9
DELILAH
Elliot’s Books & Oddities has been in Mountain Springs for decades, wedged between a high-end ski rental shop and a café that charges eight dollars for oat milk lattes.
It smells like dust and vanilla candles. The whole place is cluttered with overstuffed bookshelves, mismatched chairs, and a register so old I have to smack the side of it to get the drawer open.
It’s not exactly thriving, but I love it.
The tourists who roll through town prefer e-books and trendy boutiques, and half the college kids don’t read anything that isn’t on a syllabus.
But I still show up three times a week, stacking bestsellers that not many people buy and helping Mr. Abernathy keep his wife’s dream alive.
“Morning, Delilah!”
Mr. Abernathy shuffles in from the back, wearing his usual cardigan-and-slippers combo, a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a hardcover of Moby-Dick in the other.
“Morning,” I say, already reaching for the stack of books he’s about to drop.
“Ah, you’re too quick for me.” He chuckles.
It’s automatic, the way I steady the books, the way I make sure nothing gets misplaced. Because this store matters to him. More than anything else, mainly because it matters to his wife.
Mrs. Abernathy used to run this place herself before the dementia set in.
Now, she only comes in on good days, sitting behind the counter and rearranging the same three books over and over. And on bad days, she thinks I’m someone else.
“Did you water the plants, darling?”
I guess today is a bad day.
I freeze mid-shelf, fingers brushing the spine of a new romance novel.
Mrs. Abernathy stands in the doorway to the back office, her soft gray sweater hanging loose on her frame, her hands folded neatly like she’s waiting for an answer.
She thinks I’m her daughter.
Mr. Abernathy sets his tea down without hesitation, moving toward her with practiced ease.
“Joan, sweetheart, why don’t you come sit down? I’ll make you some tea.”
But she doesn’t look at him. She’s still watching me, waiting for an answer.
I swallow hard, then nod. “Yeah, I watered them this morning.”
She smiles, relieved. “Good. You always forget, you know. But it’s important. The ivy by the window is looking better already.”
There’s no ivy by the window.
“It is,” I agree softly.
Mr. Abernathy gently takes her elbow and guides her toward the little seating area near the register.
“Why don’t you tell me about the plants, Joan?” he says, voice full of the kind of love that hurts to witness.
She goes easily, still murmuring about sunlight and roots, her fingers brushing along the spines of books like they’re old friends.
I stay frozen by the shelf, one hand resting on a glossy romance cover I’m not reading.
