Elle brought flowers to the shop every morning, and we became fast friends. Near death will do that to you. Even Max Davies seemed to take a shine to the shop and stopped by from time to time to offer his expert wisdom on our cookbook selection.
Ms. Dawson wrote her first column for our weekly newsletter and recommended Ta-Nehisi Coates’ The Water Dancer. Her review was astute and honest, giving caution for our readers with ancestors who had been enslaved, but also suggesting the great power of the book for all readers. We got several requests for the book almost immediately, and I was delighted to send a check by way of Marcus that first week.
Business stayed brisk, brisk enough that I was able to hire Woody to make a bench for in front of the shop window so that people could relax outside in the warmer weather. Cate helped me expand the art book section and managed to restrain herself and only order two books for herself. “My husband will definitely divorce me if I start hoarding books again,” she said. Lucas held true to his word and helped me develop a sizable maritime section with historical books, books on boats, and even a nice collection of fiction with nautical themes.
Marcus continued to prove himself invaluable, and I was on track to bring him on as assistant manager by the end of the spring. He finished Possession in half the time it had taken me and declared it “good but a little too purposefully obtuse,” which was an assessment I could not argue with. He moved into Daniel’s apartment within a few weeks and loved it, and I enjoyed watching him skate to work every morning and home every night with a little more lightness in his frame.
And Daniel, well, he walked me home every night. Some of those nights – mostly the ones when Mart was out of town – he stayed late, but we still hadn’t had our first sleepover. That would come, I knew, but for now, we were taking it slow. The way I liked it best.
One day in mid-April, Ralph Sylvester stopped in. I hadn’t seen him since the day of the street fair, but I’d thought of him often, wondering if he’d come by after he heard about what happened with Divina. When he showed up, I realized I had been nervous, worried that he was angry with me for having his friend’s wife arrested. But as soon as I saw his smile, I knew he harbored no such resentment. He was – unlike some of us – a man who worked through his pain and came out the other side stronger.
“Harvey, it’s so good to see you,” he said as he reached out a hand and took mine. “I’m sorry I’ve been away for so long. I didn’t want to come back until I had something for you.” From behind his back, he pulled a square about the size of a trade paperback and all wrapped in tissue paper. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous in giving it to you.”
I furrowed my brow and then took the package from his hand. “Well, thank you.” I peeled back the paper, read the words, and felt the tears begin.
In this location, Berkeley Hudson ran The Hudson Station from 1928–1958. This building and Hudson’s home, with his wife Divina, were safe havens for black people from all over the South. This building is memorialized in The Green Book and will forever be a place of safety for people who need respite and rejuvenation, be that through fuel or word.
“Oh, Mr. Sylvester, thank you!” I took a deep breath to keep from sobbing. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, maybe you’ll hang it up.”
I looked at him with shock. “No maybe about it. I’m hanging it now. Hold on.” I spun around as if a masonry drill was going to fall from the ceiling.
“Maybe this will help.” Woody came through the door, drill in hand. “Ralph stopped by to ask if he could borrow it.” He put out a hand and took the plaque. “But I’d be honored if you’d let me hang it.”
I nodded, tears stealing my voice again. I pointed to a spot at eye level just to the right of the front door. “I want everyone to see it.”
Mr. Sylvester nodded. “I like that idea.”
A few moments later, the bronze plaque hung where every single person who left this building would notice it and be reminded. It was the perfect, final touch for my store.
For a few weeks, I continued to avoid the storeroom – too many hard memories there. When I absolutely had to go in, I’d rush to whatever I needed and rush back out, ignoring everything else. But eventually, I knew I had to deal with the aftermath of Divina’s visit. The police had gathered all the evidence they needed weeks earlier, but it was up to me to deal with the damaged inventory.
I took a deep breath and headed for the box the shotgun blast had blown open. Fragments of paper were scattered all around, reminding me of Lucia Stevensmith’s orange notepaper, and I dreaded not only the reliving of the memory but the travail of dealing with the damaged books. As I opened the lid, pellets tinkled out on the ground, I thought I might cry again . . . but then, I caught of glimpse of the cover on the top book. Riding Shotgun by Rita Mae Brown. How fitting, I thought, and started to laugh.
Entitled To Kill
If asked to name my favorite season, I’d immediately say fall. But I also had a deep affection for the first really warm days of spring, the ones when all the flowers are bursting forth, when tulips bejewel front yards and the cherry trees begin to flower the air with their petals.
It was late April in St. Marin’s, and spring was fully here. My bookstore had been open an entire month, and it was actually turning a profit. A small profit, but a profit nonetheless. I’d even begun paying part of the mortgage. Mart, my best friend and roommate, had tried to convince me to wait until at least July before I began to contribute, but I had insisted. I wasn’t paying anywhere near half, but writing that first check had felt gratifying, like I’d begun to make it as a business owner.
My bookstore All Booked Up had been my dream for as long as I could remember. Even as a child, I’d imagined myself surrounded by books, a dog at my feet, reading all day. Okay, truth be told, I didn’t do as much reading as I might like, but I did have the dog at my feet and surrounded-by-books part down.
Mayhem, my trusty Black Mouth Cur sidekick, had settled right in as the shop pup, and she enjoyed welcoming the neighborhood canines – and brave felines – over for a visit, too. I had almost as many dog beds as I did armchairs in the shop, and some days, every comfy seat – both elevated and floor-level – was occupied with someone enjoying a read or a nap. And it wasn’t always the dogs that were napping.
I loved that people had already begun to feel comfortable enough in the store to just come, pick up a book, and read an hour away. I didn’t want the kind of store where people felt like they had to come in, get their books, and leave. When someone returned time and again to read the same book, I found that endearing. Not all of us have the funds to buy books, and while I was a huge patron of the local library, I fully appreciated that sometimes the best place to read was where noise was allowed and the air smelled like coffee.
Our little café filled up what had once been the garage bay when this was a gas station. It was small and quaint, and it served the best latte this side of Annapolis. Rocky was the manager of that part of the store, and her share of the profits was helping fund her BA down at Salisbury University. Sometimes her mom Phoebe came in and helped out for big events, and that woman made cinnamon rolls so good they felt like a Hallmark movie Christmas morning.
I was counting on the draw of her rolls on this Saturday morning because we were having our first author event that night, and I needed to get a buzz going in town. I’d done all the usual marketing – on and off-line – but my guest author was local, and I knew we needed the small-town crowd to make this event successful.
David Healey wrote military thrillers and mysteries set here on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, and he had a loyal readership. I just didn’t know how many of those readers lived close enough by to come to the shop for his evening reading.
We’d marketed the event as a “Welcome to Spring” event with the hopes that people would spend at least the day, maybe even the weekend. The hardware store had gotten in a new supply of kitschy, crab-themed t-shirts, and the a
rt co-op had arranged a special exhibition of local artists. I had coordinated the event with the maritime museum’s annual boat-skills exhibition, and Elle Heron had created a special – “Get Your Garden In Right” workshop for the afternoon. We even had a special “Eastern Shore Prix Fixe” menu set up at Chez Cuisine, a few doors down. People really could come and spend the day easily. The cinnamon rolls would just get the day started right.
Plus, I really needed a big warm concoction of flour, yeast, cinnamon, and cream cheese icing. That and Rocky’s biggest latte should get me past my nerves. A lot of people were counting on this day to bolster their sales until the full-on tourist season of summer began in our bayside town, and I could feel the weight of their expectations as I unlocked the front door.
The bell that had hung over the front door of the shop since it was a gas station tinkled as I opened it, and I smiled. I would never tire of that sound.
I was swinging the door shut behind me when I felt it thud against something. I turned back to see a Basset Hound head wedged between the door and the frame. “Oh, Taco. I’m so sorry.” I swung the door open. “I didn’t see you there.”
The Basset charged right ahead, my insulting behavior forgotten, as he saw Mayhem just ahead of me on her leash. I did my best jump rope maneuvers over the quickly tangling leashes and looked up to see Taco’s owner, Daniel, smiling at me.
I felt a warm flush go up my neck and wondered if I’d ever see this man I’d been dating and not have my face turn red. We’d been a couple – that’s what Mart said people in town were calling us – for about a month, I guess. But I still got all nervous when I first saw his dark hair, fair skin, and brown eyes. I found him so handsome, and he was everything my ex-husband hadn’t – reliable, attentive, and willing to take care of me even though he knew I didn’t need him to do that.
Still, I was 44 years old and totally unclear on what to call him. Was he my boyfriend? Did middle-aged women have boyfriends? Lover just sounded way too racy for our perfectly slow relationship, and partner was far too much. Friend didn’t work either because that sounded like what my grandmother would have said, “Daniel is Harvey’s ‘special friend.” I defaulted to “Daniel,” instead. That worked most of the time, although a couple of times I had slipped and said, “My Daniel” as if he was a stuffed animal or I was differentiating him from another Daniel, like that guy in the lion’s den I’d learned about in childhood Sunday School classes.
I liked the guy, though. A lot, even if I didn’t know what to call him. And Mayhem felt much the same about his pup, Taco. I didn’t really buy into the whole dog love affairs craze myself, but these two were at the least best pals.
Already, they’d sniffed out the best bed for the day – the one in the sunbeam from the front window with the display of books on shipwrecks – and were laying butt to butt and snoring.
As Daniel and I made our way to the front counter, he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “So aside from trying to decapitate my dog, how has your day been so far?”
“Well, I have to say it just got a whole lot better.” I had never been a flirtatious person before, but this man, for some reason he brought it out in me.
A blush flew into his cheeks, too, and we stood grinning at one another until the sound of a throat clearing broke our gaze. Rocky was standing in front of the counter across from us with a grin a mile wide on her face. “Sorry. I thought you’d heard me come in.”
I looked toward the front door. I hadn’t heard the bell ring. “No, I’m sorry. How are you? How’s studying for finals going?”
She let out a long, slow sigh. “It’s going.” She pulled her thick handful of tiny braids into a hair tie and then dropped a heavy tote bag onto the counter. “I mean, I love my classes, but I had a very high opinion of my reading speed and retention ability when I signed up for three English and two history classes. Finals are next week, and I have five books to read and three papers to write to even get to the finals.
“Whew, that’s a lot. What are your professors thinking?” I remembered my college days when I was an English and History double major just like Rocky. One semester, I’d had to buy 67 books. 67. I loved books, but that was ridiculous.
“They’re thinking that they’re class is the most important one. They’ve all forgotten what it’s like to have five classes and a job.”
Daniel laughed. “That, right there, ladies, is why I didn’t finish college. Too much reading, not enough hands-on.”
I never in my life thought I’d date a man who didn’t read, but here I was, full on in the throes of like – I wasn’t ready for the other L word yet – with a man who took it as a point of pride that the last full book he read was the copy of Tom and Jerry Meet Little Quack that his mom found in a box of his first-grade mementos.
It wasn’t that Daniel didn’t appreciate knowledge or books, and it certainly wasn’t that he wasn’t smart – the man could disassemble and then reassemble a car engine in less than two hours. I understood that to be impressive, even though my knowledge of cars stopped at the fact that Brits called the trunk of the car “The boot.” No, Daniel was plenty smart. He just couldn’t sit still long enough to read. His body needed to be moving. Even when we watched TV – lately, we’d been binge-watching a show I’d loved a few years back, The 4,400 - he put together model cars. Just couldn’t be completely still.
I didn’t mind the car-building stuff, though, because he’d inspired me to make use of my downtime, too. I’d picked back up my cross-stitch hobby after years of neglect. And like most things in my life, I didn’t start slow. I bought a kit of a cat in a bookshop. It was beautiful – all bright colors and a black and white cat with a few extra pounds that reminded me of my own girl, Aslan. But it was also immense – maybe 18 x 24 on small-count fabric – and every square called for a stitch. At this rate, I’d finish it in when I was 70. Still, it was relaxing, and it required my attention and let my mind slow down. It was the only way I’d found, so far, to stop thinking about the shop. Well, cross-stitch and kissing Daniel.
Rocky hefted her heavy bag back onto her shoulder and headed to the café while Daniel carried the platter of her mom’s cinnamon rolls behind her. I’d slipped one out from under the plastic and sat savoring the doughy goodness while I checked emails.
Everything seemed to be in order for the day. David Healey had written to say he’d be in town by noon and wondered if I could grab lunch to talk about the night’s event. I shot back a quick response with my cell number and told him to text me when he arrived. Then, I answered enough queries about parking and general activities in town that by the time we opened at 9, I felt confident we were going to have a great day.
About 10:30, Mart arrived with Cate, our friend who ran the art coop. They’d been out on the bay kayaking, trying to capture some watermen at work for Cate’s new portrait series. Mart was on hand to run the register in case things got busy, and Cate was going to lead a plein air painting group that was meeting here at 11. Both of them were rosy cheeked and equally pleasant tempered. Part of me wished I’d been able to go, but most of me was quite content to have spent the morning answering questions about books, making notes about titles we needed to order back in, and enjoying Phoebe’s cinnamon roll. Sure, I missed out on some things, but what I got to do, well, it more than made up for it.
“Looks like you’ve got things well in hand,” Mart said.
“Now, let’s not be too hasty, Martha.” Cate put on a serious face as she brushed her short black hair out of her eyes. “The true test is whether she—“
I reached below the counter and pulled out two saucers, each adorned with a cinnamon roll.
Cate laughed. “Yep, all in hand here.”
When I’d met Cate a few weeks ago, I hadn’t realized that Mart and I really needed a third to make our friendship even more amazing, but it turns out that the third we were missing was a short, Korean-American photographer whose husband cooked really, really well.
Mar
t and I had been friends for years back in San Francisco, and when I’d decided to return home to Maryland last fall, she’d agreed readily. She, by far, looked the youngest of all of us with pale skin that showed nary a wrinkle and her thick, brown hair that she wore in soft waves or in a ponytail that, somehow, managed to look amazing, not necessary like mine always did before I cut my curly, quickly-graying hair short and took to rolled bandanas on days when I didn’t want to look like Lyle Lovett or to spend an hour with a flat iron. (Note, I never wanted to spend an hour with a flat-iron.) Also, this white woman had wrinkles, including a furrow between my eyes that would never smooth out again.
Many women never get to have one good friend in the world, and I was lucky enough to have two. In both literal and figurative ways, they had each saved my life, and I was so glad we got to see each other every day, even if they teased me no end about having a boyfriend. They always insisted on saying it like boooyyyfriend, like we were 11. Still, I adored them.
My friends tucked into their cinnamon rolls with all the genteelness of vultures on roadkill, and I couldn’t help but smile. No pinkies in the air here. I’m pretty sure I even caught Mart licking the plate when I turned around to get more bags to put under the counter.
Snacks done and coffee procured from Rocky, my friends got to work, and I began my usual circuit around the store, just to be sure things were tidy but not pristine. Something about a little bit of disheveled order felt right in the shop.
I was just rounding the corner of the religion shelves when I spied a familiar pair of Jordans propped on a shelf next to a wing-back chair. I slipped behind the seat and peeked over the top to get a look at the title of the book the person was reading. “The Water Dancer. I hear that’s really good.”
Publishable by Death Page 20