The river gathered itself at the lip, foaming white against jagged rocks, then plunged over the edge in a swift-moving sheet of water that split on one or two jutting outcrops before disappearing into a rising mist at the bottom.
The sunlight streaming through the mist created an unmistakable rainbow that arched across the river at the bottom, sending it off with a flourish of color as the water continued on its journey.
Carefully I stepped over several rocks, closer to the edge. The spray cooled my skin. The rocks were slippery with moss. The water rumbled with enough force to warn me that one slip and I’d be carried straight over the edge, battered on the jagged rocks and sent to a watery grave below.
Slowly I inched my way back.
Yes, I loved taking risks, but there was a difference between being adventurous and being reckless.
That’s when I heard another sound competing with the roar of the falls.
It was thunder, not from the cascading water, but from the sky above.
I looked up to the sun disappearing behind a bank of quickly gathering clouds, black as Edgar Allan Poe’s raven.
A summer storm was approaching.
BROOKS
The first thingI did that morning was evict the sunflowers from my quill vase.
Flowers belonged in a bookstore about as much as a marching band did in a monastery.
I rescued the quills, restored them to their rightful place, and banished the sunflowers to a bucket I kept in case the roof ever leaked, which on the occasion of a summer storm it sometimes did, given the age of the building.
With order restored, I went about my daily work, cataloging, categorizing, and placing orders for new novels and reprinted classics.
By ten a.m. the usual parade had begun.
First came Mrs. Kettleman, demanding to know why the cookbook she’d purchased last week hadn’t magically improved her husband’s omelets. I suggested that perhaps the issue lay with the chef, not the book. She gave me an indignant glare and declared she’d never be shopping in my store again… before placing an order for Martha Stewart’s new book.
A few minutes later, Mr. Delaney wanted a refund on a mystery novel because he’d guessed the killer correctly. I told him he should be pleased with his sleuthing skills. Grumpily hetold me two things died in that story—the victim and the art of surprise.
A little later, Mrs. Hutchins tried to return a poetry collection because “half the poems don’t even rhyme.” I told her that was free verse. She sniffed and said, “No it wasn’t. It was twelve ninety-five… and not worth a single penny of it!”
At eleven, I heard the distant rumble of thunder.
A moment later, Aunt Bea made her entrance—gliding through the door in a bright yellow raincoat and shiny black knee-length boots. Over one shoulder she held a rainbow-colored umbrella, twirling it like a dance partner. I couldn’t decide if she was about to break into “Singin’ in the Rain” or launch straight into “It’s Raining Men.”
“Brooks, darling, the temperature is rising, and the thermometer is getting loooooow!”
“I think you mean barometer.”
“Oh, enough boring science talk,” she said, snapping her umbrella shut and strutting toward the counter, her boots squeaking. “All I know is, it’s hot outside and something’s about to break. I knew a storm was coming. I felt it in my waters, somewhere between my spleen and my inner left thigh. But enough of a body’s uncanny ability to prophesy the weather. I’ve come to check you for structural damage.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you get home all right last night? No broken ankles, no broken ribs, no broken hearts.”
Ah… I figured where this was going. “Bea, I’m fine.”
“Really? Because you left the bar last night like a runaway bride.
“I left like someone who knows when enough is enough,” I said.
Bea tilted her head. “Enough of what, darling? Good company, great conversation, and a man who looks at youlike you’re the prize behind door number three? Brooks… baby cakes… the two of you werelaughingtogether. He made youlaugh. Do you know what that’s called?”
“An illegal pour of vodka?”
