However, all readers - sooner or later - find for themselves a literary genre that is fundamentally different from all others. Publishable By Death by Andi Cumbo-Floyd (reading like a writer TXT) đź“–
- Author: Andi Cumbo-Floyd
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Book online «Publishable By Death by Andi Cumbo-Floyd (reading like a writer TXT) 📖». Author Andi Cumbo-Floyd
My clock said it was two a.m., and I had to be at the store by seven. I’d have to figure out what Lucia didn’t want me to put together another time. Now, I needed to sleep, and Aslan agreed. I snuggled back under the comforter, and she rolled over to rest her haunches against the back of my leg. Comforting, if not entirely comfortable.
Later that morning, I awoke to my alarm. My body ached from exhaustion, but my mind was not going to let me sleep a minute past six. We had work to do. I crawled out of bed and made my way to the coffee pot, only to find it was already brewing. I tried to open my eyes enough to look around, but I ran into Marcus, who was sitting at a bar stool with his own cup of joe, reading Possession. “Oh, sorry,” I said. “You’re up early.”
“Wanted to get an early start at the shop, but first, I had to read a bit more about what Roland and Maud are finding.”
It took me a minute, but then I realized he was talking about the characters in the novel and smiled. “Glad you’re liking it, and thanks for planning to come early. We have a LOT of setting up to do.”
“No problem. I hope it’s okay, but I asked my mom to come by, too.” He looked over the top of his book with trepidation.
“Of course it’s okay. I’m so excited to meet her . . . but if you’ll excuse me, I really need to drink some of this fine coffee you have made, and you have another few pages to squeeze in.”
He grinned and tucked his nose back into his book while I dug out the coffee mug I’d won at a college holiday party. It was the size of a large soup bowl, which seemed about right for today.
Mart, Marcus, Daniel, and I were at the shop by seven, a time Aslan even refused to acknowledge with her presence. Mayhem, however, was eager to get out for an early morning sniff-and-pee until we got to the shop, that is. At that point, she climbed onto the tiny dog bed in the window display – meant for a visiting teacup poodle or dog-loving cat – and passed out. Only her chest fit on the bed, so she made quite the sight with her belly up, all four paws in the air, and this little pink pillow below her shoulders. I took a picture and decided it would be the first image on the Instagram page I wanted to create for the shop.
By seven-thirty, Rocky and her mom had arrived with trays and trays of baked goods. “Gifts from the ladies at church,” Ms. Phoebe said. “You know those women are always just looking for an excuse to bake.”
I laughed and said, “Please thank them for me. You’ll keep track of what I owe everyone?”
Phoebe took a step back. “Woman, no. These are gifts. All the money goes to the scholarship fund.”
I already felt the tears coming to my eyes, and we hadn’t even started the day. “That is so kind. Maybe I could host a women’s book club for them here . . . do they like to read?”
She smiled. “Some of them do. But don’t tell the preacher, now: most of us love romances.”
“You got it, then. A clandestine romance book club that we’ll call, “Lovin’ On” just to seem holy.”
She arched her back and laughed so loudly that I felt it in my throat. I liked this woman.
Outside, Marcus had gotten all the tents set up and had hung two banners that he had ordered the day before on the front and side of the building by the garden center.
“Used Books – $1.00. All proceeds go to the Skye Williams’ Scholarship Fund.”
In the corner of each banner, there was a small stack of books and a very cute logo for the shop . . . I’d been hoping to design one, but apparently, Marcus had taken care of that for me. I was pretty sure that young man would be the assistant manager here before long.
Up and down the street, I saw the shop owners putting out tables and hanging decorations. The garden center had outdone themselves with the hanging baskets for the street lamps, and the town had offered their employees time and a half if they wanted to work the fair – hanging baskets, emptying trash, answering questions, etc. Already, the street was more full than on a normal Sunday, and we were just the folks working.
I heard the sheriff coming before I saw him. His patrol car was playing “Uptown Funk” over the loudspeaker as he drove into town, and I saw even the most stoic among us start to swing our hips. I was outside helping Cate and Lucas unload their totes of books, and the sheriff stopped and rolled down his window when he saw me.
“You done good, Harvey Beckett. Real good.” He grinned. “This is a great day already . . . and I have it on good authority that the weather is going to be perfect.” He leaned out of the car window and winked at Woody.
“That’s right. Red sky last night . . . sure does look like it’ll be delightful. Maybe even hit seventy today.”
“Oh, I hope so,” I said as I waved to the sheriff’s departing car. I was trying to figure out how to best display Cate’s beautiful art book collection. “These are incredible, Cate. Are you sure you’re okay with parting with them? “
Cate gave me a look that said, “This again.”
“Okay. Okay. But really, only a dollar? We could get more for them.”
She looked at the books and said, “We could, but we don’t need to. And I really like the idea of people who don’t have fifty dollars to spend on an art book getting one for just a dollar. I plan on staying here all day and telling people about the artists and answering questions.”
“Just don’t scare the customers away, my love,” Lucas said as he hefted another tote onto a table. “Not everyone wants to know about the reason behind Frida’s unibrow.”
“Wait, she had that facial hair for a reason? Oh man, I want to know that story, but I have to get inside. I just remembered, I haven’t gotten out the mystery books yet. Tell me later?” I waved as I rushed back into the shop.
Inside, I stopped in my tracks when I saw what Mart had done with the front table. It was an entire display of books about segregation and the Jim Crow South, and at the center, she’d placed The Negro Motorist Green Book. Its forest-green cover shone like a beacon, and I wondered how people would feel about it. I hoped our black customers would find it honoring, especially given the history of the building. A couple of days ago, I’d looked it up and found that they’d made a reproduction of the 1940 book . . . and Mart had, somehow, managed to get copies to feature here in the shop. I loved that woman.
I couldn’t wait to show Divina, and I sure hoped Mr. Sylvester would stop by. I really wanted them to know I’d heard them and was doing all I could to honor the memory of Berkeley Hudson. As I rushed past the check-out counter, I made a quick note to myself so I wouldn’t forget to take care of something as soon as the festival ended.
But now, I had to get out those mystery books because I could see the foot traffic outside starting to pick up. I grabbed the box of books from the storeroom, trying not to think about Lucia Stevensmith when I darted in and out – and laid the box on the table for Mart to sort. “Got it,” she said as I sprinted off to check on Rocky and Phoebe.
The mother-daughter team was in full swing with carafes of coffee – dark roast and medium roast in the full-strength kind plus decaf for those who needed it – and a veritable tower of cinnamon rolls. They’d also stocked the pastry case with an assortment of scones and spring-decorated cookies, and I thought I even spied small quiches as I gave them a big thumbs up on my way back outside.
As I darted beneath the ringing bell, I saw Daniel helping Cate and Lucas set out the books, and he gave me a smile that made my heart bounce just a bit. I looked up the street, and the other businesses were pulling out tables and setting up displays as far as I could see. Next door, the garden center had brought
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