Publishable By Death, Andi Cumbo-Floyd [interesting books to read TXT] 📗

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. The business end of things came later, but mostly, I was living the dream, as they say. Okay, 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 to own 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 bookstore’s 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, but I was hoping that the fact that he was from Chesapeake City might bring out a banner crowd.

We’d marketed David’s reading as part of a “Welcome to Spring” weekend with the hopes that people would spend at least the day, maybe even Saturday and Sunday, in St. Marin’s. The hardware store had gotten in a new supply of kitschy, crab-themed T-shirts, and the art 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 could come and enjoy the events of the day. The cinnamon rolls would just get the day started right.

Even if the guests didn’t flock to our doors in droves, I knew 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 waterside 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 – ever since the shop opened, 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 been – reliable, attentive, and willing to take care of me even though he knew I didn’t need him to do that.

Still, I was forty-four 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 front window’s sunbeam beside the display of books on shipwrecks – and were lying butt to butt and snoring. The dog’s life was something.

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 in two weeks, 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 sixty-seven books. Sixty-seven. I loved books, but that was ridiculous.

“They’re thinking that their 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.”

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, a feat I understood 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 4400 – he put together model cars. He just couldn’t be completely still, and school required a lot of stillness.

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 when I was seventy. Still, it was relaxing because 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 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