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

That afternoon, I was just reorganizing the religion section – those spiritual folks could de-alphabetize shelves like nobody’s business – when I heard the bell chime. I pried myself up off the floor from among the stacks of books and stepped out, right into a woman about my age with a long, ponytail of silver hair. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Goodness, you’re quick. I just heard you come in.”

“I’m so sorry. I want to shop, but can I—”

“Yep, just over there. Door on the left.” I had been that person chagrined but in need when it came to a bathroom. When I opened the shop, I vowed to never refuse its use to anyone. It was just so mortifying to have to bounce around while you waited in line to get a key.

I went back to reshelving until I felt a hand on my back and stood to see the woman standing beside me. “Thank you so much. You have no idea.”

“Oh, I expect I have some idea. Been there, done that. Happy to help.”

“Well, thank you.” She extended a hand and then smiled. “I did wash.”

I took her hand. “I’m Harvey. This is my shop.”

“I’m so glad to meet you, Harvey, and so glad you’re here. Ever since I moved to St. Marin’s a few years back, I’ve thought we needed a bookstore. I’m Cate.”

I detected a little Deep South accent in this slightly plump and very stylish Asian woman. “So you’re not from here then?”

“Oh no. I moved up from Atlanta about eight years ago. My husband directs the maritime museum, and I paint.”

“Oh, did I need you last week?” I gestured toward the white-washed brick and then gave Cate a sideways wink. “Just kidding. What do you paint?”

She laughed. “You’d be surprised how many calls I get to give estimates on painting barns.” She looked at me intently. “Or maybe you wouldn’t. I expect not much gets past you.” She smiled. “I paint landscapes mostly, a lot of scenes of the water here, obviously. But my passion is portraits.”

“That’s interesting. Do you get commissions for portraits often?”

“Nope. But that’s okay with me. I’m not much for sitting in a room painting someone else sitting in a room. My preference is to do portraits of people as they work. The watermen around here – those old-timers who have been on a boat every day of every decade in their life – their faces have so much story in there.”

I knew then and there that Cate and I would be good friends. Anyone who can see the story in a person’s face was someone I wanted to know.

“Maybe sometime you’d let me paint you?” she asked with a steady gaze at my face.

I turned away and grabbed a stack of Barbara Brown Taylor books. “Why me? My face has been in a cubicle for most of the last twenty years. Not much story there.”

“Oh, I know that’s not true. I can see it at the edges of your eyes.”

“Ah, the crow’s feet tell the tale.”

“Something like that,” Cate said. “Now, where’s your art section?”

She and I spent the rest of the afternoon looking at art books with her guiding me to some new ones I should add to give the section a good foundation and pointing out others that I might want to return since they didn’t have the best quality images or because she knew that the artists hadn’t been fairly compensated for their work in the pages. I was usually loathe to return books, even though I got reimbursed for what I’d spent on them, but if the artists had been cheated, that was a no brainer.

By the time we’d reviewed the whole section and I’d rung up the couple dozen customers who had come through – almost everyone who came in bought something, a true kindness from my neighbors – it was getting dark and was almost time to close up shop. “Oh my word, I’ve been here all day, and I really just stopped in to say hello, pick up the latest issue of Where Women Create, and of course, pee. I’m so sorry for taking all your time.” Cate pulled out the hair tie and smoothed her hair back into its sleek ponytail.

“Oh gracious, please. I had a great time, and you really helped me with that art section. Thank you.”

“Not sure how much help I was,” she said picking up the magazine she’d come for, one of my favorites, too, “but it’s almost dinner time. If you don’t have plans, come on home with me, meet Lucas, and have dinner. Mondays are always pasta nights, so we can fortify for the week ahead.”

Mart had texted to say she was safe and sound in Westminster, and I had been planning on a bowl of cereal for dinner. This sounded far better. “Sure. Thanks. I’ll just close up here, drop Mayhem off at home,” as if on cue, the pooch stretched and squeaked with pleasure, “then I’ll be there.”

“Yay. I’ll help you close up, and please bring Mayhem. Our little Sasquatch loves other dogs.”

I let out a burst of a laugh. “You have a dog named Sasquatch.”

“Sure do. He’s a miniature Schnauzer. All fur and personality.”

It didn’t take us long to help Rocky wipe down the café tables, and I turned out the lights as the three of us headed toward the door. “Rocky, want to join us?” Cate asked as we stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“Oh, thank you, but I need to get home and do homework. Plus, Mama made her curry soup, and I cannot miss that goodness.”

“No ma’am, you cannot,” Cate said.

Most everything in the town of St. Marin’s was within walking distance, so when we turned up a side street away from the water – toward Daniel’s side of town, I found myself thinking – I was delighted. I loved this street with its rambling Victorians towering above cute Craftsman cottages. Mart and I had thought about buying something small on this very lane, but the lure of the water had taken me a few blocks away, over by where the museum was. We strolled to the far end of the street, and Cate led us up the sidewalk to the most wonderfully out-of-place home on the block. It was a lean, angular modern building clad in long, thin planks of what looked like bamboo. Windows were scattered about the front in a pattern that I liked, but couldn’t describe. The trim on all the windows was a gunmetal gray, and the front yard was covered in wood chips with a shrub here and there.

“In the summer, this yard becomes a meadow of wildflowers. It’s a nice contrast to the hard lines of the modern house design. Sort of like Lucas and me. He spends so much time with old things at work that he really wanted to come home to something that only had our story attached, so we built this home when we moved here. The wildflowers are my way of softening our space, blending us in a bit.”

“I love it,” I said and meant it. “Did the neighbors object?” I could see how some of St. Marin’s more, um, traditional community members might have found the sleek design – and maybe the wildflowers too – in poor taste since they didn’t match the historical