Publishable By Death, Andi Cumbo-Floyd [interesting books to read TXT] 📗
- Author: Andi Cumbo-Floyd
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And I was so glad I could move when I got to work because there was a line. A veritable LINE at the door of my bookshop. Rocky was standing just to the side of the door with what I imagined was the same expression I was wearing – one of stupefied glee.
“Any idea what’s up?” I asked as I sidled up to her.
“None. But I didn’t want to go in without you. These folks look, um, hungry.”
She was right. People were shifting from foot to foot and looking at their watches over and over again. A couple of folks were scanning the crowd looking, presumably, for me.
I looped my arm through Rocky’s and said in a deep voice, “We’re going in.”
She squeezed my arm against her. “Aye, Aye, Captain.”
Then we gently bumped the crowd out of the way, unlocked the door, slid through, and shut it tightly behind us. I felt like I was trying to keep Aslan in when there was a squirrel in the front yard. I almost had to shove one woman’s rubber-booted foot out of the door.
“Gracious,” Rocky said as she hurried over to the café. “I’ll get the extra carafe going.”
“And I’m going to do a quick Google search to see if I can figure out what’s up.”
It took a scan of only the first three results from my search of “All Booked Up St. Marin’s” to see that the buzz had been caused by a post from our friend Galen Gilbert, who was apparently a Bookstagrammer with a HUGE following. On Wednesday, he’d posted a picture of his bookstack that he’d picked up here in the shop, and then yesterday, he’d featured a photo of the shop with a blinking arrow and the words “Go HERE NOW!” on it. I clicked over to his profile and saw he had 86.7K followers. I was dumbfounded. He seemed so unassuming, and maybe that was his charm. Whatever got him those numbers, I needed to know his secrets . . . and I needed to thank him.
Clearly at least a couple dozen of his followers did exactly what he said, and here they were, in the flesh and eager.
I texted Mart, who was planning to head to a local winery this afternoon but was sleeping in this morning. “I need help. Big crowd at door. Come now!!!!”
Her reply came three seconds later. “Baseball cap it is. I’ll text Daniel and be there in ten.” Gracious, she was a good friend.
I prepped the shop, got the thumbs-up from Rocky, and opened the door. Now, this wasn’t exactly the kind of frenzy that happens when they have those wedding dress sales at those big New York boutiques, but for a small bookstore that had been only open two weeks, one person waiting at the door would have been a thrill; twenty-eight people at the door felt like a miracle.
The book lovers filed in and headed out across the store. I could see that fiction was a big hit, and someone went right to our small drama section. Children’s books garnered a few visitors, and a couple of folks went right for the caffeine – I admired their focus and did the same quickly before what I hoped would be a long day of selling books.
Soon, Mart arrived with Daniel and Taco close behind. When I saw the look of relief on his face as he took note that I was fine and even smiling, I realized that Mart hadn’t explained very well the nature of the situation. “Sorry she scared you,” I said as he leaned on the counter beside me.
“All she said was that you needed help. She was practically jogging here, so I figured it must have been a crisis.” He looked around. “Now I see you do need help, just not the way I thought.”
I gave his shoulder a bump. “Mart can be a little too enthusiastic sometimes.”
“Ah, that’s a good quality in a friend. Glad you’re alright.” He undid Taco’s leash, and the Basset headed out to find Mayhem, who had already staked her claim on the big pillow by the history section. “Okay with you if I stay and help out? Fridays are my light days.”
“Sure. But really? Fridays are light?”
“Yep. Most of the locals head out of town for the weekend on Fridays if they don’t want to manage the tourist traffic.”
I frowned. “But the tourist traffic is what keeps the town going.”
“Oh, absolutely. I didn’t say they didn’t like the tourists, but most of us would rather not be in the crowds unless we’re working.”
I guess that made sense. After all, I was already feeling a little possessive about our little community. I didn’t know if I loved the idea of all these outsiders coming in . . . at least I didn’t know if I liked that personally. As a business woman, I loved the idea. “Ah, yes, I get that. Well, today I’m working – and, if you’re serious, so are you.” He nodded, and I put him to work. “Could you go get me some more paper bags from the storeroom? I think I’m going to need them.”
Since the initial inflow, the stream of customers into the store hadn’t let up. This was clearly our busiest day yet, and it didn’t show any signs of slowing down. I handed the register over to Mart and began a sweep of the store – picking up forgotten coffee mugs and reshelving books as fast I could.
Before I knew it, it was noon, and Rocky was swamped in the café. I trundled over to help her, and she pointed to the back room. “More sandwiches in the fridge . . . and bring all the pastries.”
I glanced at the case. It was almost empty. We needed ALL the scones.
By mid-afternoon, we’d found a rhythm. I floated, answered questions, and restocked the bookshelves and the pastry case. Mart ran the register and answered the phone to take special orders, which she jotted down on an Easter Bunny notepad she’d unearthed from somewhere. Daniel helped carry boxes of books out of the back room and kept Mart in change – even though that required not just one, but two, trips to the bank. It was my biggest sales day yet, and I had Galen Gilbert to thank.
I took a minute to message him on Instagram. “Thank you, Galen. Your message has been a huge hit. Look at this.” Then I snapped a picture and sent it over.
His reply was almost instantaneous. “Well, I know a good thing when I see it. There are other ways besides murder to drum up business, my dear. See you Tuesday.” He’d followed his message with a series of winky-face emojis, and I couldn’t help but laugh. People are not always what they appear to be.
By early evening, the crowd had started to thin as we suggested restaurants in town and even a few places to stay. Folks who had never been to St. Marin’s before were enamored of the place, and when they heard about Sunday’s Street Festival, they were loath to go home. “Why not make a weekend of it?” was a phrase I heard more than once.
Just as we were about to close, a tall, lean, black man came into the store. He stood just inside the doorway for a long time and looked around. Something about the way he studied the space made me wonder if he was remembering, and I thought of Berkeley Hudson and his gas station.
“Thanks so much for visiting All Booked Up. Can I help you find something?”
He looked down at me and blinked a couple of times. “Oh, thank you. I’m actually not here to buy books. I hope that’s okay.”
I smiled. “Of course, it’s okay. Is there something else I can help you with?”
He gazed out over my head into the store. “It’s just good to see the place again.”
“Again? You’ve been here before?” I didn’t quite know how to ask about Berkeley Hudson since I didn’t want to seem like the dumb white lady who assumed all black people knew each other. But I forged ahead. “You came when it was a gas station?”
He smiled down at me. “You know about the station? And about Berkeley, I presume?”
I nodded. “I just learned about the station and how it was a safe haven of sorts, this building and the Hudson house I mean.”
He folded his long frame and sat down on the edge of the window display. “My granddaughter sent me the picture she got from one of those online things, said she thought it was the gas station I always talked about. Sure enough, it was.” He kept looking out over the room.
“If you told your granddaughter about the station, it must have been important to you.” I didn’t want to be nosy or push, but he seemed to want to talk, to know it was still safe to share here.
“The most important . . . and also the saddest.” He looked me in the eye and raised one eyebrow. “You know the whole story of Berkeley?”
“Um, probably not. I just know he owned the gas station and that he and his wife Divina let people stay with them when they came to town.”
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