Her shop is flanked by an ice cream store and a little clothing boutique called Hullabaloo.
“The ice cream store is both a blessing and a curse,” Anita says. “It’s great for walk-in traffic, families, and kids. But lord, I feel like all I do is clean sticky stuff off things.”
We arrive at the shop an hour early to fire up the coffeemaker and give me a run-down of how the shop works. There’s a bundle of mail on the front porch and Anita bends over to pick it up.
“Stop,” I tell her, grabbing it first. “I’ll get it.”
“I’m pregnant, Summer, not an invalid.”
“And I’m spoiling you and my new cousin, so get used to it.” I look down at the heavy package. My mother’s publisher’s name is in the corner. “Any idea what’s in here?”
“Probably fan mail,” Anita says, unlocking the door and holding open the door. “We get at least one bundle a week. Your mother has a lot of fans.”
This isn’t unusual. Julia had always been a popular novelist. People related to her stories of crime and horror—victims, families, crime junkies. But her new book struck a different chord. She revealed in intimate detail how she was a victim herself—a survivor—and she poured her soul into this book. I imagine the reaction from readers is more intense than ever.
“Just put it behind the counter. I’ll show you how we sort them later.”
The scent of new and old books crests over me as I step into the store. Tall shelves line the walls, crammed with hundreds of books. Some are new, others older. In the entrance are two tables, one to the left and one to the right. The one on the left is filled with my mother’s books, her new one front and center. On the right is a collection of local authors, which is a nice touch. Further back are the standard best sellers that I imagine are popular with beach-goers and vacationers.
Back near the counter are the trinkets and items often sold at bookstores. Bookmarks, magnets, pens, and notebooks.
“It looks really great,” I say, taking it all in. There’s a small reading nook with couches and a coffee table against one wall.
“That’s where we hold book club,” Anita says. “That was my idea. It’s gone really well so far. There are way more readers in this town than I realized.”
She points out the computer system and some other details we’ll go over later. Then she walks through a door that says “Private,” and we enter the back of the cottage, which consists of a small office, kitchen, and bathroom.
Anita moves to make the coffee and I linger at my mother’s office door. I step inside and it smells like her perfume. Framed photos line the wall, many of her holding a copy of her book. There’s one of her, Richard, and Sugar at the book release party. Another of me and her at the same party. It was held in Myrtle Beach near Halloween. I came down from school to attend.
A large calendar sits on her desk and by yesterday’s date is a notation in bright red ink that I’d be coming home. She’s out on tour, traveling out west for the next few weeks. June 3rd has a circle around it and a few hand-drawn stars. The letters “LA” are in the middle.
I see the familiar stacks of files—research probably for whatever book she’s planning next. There’s always another one, but she hasn’t told me what or who the topic is yet. On a shelf holding all her books is a vase filled with yellow sunflowers. I walk over and touch the center. The petals are brittle and a few fall to the ground.
A cubbie system against the wall catches my attention.
I lean into the hall and say, “What’s this?”
She looks up from the coffeemaker and glances in. “Oh, that’s for the fan mail. We have a whole system.”
Stacks of papers are in each one and I see a label attached to the flat surface.
Fans
Book Signings
Support Letters
Subject Suggestions
Psychos
“Psychos?” I ask, peering in. The top one looks like an angry review.
“Yep. Creepy reviews, people who don’t believe her story. Basic nut jobs.”
“My mother doesn’t read bad reviews,” I tell her. This is a long-standing policy in our house.
“I know,” Anita says. “That’s for me to go through and sort. A few are extra wacko, though.”