I lifted the page from my vintage Clementine typewriter with azzzzzzip, looked at the story I’d just written, and sighed.
“If only it were that easy,” I mumbled to myself, before folding the piece of paper into a neat, teensy tiny square and placing it in the trash can beside my little writing desk.
As Johann Debussy’sClair de Luneplayed gently on the record player, I stood from my chair, careful not to scrape the legs on the floorboards of my petite apartment in the steeple of the bookshop, and stepped over to the window. Having once been the town’s church, the bones of the bookshop were solid, made from stone and solid wooden beams that kept the place warm in winter and cool in summer. I didn’t realize just how hot it was outside until I opened the window and a gust of warm air blew in.
It also let in the sound of water babbling happily down the river and the playful chirping of birds in the trees overlooking Mulligan’s Mill Park.
I stared at Winnie’s Wishing Well in the center of the park for a few moments, wondering if indeed there was a wasp’s nest inside it. I wouldn’t be surprised. I imagined that chasm was home to worse things, including Winnie’s ghost—at least it was according to the old wives’ tale.
I wondered if one day a prince really would come along, and whether I’d rescue him from a swarm of deadly stingers… orhe’drescuemefrom my tower.
“Maybe someday,” I muttered. Although deep down I knew I had more chance of finding an original hand-written Tolstoy manuscript or a first edition of the Gutenberg Bible. Not that I was at all religious. No, the only thing I worshipped was books.
I flipped Clementine’s switch off and covered her, because even classics collect dust. I washed my teacup and set it on the rack to dry. I always let my dishes air-dry. Tea towels left fluff and fabric behind. Air-drying left everything pristine.
I closed the window, pulling hard against the side that jammed, and locked the latch, because storms like to try their chances in late summer… and I like to win.
I straightened the quilt on my bed, which was tucked against one wall, made sure the coasters on the coffee table in front of the sofa were stacked precisely, then pulled open the curtain that separated my living space from the bathroom and gave an annoyed glance at the plug in the tub. But that was a story for another day.
When I was satisfied that everything was in order, I opened the door to the spiral staircase and made my way down to the bookshop.
The shop itself was a literary labyrinth of page-turning wonders, a perfectly constructed jigsaw of tall shelves packed with thousands of books, the kind of place I had always dreamed of owning. The fact that I had made this wish come true oftenfilled me with so much pride and satisfaction that at times I felt I’d already achieved everything I wanted in life.
Then at other times… that damn imaginary prince would pop into my head.
But I was always able to keep him at bay by keeping myself busy.
Books needed dusting, shelves needed tidying, and whenever a new delivery came in, slight readjustments were often necessary. Of course, I knew where every section began and ended… to the centimeter.
In front was the shelf dedicated to new releases, with their immaculate jackets and the sharp scent of ink fresh from the printer. To the right, the romances glowed with hope and a promise of the love story everyone deserves. To the left, the mysteries lined the shelves like closed doors waiting for someone with the right key to open them. True crime was nestled beside the mystery novels with a sign that readDon’t Try This at Home, while the poetry books sat at the back with a small sign that readYou Are Allowed to Read Two Poems and Leave With Your Dignity Intact.
The ladder leaning against the far shelf stood tall and still, now that Gage had finally fixed it from rolling on its own, and a display of blank stationary paper and fountain pens sat neatly on the counter alongside a bowl of bookmarks.
Everything was as it should be.
I wrote the day’s chalkboard notice in my perfect handwriting.
STAFF PICK: The Billionaire’s Boyfriend
Two people quite literally collide in a meet-cute scenario. Awkwardness ensues, followed by moments of hilarity, a caseof imposter syndrome, and a truly swoon-worthy moment involving a whacky chase across Central Park. Contains a leading man so likeable he couldn’t possibly exist in reality, an Irishwoman with too much blood in her alcohol-stream, and one sincere apology that arrives just in the nick of time. Enjoy!
I carried the A-frame chalkboard to the front door of the shop. The bell above the door chimed and hot air rippled inside. I set the A-frame display under the front awning to keep the chalk from blistering in the sun, then stepped back inside.
In the quiet between customers, I did the little rituals that nobody but me would notice.
I straightened the face-out copies by a degree that only I care about.
I moved a romance novel from knee level to eye level because some books deserve better.
I loaded a fresh roll of receipt paper into the cash register and slotted a new ink cartridge in place because everyone likes a neat, easy-to-read docket.
I started stacking a new shelf dedicated to cozy whodunnits set in small English towns along the Cornwall coastline featuring an elderly church-going widow with a love of Devonshire tea and a knack for solving grisly murders. You’d be surprised how many books I had to cram onthatshelf.
But all the while, the story I’d written that morning kept echoing in the corners of my mind.
That’s when the bell above the door rang.
I adjusted my bow tie out of habit, but from where I was behind the new cozy mystery shelf I couldn’t yet see who had opened the door.
