Then they’d polished him into someone I barely recognized. At first he’d been miserable. He sent me the photos they’d shot for his album cover with an angst-ridden letter, followed by drunken phone calls. And then he slowly became that other person, the phone calls grew less frequent, and Dylan Ramirez ceased to exist.
Sighing, I closed out the browser and tried to get some random miscellany accomplished. I checked the schedule for the week since school was out and I wanted to advertise a teen summer reading group. I finished off my beer and went to grab another, yawning. It wasn’t late, and I had a newsletter to lay out. Before I started that, I sent an email to an author about an upcoming signing event at the store.
It was close to midnight when I opened my last beer and my work-in-progress sequel. I wasn’t dumb enough to write with a buzz on, but I giggled, leaving myself passive-aggressive comments to Silver Fox in the margins.
What does some sixty-year-old virgin know about romance?
These would either be hilarious or pathetic in the morning, but it felt good to take out my revenge with my mighty pen—like slaying a dragon. It was a relief to finally laugh about it.
Chapter 4
Morning light filtered in red through my closed lids, and I woke with a slow awareness that the chiming sounds were in fact my alarm and not an invasion of customers opening my shop door in a massive stream. My head throbbed like I’d been slamming back beers. Maybe I had been.
Calling in sick isn’t an option for a sole proprietor, so I rolled out of bed, fighting an urge to barf. I half crawled to the kitchen and fell into a chair.
Layla appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Did you successfully drown your sorrows?”
“What are you doing up so early? Have you been up all night?”
“Crazy rumors are swirling. Had to make sure everyone on the forum was behaving.”
She started grinding coffee, and the pounding in my head increased. I groaned.
She cast a concerned look my way. “How late did you stay up?”
“Uh.” I cast my mind back to try to remember when exactly I’d finally put the computer away. “I had this dream that I got into a taxi and the driver was that reviewer. I gave him a piece of my mind. It was kind of cathartic.” That’s what I got for burning him in effigy before going to sleep.
She opened the fridge. “Can I fix you something to eat?”
“Nah. I’ll grab a muffin and coffee at the shop.”
I took my time showering away my hangover. On mornings like this, I was glad I was the shop’s owner. Nobody could yell at me if I rolled in a little late. Not that I had many mornings like this. I hadn’t gone on a bender since—well, since Peter ditched me with a church full of friends and an uneaten wedding cake. I ate the cake, then made use of the open bar in the reception hall. I figured the deposit was nonrefundable.
When I returned to my room, I found Layla digging through my closet. Not at all ashamed to have been caught, she said, “I need to borrow something professional.” She sorted through my slacks and blouses like she was going through a sales rack. “Wow, Maddie. I didn’t know you owned so many dresses.”
I’d built an extensive career wardrobe, but the dresses were for after work. Peter would take me to cocktail parties with friends and corporate events with colleagues. We looked dashing together, though people would often assume he had fifteen years on me. The sprays of silver highlights in his hair lent him maturity and a weird advantage in his business. Women twice my age would flirt with him right in front of me, and men who didn’t realize he was barely thirty would nod approvingly at me as evidence Peter had landed a hot young trophy wife.
Later that night, in the privacy of our apartment, those dresses would hit the floor, as we undressed each other, laughing at how stuffy those parties were, at how we’d never let ourselves get sucked into that world. We’d be in it, but not of it. That was the plan once upon a time.
Layla fanned out the red fabric of a slinky cocktail dress, probably imagining how it would look on her. Or me. I’d bought those dresses in another time. Another place. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Layla reached behind my wardrobe and brushed the fir trees of last Christmas. If I walked through, could I step into my old life exactly the way I’d left it six months before?
When Layla unearthed a black polka-dotted A-line from the very edges of history, my heart squeezed. I’d worn that one year ago when I’d dragged Peter to our first and last bachata class. Halfway through the lesson, Letitia announced we’d be switching partners. Peter scanned the room, and his gaze came back to me. He pulled me close and whispered, “I came here to dance with you.” Rather than make the best of an awkward situation, he walked out, leaving me in the impossible position of either finishing the class without a partner, or worse, quitting on Letitia as well. It was our first fight over Orion. He apologized later, and I forgave him, but we never went back for another lesson. Only in hindsight could I recognize it as foreshadowing our final break.
I should have donated all those clothes a long time ago. “Take what you want. I have to go.”
Layla laid a hand on my wrist. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I lied. “Stop in later, okay? Get out and prove to the world you’re still alive.”
When I descended the stairs and exited out my front door, I was met by Saturday morning in Orion. Out on the sidewalk, kids in white karate uniforms dragged huge duffel bags up the sidewalk in one direction while little girls in pink leotards headed in the other, toward Letitia’s for dance lessons. I’d spent plenty of time myself in her studio, either learning rudimentary martial arts or ballet. Later, my mom pressured me into taking ballroom dance with other teens. Max and I giggled our way through the Foxtrot.
Letitia stood in the doorway of her studio chatting with parents. She waved, and I yelled, “Where were you last night?”
She called over, “I had a date!” and a chorus of young kids responded in a singsong ooOOoo.
“Anyone I know?”
“No! I met him online.”
Ridiculous. I couldn’t believe anyone could build a real relationship on the Internet. Between Layla and now Letitia, I knew it happened, but it would be so much harder to get to know someone that way.
Across the street, a few customers enjoyed the beautiful morning at small tables outside Gentry’s. If I had opened on time, would they be sitting in my café instead?
I looked both ways before crossing Main Street toward my own bookstore, waving at the parents herding their children toward their cars or to the library or elsewhere. Some of the younger kids would show up to my bookstore for story time later. Parents might then buy my coffee and pastries. Maybe even a book or two.
If I could inspire one of those kids to become a lifelong reader, I’d feel satisfied I’d done something good. My attempts at a teen reading group had so far fallen on deaf ears. Most of the older kids had jobs during the summer. When they weren’t working or vandalizing my storefront, they’d either hang out at Anderson’s eating pizza or run around outside unsupervised, much like Max, Layla, and I had done when we were younger.
Even with all our adventures, I’d always found the time to read. During the school year, I’d established a familiar habit of taking a detour to the bookstore before walking home. Mrs. Moore would show me the latest books to arrive or point me to an overlooked classic. We’d sometimes talk about the books we’d read—our own small book club.
My allowance was always earmarked for a new book, and as soon as I’d finish one, I’d donate it to the library so someone else might encounter the same worlds I’d walked through. Sometimes Max, my constant shadow back then, would turn around and pick up my castoffs and follow me to the Mossy Stone to sit on that rickety old stool and eavesdrop on my discussions with Mrs. Moore, always ready to contradict our interpretations.
When I’d visit from college, I could count on Mrs. Moore to recommend some mindless fun reading to pass the holidays. I assumed she’d always
be there, and it never occurred to me that I’d one day replace her.
After Mrs. Moore died, I came home and walked into this bookstore, breathing it in, letting the peace settle over me, the sense of belonging, of being home. Remembering. And I swear the bookstore remembered me.
I dearly wanted to buy the shop, but Peter convinced me to focus on working my way up the corporate ladder rather than throw away borrowed money. Wes Moore, the eldest son, took over and tried to keep his mom’s business afloat. Books were never his passion, and whenever I’d stop in, it was apparent he wasn’t happy. As a result, the store he’d cleverly renamed Read Moore Books wasn’t thriving.
One day, without consulting Peter, on pure gut instinct, I approached Wes with an offer. At first Peter rolled with my change in plans and even helped me get the financing to buy the store. His down payment and co-signature secured the mortgage, making him a silent partner. At least, he didn’t interfere with how I ran the business. Not at first anyway.
Wes seemed relieved to be able to let the place go to someone who would love it.
And I did love it.
Every time I walked inside, the air of my youth enveloped me. I’d traveled to many distant lands while curled up in the corner nook. It was only fitting that the store itself could transport me in time.
I fetched my keys and fumbled for the right one. A couple of skateboarders came out of nowhere and nearly knocked me over. I glared after, resisting the urge to shake a fist.
After a good thrust, the door opened. I went to flip on the lights and a soft jazz station, then started a pot of coffee
My phone buzzed with a text from Max. Stopped by, but the shop was closed. Everything okay?
A sinking feeling of guilt hit me. I should have been here early enough to take care of business instead of pulling an all-night pity party over my writing, which let’s face it was more a hobby than a career.
I shot off a reply. Here now. So sorry. Could you stop by when you get a chance?
In my kitchen, I had a surplus of double chocolate muffins nobody had bought the day before. They’d have to do until Max arrived. It was close to lunch anyway, and I had a small menu of sandwiches I could make. Most people just ordered coffee anyway.
As I restocked one corner of my display unit, my phone blurted You’ve got mail! and I wondered who was trying to reach me through my author account so early.
I played a game of anticipating whether the email would be something fun, like finding out my agent had sold movie rights, or mundane, like a newsletter from a writing organization. Since it was Saturday, I put my money on the latter.
After I fixed my own coffee and muffin, I grabbed a seat in the café to catch up on all my missed notifications.
The subject heading waiting for me made me nearly choke:
Subject: Re: Silver Fox review
I set the phone down, unsure if I wanted to read on. I thought my rant had all been a dream, just drunken fantasies playing out in my subconscious. Evidence would seem to prove otherwise. Apparently, I had emailed Mr. Silver Fox, and I had a nauseatingly good idea what I’d written. None of it good. Layla was going to give me hell.
The bell over the door jangled, sparing me from mustering the courage to find out how badly I’d fucked up. The arrival of a potential customer cheered me up until Gentry Lamar poked his gray-haired head in. “Madeleine?”
“Over here.”
He strode in, all business. “Madeleine, are you aware that door is a fire hazard?”
Ever since Gentry had been elected president of the town council, he considered himself president of Orion. Nobody else wanted the position, so we were stuck with the dictator. Emphasis on dick. He was mostly harmless, though, and it was easier to let him handle organizing town events. We paid the price with his prissiness.
“What do you need, Gentry?”
He pursed his lips. “I thought we’d talked about leaving our ‘Buy in Orion’ flags up through Labor Day. I noticed yours is not hanging outside your door. Have you taken it down?”
Those stupid flags. “I may have taken it down.”
“Your shop stands out as the only one not participating in the Chamber of Commerce’s efforts to promote local business.” He had a way of both whining and commanding at the same time. The word I wanted was needling.
I hadn’t even taken a sip of my coffee. “If I promise to put it up, will you stop berating me?”
He scowled. “I was not berating you. I’m simply pointing out a deficiency. I’ll thank you for correcting the problem.”
I waited, but he didn’t leave. “Is there something else?”
“Yes. Could I get an assortment of muffins to go?”
My face must have looked cartoonishly shocked. “Gentry, you sell your own muffins.”
He’d always had a better selection of muffins and croissants and scones than I did. Plus Max told me he’d hired a nightly pastry chef. He probably had all kinds of fancy breakfast pies and extravagant donuts.
He scanned my paltry leftovers. “Yes, but we’ve run out.”
Was he serious? Or psyching me out? The only way Gentry could have run out of muffins would be if his business was booming. Maybe I ought to rethink Max’s offer to set up shop in my kitchen.
If Gentry wanted to pay me full price for Max’s stale muffins, I should have let him. After all his money was as good as anyone else’s. But I couldn’t very well run a coffee shop with nothing to feed people. “No, Gentry. Those are for my customers. You know that.”
He looked around slowly. “What customers exactly?”
I bit back a blistering retort, vowing to take out my frustration later in writing. Everything was fuel for my fiction.
On his way out, Gentry paused. “I’m glad you’ve reconsidered the sign. And fix this door. I’d hate to have to report your shop as a death trap.”
No, he wouldn’t. He’d been nagging me about every aspect of my store since I’d moved in, from the peeling paint on the windowsills to the minuscule crack in the foundation where that damn dandelion kept creeping back. He’d made it no secret he would love to buy me out so he could demolish the bookstore and turn this space into a bed-and-breakfast to accompany his small restaurant. He’d need to drive me out, but there was little chance of that. Didn’t stop him from measuring for curtains whenever he stopped in.
The minute Gentry left, I turned the deadbolt to keep the door from closing all the way, intending to investigate the atrocity in my inbox, but Max’s van arrived. I started to tell him I probably only needed half as many muffins now, but I was interrupted by the arrival of little chatterbox Lucy Rhodes and her taciturn brother Dallas. The bell jingled again and again as parents steered their children in and crowded into the small corner cubby.
Sweet little cherubs sat on their knees with parents standing behind them, chatting with the other adults. I perched on a beanbag, eye level with the kids, and picked up the copy of Stuart Little we’d been reading aloud. I continued with great dramatic intonations until everyone was giggling and rocking with joy as Stuart was lowered into the drain, one of my favorite scenes. Hopefully, nobody could tell half my brain was occupied. What had I written to Silver Fox? Did I even want to know?
As I turned the page, I glanced at the parents. Some listened in, eyes gleaming, possibly hearing the story for the first time or remembering when they had. Some stared at their phones or whispered with another parent. Max had taken up residence on that stool and listened intently as if he had a vested interest in Stuart’s adventures.
It reminded me of sitting with him on this very floor, listening to Mrs. Moore read to us. It reminded me of why I’d wanted to buy the bookstore in the first place. I wished I could push out my adult concerns and just read to the children, but as soon as the chapter ended, I switched on business mode, recommending titles the parents might like. At the end of the day, it was the kids who mattered, but the ultimate cynical goal of the Saturday reading was to get bodies in the door. Thankf
ully several parents bought a book or two, and the beaming faces of their children acted like a balm to my soul. I couldn’t feel too bad for wanting to sell something that would make them happy. It didn’t hurt that I was also addicted to the drug I was pushing.
Chapter 5
Soon after the kids and Max had left, Charlie entered, holding the door for Layla. Charlie went to his table in the corner, but Layla strode right up to the counter looking surprisingly bright and cheery for the late morning. Rather than the Brooks Brothers she’d been eying in my closet, she had on her yoga pants and a worn-in T-shirt. At least she’d left the apartment.
She gave the pastries in the display a once-over. “Could you make me a latte?”
While I ground the beans, she pointed at Dylan’s flier. “Hey, Dylan’s playing here?”
“Yeah. He’s back in town.”
“He’s already here? Did something happen?”
I shrugged. It did seem weird he’d shown up suddenly, weeks before a planned performance. Nobody had mentioned any health issues with his parents, and he looked fine. Very fine. “No idea. You wanna go to the show with me?”
“Hell yeah. Maybe I’ll shoot some video and upload it to my website.” She meandered to a table without offering to pay. I didn’t protest. She’d fed me often enough.
Once I’d poured the steamed milk over the espresso, I followed her and dropped into a chair across from her, watching Charlie work out of the corner of my eye. He sat, intently squinting at his laptop, writing, pausing, thinking, hitting backspace, writing again. Behind his computer, he’d stacked papers he’d probably started grading for whichever English course he was teaching. Neglected now, a few sheets had slipped off the top and inched across the surface of the table, toward freedom—and an undeserved zero for whichever student would swear he’d turned in his mysteriously missing work.
Dating by the Book Page 4