One Good Woman
Page 7
Although Lacey had been bed bound and non verbal at the very end, I would always remember Lacey as the strong, majestic woman who sat in that Louis XIV chair. That was the chair that Lacey had been sitting in in all of her author portraits.
The timing of this unexpected inheritance turned out to be perfect. I needed a fresh start after a bad breakup and a freshly earned MBA.
After the estate sale workers leave for the day, I decide to spend some time getting to know the quaint downtown. Walking up and down the sleepy streets of my new hometown, I soon realize that many of these facades had appeared in Lacey’s book illustrations.
It’s a thrilling discovery, and immediately makes me warm up to the idea of staying right here for the long haul. Maybe even start my own business. Turning a corner, I see a sign in the window of an open store front that reads, “Business for sale.”
I tap out the number on the sign into my phone while peeking in the window.
The place is wall-to-wall bookshelves. Stacks of books are haphazardly shoved into all corners and on table tops.
“Hello, is this owner of the business at 111 Main? Yes? I’d like to buy it... Yes. No. No the whole business including the books. Yes I can tell from here it’s a mess. Where is your office so we can discuss this in person?”
I look up the walking directions in my phone to the property manager’s office. With my business degree and love of books and old things, it only makes sense to do the one thing that a little corner of my brain is telling me to do. The short walk is all uphill, and soon out of breath.
I’m not even 27 years old; I should not be struggling for breath just walking uphill a short distance. Surely this town has a gym, I think, and I add “get in shape” to my extensive to-do list of creating the new Edie.
Opening the front door of the management company, I’m met by a hulking frat boy. At least that is the three words that spring to my mind when I lay eyes on the tall, broad-chested man with the too-tight tee shirt and shaggy surfer hair.
“Hi,” I says, “I’m here to meet Lane about the Main Street property.”
“That’s me,” he says, flashing me a wide, lazy smile and offering his hand.
“Oh,” I say. “Nice to meet you, I’m...”
“Edie, you said on the phone. So nice to meet you.” His thick catcher’s mitt of a hand is calloused and warm, and prone to holding on to a female’s handshake a little too long, by the looks of it.
“Nice to meet you too,” I say, wondering if I should give up the whole idea of buying this business if I have to depend on a muscled beefcake to answer my maintenance calls and cash my rent checks on time.
“You ... were saying you were interested in looking at the old bookstore? I can show it to you right now, let’s go.”
I follow him out the door and back down the hill, and I reconsider my knee-jerk reaction from before. The truth is, I wouldn’t mind at all watching this oversized surfer dude’s ass climb a ladder, or come around my shop to remind me about rent checks.
No, I don’t think I would mind that at all.