear entrance of the bookshop while Emma opened the door for Olive and helped her out of the car.
“I love lovelovebookstores,” her daughter announced, her voice bubbling over with joy as she skipped to the door.
Same, girl. Emma smiled at her, grabbing her hand as anticipation curled through her. This place would be her project for the next few months—assuming Rosie could convince Sylvia to step back, which seemed a formidable task right then.
And speaking of formidable tasks.
Emma walked inside the bookstore and was momentarily speechless. All she could think wasew.
She hadn’t been in here in nearly a decade and it looked like not one single thing had changed. The bookstore seemed trapped in another era, with fluorescent lights, dingy paint the color of old bandages, and crowded, claustrophobia-inducing aisles stacked with dusty books.
Olive looked around. “This place is messy.”
That was one word for it. Emma could think of several others, none of which were appropriate to say in the presence of her three-year-old child.
“We’re in here,” Rosie called out.
Still holding Olive’s hand, Emma made her way to the office that ran along the rear wall. Dust motes floated like tiny shards of gold in the light coming through the front windows. She might think them pretty under other circumstances. Circumstances where she had not found herself suddenly responsible for turning a profit out of this cluttered, disorganized pit of despair.
Inside the office, she found her mother trying to move a chair so Sylvia’s wheelchair could fit at the computer desk.
“Did you see the play area when you came in?” Sylvia asked. “I keep old books I find at Goodwill and yard sales for kids to read while they’re in here. They can even take them home if they want. It’s our own version of a Little Free Library.”
“That’s nice. A play area is a good idea,” Emma said as she exchanged a look with her mother. Wasn’t a bookstore supposed tosellbooks?
“It gives the children somewhere to hang out in the store so they don’t pull everything off the shelves, plus keeps them occupied while their parents shop for books,” Sylvia said. “The toys may be outdated. I only have some blocks, a couple of trucks and a play kitchen I bought at a yard sale. The kids seem to enjoy it anyway.”
“Maybe Olive can play there sometimes while you’re working,” Rosie said, that anxious note in her voice again.
Her mother was trying so hard to make sure Emma was comfortable. Her eagerness made Emma’s throat feel tight and achy.
“That will be great,” she said, meaning the words.
Olive was the main reason she was here in Wood Briar. For her daughter’s entire life, Olive had spent more time in day care than with her own mother. Emma had been busy working or going to school, though she tried her best to juggle her responsibilities around her daughter’s schedule and take mostly online classes, where she could do the schoolwork while Olive was in bed.
Her daughter was smart, healthy, well-adjusted. But in her nearly four years, she had already been through eight day care situations.
In another year, she would be heading to kindergarten, then grade school. She was growing up far too fast. Emma wanted the chance to be with her more and to have her enjoy as much time as possible with her grandmother and great-grandmother.
Finding good quality childcare was the single hardest thing Emma had to do as a single mother. Harder than staying up all night with her when Olive was ill, even after a long shift at work. Harder than the constant grinding worry about finances. Harder than the equally grinding effort to stay sober so she could be the mother her daughter deserved.
