I picked up the ream of heavy construction paper and fanned the edge. Each sheet was a slightly different hue: red, orange, yellow, blue, indigo. The violet called to me. I pulled the rustling sheet from the pile and laid it flat on my portable worktable in front of the bulletin board.
Outside, trees rustled. The cool breeze of an early summer morning drifted through the open casement window. It carried the scent of sweet jasmine and a fainter, briny note. As the air caressed the nape of my neck, just under my tight bun, I closed my eyes and sank into a solid, rooted smile.
I loved that place, Nightingale Books, my store. I loved scanning the catalogs for new releases. I loved buying old lots of used books and digging through them like treasures. I loved chatting with the regulars about their latest fiction finds.
Caleb says I’m a broken record. Sometimes after I close the shop for the evening and wander to the apartment we share upstairs, I spend half an hour briefing him on the day’s happenings while he grates parmesan over mounds of spaghetti. If he doesn’t stop me, I can go on all night.
I picked up a tattered manila envelope and rummaged around until I found the stencil I needed. It was made of stiff, glossy cardboard that had frayed and softened at the edges from the past five years of constant use. It was a moment’s work to lay the stencil on the paper and trace the outline of a lowercase s. Only a few moments more to slice out the letter with a few effortless, delightful strokes of my crafting knife. I dabbed the paper with a glue stick and stuck it onto the board, then stepped back to admire the completed bulletin board display.
It was a beach scene. Blue sky streaked the upper half. Below, turquoise ocean waves broke onto golden sands. On the left, a Dracula type huddled in the shade of a lacy black umbrella. On the right, a couple of ghosts with surfboards ran toward the water. A cluster of book covers filled the middle under the heading: [Spooktacular Beach Reads]{.smallcaps}.
Perfect.
When you own a bookstore specializing in paranormal mysteries and romance novels, it can be a challenge to decorate for the summer. Sun and surf hardly scream out—well, they hardly scream at all. But I’d done it. I’d threaded that needle with nothing more than construction paper, glue, and a little elbow grease.
“It’s a stunner, Holly. I don’t know how you do it.” Her voice sounded like a fresh plate of cookies from your gran.
“You can make anything happen if you work hard enough.” I sank into a smile and felt my shoulders relax for the first time that week. I turned to face Amelia. She stood a head shorter than me. Her white hair was in pin curls, and she wore a magenta shawl across her shoulders. She held three paperbacks in her hands, as earnest as a kid pleading to his mom in the grocery aisle. “Are you ready to check out?”
“You might not be able to tell, but I’m shaking in anticipation. I inhaled the first two books in the series and just had to come buy the others.”
“It’s that good?” I took the books from Amelia and walked behind the counter. I flipped them over and began punching prices into the register. “I haven’t read the series yet.”
“The detective, you see, is dead.”
“Are they a zombie?”
“A ghost. And they can only communicate with the world through a medium. She’s the one writing the story.”
“What a great premise.” I pressed a button on the register, and the cash drawer spooled open. “That’ll be thirty-eight dollars even.”
Amelia opened a fat burgundy leather wallet and slowly unfolded thirty-eight one-dollar bills. “I hope cash is okay.”
“It’s perfect. Now I won’t have to run to the bank later for ones. Would you like a bag?”
“No, I’d like to thumb through them on my walk.”
“I hope you enjoy your reading! Let me know how you like those. I might have to move the series to an end cap to make it easier to find.”
“Of course. I’ll let you know, dear. Have a wonderful day yourself.”
I absentmindedly put the bills in the cash drawer and pushed it closed. It made a wonderfully deep thunk sound. That was another thing I loved about the store. And soon I’d own the place outright.
Even with the startup cash from Mom and Dad’s life insurance, I’d still needed a big business loan to get the store off the ground. For five years, I’d put every penny I’d earned into paying it off early. Now I was a few months away from making the final payment.
Once I owned the store outright, I could pay myself a real salary. I could stop eating ramen and spaghetti so often. I could finally, finally, finally afford my dream wedding with Caleb. Afford kids. My heart fluttered. I felt fizzy. I’d put off so much for so long, but it was worth it.
The silver pendant over my heart felt warm. I touched it. It was a dull metal disk the size of a quarter, hanging from a thin chain around my neck. I rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger.
I’d found the pendant in a box of my old things about a year before opening my store. I’d worn it every day since and touched it after every sale. It was my good luck charm. It was also my only real connection to a past that had slipped away. Gran gave it to me the day we left Charm Haven. We never spoke again. I was sixteen and couldn’t understand. Even now, twenty years later, I still didn’t. With Mom and Dad gone, chances were I’d never find out.
I felt the tiniest click on the back of my neck and the chain went slack. The two ends slipped over my shoulders and dangled from the pendant’s loop.
Not again.
It was the third time that week the chain had come loose. I held the clasp to the light and used my bitten-down thumbnail to press the tiny lever. It opened. I released the lever. It stayed open. The spring wasn’t holding the clasp closed. No wonder the thing kept coming undone.
I couldn’t wear the necklace. My pants didn’t have real pockets. I glanced at the open cabinet under the register. My eyes landed on a small shiny nail protruding from the frame. I’d nailed it there a couple of years ago to hold my convention lanyards. Now it was empty and perfect for my use. I closed the chain, using my thumbnail to shut the clasp, then hung it on the nail.
The front door chimed as Amelia left. I looked up in time to see a blur of gray streak past the front window.
“Help!” A cry came from outside.
I rushed around the counter, ran to the door, and swung it open. Amelia lay sprawled on the sidewalk. Her books lay scattered around her.
“Help me up dear.” She held out a hand. Her skin was cool and dry. I grunted when she hoisted herself up and straightened her shawl. She stuck out her right foot and slowly rotated it, frowning like an experienced mechanic checking a car’s suspension. “I seem to be all right. I was worried about my ankle for a moment.” She withdrew her hand and stood on her own.
I knelt and collected her books. Two of them had made it through unscathed, but one hand landed on the fore edge, and the pages there were bent. I tried to bend them back into place without much luck.
“Thank you, Holly. Don’t trouble yourself. All my books look worse when I’ve finished reading them.”
“What happened? Was it a bike?” Some kids on this block had taken up cycling up and down the busy sidewalk.
“No, dear. A man.”
“Did he take anything?”
Amelia checked her purse. “Doesn’t appear to have. He walked into me and kept walking.”
“What kind of person tackles an”—I almost said old lady but caught myself—“a lovely woman, then runs off without saying anything!” Maybe a delivery driver? They were always running in and out of the florists and the shawarma hut next door.
“He wore an expensive charcoal suit, with a red tie and a fedora. You don’t see too many young men dressed so well these days. Clothes may make the man, but they don’t seem to make him into a gentleman. He ran into me as soon as I exited your store. He ran north without so much as glancing over his shoulder, then turned left.”
“Stay here. I’m going to see if I can find him.”
“Be careful, dear.”
The sidewalk north of us was empty. I jogged over to the intersection and scanned the cross streets. A man in a red fleece and cargo shorts was heading east behind a woman in yoga pants pushing a double-barrel stroller. No men in suits though. I turned left and jogged a block, checking the alleys and the intersections. I returned to Amelia. “He’s gone. I’m sorry this happened to you. I’ll keep an eye out for the guy, and if I catch him, I’ll give him a piece of my mind. He shouldn’t be pushing anyone down. Especially not in front of my store!”
“It’s quite all right. I haven’t suffered any injury. People these days are always rushing about. I suppose I’m lucky this hasn’t happened to me before.”
“Can I walk you to your car?”
She parted her lips slightly and tensed. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be. I take the bus.” She pointed to the stop at the end of the block. “In fact, I’d better hurry if I want to catch it.” Sure enough, the 232 was at the light a block away. Its engine roared, and it started to move. “Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome.” What had I done? Anyone would have helped her. Anyone except the strange man in the expensive charcoal suit.
At least Amelia hadn’t been hurt. But—I bit my bottom lip—or had she been? Did my liability insurance cover attacks by men in charcoal suits? Could I get sued? I whipped out my phone and made a note to bring it up in my quarterly call with my business coach. It felt dirty, worrying about myself. But when you own a small business, details can mean life or death. I was so close to paying off the store I couldn’t let anything get in the way.
“How’s my favorite boss, babe?” I heard Elise’s voice to my right. I turned to see her approaching. Her red hair was cut asymmetrically. She carried two white paper coffee cups. She offered me one, and I noticed a tattoo of an arrow on her right forearm. That was new. “Half caff oat milk latte. It was your go-to in college, right?”
“Am I so predictable?” I accepted the cup and lifted it to my nose. Even with the plastic lid in place, the dark, rich smell of freshly roasted coffee was almost overwhelming. “Where’d you get it?”
“A new café a couple of blocks east of here. They went viral on social, and I had to try it out.”
I brought the cup to my lips, closed my eyes, and sipped. The latte was so fragrant it was like I was bathing in it more than drinking it. The warm, earthy, chocolaty aroma surrounded me and filled me. The golden velvety liquid spread warmth throughout my body. How did they make coffee so good? It had to be magic.
“So this is your place?” Elise put her left arm on her hip and looked the storefront up and down. I felt suddenly shy.
The lavender paint was starting to bubble. We hadn’t repainted the store since I opened it. It had been a hot summer. I’d met Caleb a couple of weeks before at a boring party. We’d hidden in the corner and made fun of everyone else. I told him about my plans. When he said he’d help me paint, I wrote him off. Lots of guys will promise to help. But he showed up that weekend. He took the brush and bucket and went to work. When his shirt got too sweaty, he took it off, and I realized how attracted I was to him. We installed planters and filled them with hardy jasmine. We hung the large hand-lettered sign: [Nightingale Books]{.smallcaps}.
“You know, Hol? It’s amazing you’ve built this. Everybody thinks so. And I really appreciate the work, even if it is part time. It’s so hard getting back into the swing of things after a baby.”
“How is little June?”
“Loving day care. But not as much as I do.”
“Tell me about it—I mean… I can imagine. Why don’t you come inside, and I’ll show you what we’re working on today? I’m refreshing the spring displays with our summer picks. There’s restocking. And I need you to copy the handouts for the Vampire Lovers group that’s meeting tonight.”
“Vampire Lovers? Is that a book group for people who… love vampires?”
“More like for people who, ah, want to be loved by vampires.”
“How unique!” In Elise-speak, those words meant the Vampire Lovers group was the craziest thing she’d ever heard of. I’d forgotten how bland her taste in books was. If a book didn’t make it on the daytime-TV circuit, it didn’t exist for her.
“If you work here long, you’ll learn about a lot of… specific tastes in literature. The Vampire Lovers group meets every Thursday, and—”
“But it’s not Thursday.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s Wednesday.”
I scowled. I always scowl when I’m confused. How could Elise possibly know when the group met? She hadn’t started her first day of work. “The group meets on the first Thursday of every month. It has for the past two years.”
“I’m sure it does. But today is Wednesday.”
“Wednesday?” Something tugged at the edges of my consciousness, but I couldn’t tell what it was. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the daily checklists. They were my Bible, Torah, and Koran wrapped into one. They told me every single step to run the store. Had I missed a step? No. The store was perfect. Something else must be going on. I flipped over to my calendar. I breathed in a sudden gasping breath.
