Publishable By Death by Andi Cumbo-Floyd (reading like a writer TXT) 📖

The next week went by without event. Galen came by on Thursday with Mack, the most adorable senior bulldog I’d ever seen. He, Mayhem, and Taco, who had started spending days at the shop since he was a bit, um, under foot in the garage, became fast friends and all shared one giant bed that I’d added back by the self-help section.

Elle brought flowers to the shop every morning, and we became fast friends. Near death will do that to you. Even Max Davies seemed to take a shine to the shop and stopped by from time to time to offer his expert wisdom on our cookbook selection.

Ms. Dawson wrote her first column for our weekly newsletter and recommended Ta-Nehisi Coates’ The Water Dancer. Her review was astute and honest, giving caution for our readers with ancestors who had been enslaved, but also suggesting the great power of the book for all readers. We got several requests for the book almost immediately, and I was delighted to send a check by way of Marcus that first week.

Business stayed brisk, brisk enough that I was able to hire Woody to make a bench for in front of the shop window so that people could relax outside in the warmer weather. Cate helped me expand the art book section and managed to restrain herself and only order two books for herself. “My husband will definitely divorce me if I start hoarding books again,” she said. Lucas held true to his word and helped me develop a sizable maritime section with historical books, books on boats, and even a nice collection of fiction with nautical themes.

Marcus continued to prove himself invaluable, and I was on track to bring him on as assistant manager by the end of the spring. He finished Possession in half the time it had taken me and declared it “good but a little too purposefully obtuse,” which was an assessment I could not argue with. He moved into Daniel’s apartment within a few weeks and loved it, and I enjoyed watching him skate to work every morning and home every night with a little more lightness in his frame.

And Daniel, well, he walked me home every night. Some of those nights – mostly the ones when Mart was out of town – he stayed late, but we still hadn’t had our first sleepover. That would come, I knew, but for now, we were taking it slow. The way I liked it best.

One day in mid-April, Ralph Sylvester stopped in. I hadn’t seen him since the day of the street fair, but I’d thought of him often, wondering if he’d come by after he heard about what happened with Divina. When he showed up, I realized I had been nervous, worried that he was angry with me for having his friend’s wife arrested. But as soon as I saw his smile, I knew he harbored no such resentment. He was – unlike some of us – a man who worked through his pain and came out the other side stronger.

“Harvey, it’s so good to see you,” he said as he reached out a hand and took mine. “I’m sorry I’ve been away for so long. I didn’t want to come back until I had something for you.” From behind his back, he pulled a square about the size of a trade paperback and all wrapped in tissue paper. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous in giving it to you.”

I furrowed my brow and then took the package from his hand. “Well, thank you.” I peeled back the paper, read the words, and felt the tears begin.

In this location, Berkeley Hudson ran The Hudson Station from 1928–1958. This building and Hudson’s home, with his wife Divina, were safe havens for black people from all over the South. This building is memorialized in The Green Book and will forever be a place of safety for people who need respite and rejuvenation, be that through fuel or word.

“Oh, Mr. Sylvester, thank you!” I took a deep breath to keep from sobbing. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, maybe you’ll hang it up.”

I looked at him with shock. “No maybe about it. I’m hanging it now. Hold on.” I spun around as if a masonry drill was going to fall from the ceiling.

“Maybe this will help.” Woody came through the door, drill in hand. “Ralph stopped by to ask if he could borrow it.” He put out a hand and took the plaque. “But I’d be honored if you’d let me hang it.”

I nodded, tears stealing my voice again. I pointed to a spot at eye level just to the right of the front door. “I want everyone to see it.”

Mr. Sylvester nodded. “I like that idea.”

A few moments later, the bronze plaque hung where every single person who left this building would notice it and be reminded. It was the perfect, final touch for my store.

For a few weeks, I continued to avoid the storeroom – too many hard memories there. When I absolutely had to go in, I’d rush to whatever I needed and rush back out, ignoring everything else. But eventually, I knew I had to deal with the aftermath of Divina’s visit. The police had gathered all the evidence they needed weeks earlier, but it was up to me to deal with the damaged inventory.

I took a deep breath and headed for the box the shotgun blast had blown open. Fragments of paper were scattered all around, reminding me of Lucia Stevensmith’s orange notepaper, and I dreaded not only the reliving of the memory but the travail of dealing with the damaged books. As I opened the lid, pellets tinkled out on the ground, I thought I might cry again . . . but then, I caught a glimpse of the cover on the top book. Riding Shotgun by Rita Mae Brown. How fitting, I thought, and started to laugh.

Entitled To Kill

If asked to name my favorite season, I’d immediately say fall. But I also have a deep affection for the first really warm days of spring, the ones when all the flowers are bursting forth, when tulips bejewel front yards and the cherry trees begin to flower the air with their petals.

It was late April in St. Marin’s, and spring was fully here. My bookstore had been open an entire month, and it was actually turning a profit. A small profit, but a profit nonetheless. I’d even begun paying part of the mortgage on our house. Mart, my best friend and roommate, had tried to convince me to wait until at least July before I began to contribute, but I had insisted. I wasn’t paying anywhere near half, but writing that first check had felt gratifying, like