She was right, of course, but I couldn’t let the store go. It was too important, too personal, and the only thing I had left.
When the house sold, I unloaded everything, putting funds aside for future repairs the shop might need.
That money went into a few renovations when a storm knocked down one of the trees in town, busting the front
window. I used the rest of the money to repaint the front of the shop and add the golden lettering my father had always wanted but could never afford.
Bridget begged me not to do it, but my pride got in the way and now I was just getting by because of it.
“Something has to give,” I mumbled under my breath.
Like it or not, it’d probably be me.
I checked outside the shop the next morning, hoping to
find another box that might lead me to their owner. The one I found was smaller, had no journals to speak of, and no clues as to where the books originally came from. The books probably didn’t even come from the same house, but I’d thought someone might’ve left a note about them or something.
Perhaps they hadn’t realized the mistake, or maybe the person who wrote those journals hadn’t dropped them off at all.
Maybe a family member dropped them off without looking inside the box. It did have Books written on the side of it, so there was probably no reason for anyone to check the contents unless they belonged to the author themselves. All through the night, I resisted the urge to look past the front covers. I wanted to, god did I want to, but my conscience got the better of me.
My sister was a bad influence, but somehow I held out. She was right, though. I couldn’t keep dragging the journals home with me forever. A part of me wondered why I was so interested in them. Folks dropped stuff off by accident all the time. Then again, they usually called me soon after the fact.
The journals, however, were unspoken for.
There was no note waiting for me outside the front door and nothing taped to the one in the back. Whoever wrote those journals had no idea they were missing.
Not wanting to repeat the day before, I set the journals behind the front counter and busied myself by updating the wall of books up front. A series of books sat on the light gray wall, their covers clearly visible to anyone walking by.
They were my top picks. Heavily discounted, they were the books I wanted to sell most of all because of the worlds that
existed inside of them.
Customers rarely looked at the wall, which was a real shame. We all need an escape sometimes.
The rest of the shop was much like any other. Books were cataloged based on genre and age group with a smaller sitting area in the children’s section. It was a beautiful, warm shop with more memories than I could count.
And if you went all the way to the back, there was an old spiral staircase leading up to yet another beautiful lounge no one ever cared to use. It was my happy place and where I went to collect my thoughts whenever I got the chance.
Bridget insisted I hire some help, but considering the lack of business and how high the bills had become, I managed on my own. It may have been exhausting, but it wasn’t like I could just walk away. Even if my family didn’t own the shop, even if I had somewhere else to go, I’d stay.
As one of two bookstores in town, Between the Pages was the only escape from the real world that I had.
I could open up a book whenever I wanted, jumping into faraway lands where I rode on the backs of dragons, talked to ogres, and took part in huge space battles. What more could a bookworm possibly need?
Granted, the time I got to spend reading was far less than it used to be when I was a kid. Even without the foot traffic we used to get, there was still plenty to do.
I had to tidy the shelves, keep the books dusted and clean, sweep the floors, vacuum, fix up each lounge when necessary, and update the wall of my favorite books when something new caught my eye.
Needless to say, I was in the middle of stocking the shelves with new books when a harried woman walked in. Bundled up and shivering from the cold, I had a feeling she came in to escape the elements more than anything else. It wasn’t until I returned to the front desk when she walked up to me, her red tresses a stark contrast to her pale complexion.
A handful of tendrils had escaped her hat and scarf which she gingerly pulled away from her lips.
“I’m sorry, this is going to sound really dumb,” she began, averting her gaze as she dug at something under her nail.
I smiled at her and said, “Any books you’re looking for, I either have or I can get them for you. There’s no reason to feel embarrassed. I’ve seen all types. What are you looking for?”
I’d seen a number of potential customers come in with someone else, mumble something about a book they wanted, only to walk out again because they were too afraid to ask.