Chapter 5
THE RESERVATION WASN’T FOR another half hour when my taxi dropped me off on Water Street, just outside of Hoshi, the glamorous Japanese fusion rooftop restaurant that Logan had sent me the details for earlier.
And so I did what that kind of extra time called for. Like a moth drawn to the light, I pulled out my phone and searched for the closest bookstore to my location. It directed me just around the corner.
Minutes later, I yanked open the door to Fox Books and hurried inside, the toasty air welcoming me like a big bear hug.
Three impressive stories of full bookshelves stood before me, illuminated by bright white lights. An escalator was packed with shoppers floating up and down.
My eyes immediately fell on a display table, smack-dab in the middle of the store, labeled “Don’t Miss These Memoirs.” I couldn’t help but inch my way closer.
Within an instant, I recognized two books—their covers, their titles, and their authors’ names deeply familiar.
They were books that I’d written cover to cover, though my name was nowhere to be found.
One of them was described in the back cover blurb as “a hilarious, touching memoir for a young Broadway star,” the other, “an inspiring, thought-provoking memoir about a former Olympian.” Both a moderate success.
Nowhere near what Liv’s would likely be.
I flipped through one of the books, perusing the words I’d crafted.
“That’s a really good one.” A voice called my attention away from the book. A smiling salesgirl stood in front of me.
“Is it?”
“Don’t even get me started. I mean, I knew she could sing, but boy can she write too.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. With that, the salesgirl disappeared.
I closed the book and moved to another table, this one with a sign that said, “Check Out These Classics to Be.” A few of Carmichael’s latest fiction reads were sprinkled throughout the display. A romance, a mystery, a World War II historical fiction—each a wild success.
When would it be my turn? For the spotlight, the recognition, the display table that declared my book worth the read?
I peered around the gigantic bookstore, watching as customers dashed to and fro and workers organized shelves.
Fox Books was a chain, a well-oiled machine synonymous with the word bookseller.
Having a book on their shelves was, essentially, the definition of success for a writer.
But all the same, there was something about Fox Books that felt wrong to me.
Too corporate, contrived, cold. Not like the little bookstore in Avila Falls where I’d spent thousands of afternoons growing up.
And Then There Were Books wasn’t fancy in any sense of the word.
It didn’t have fluorescent lighting, escalators, an army of salespeople, or fresh carpeting.
Its inventory didn’t stretch across multiple levels, but Edith, the elderly woman who ran it, did her best to stock the store with as much as she could—most likely due to my constant requests for more to read, to which she always complied.
It had been the only place in Avila Falls where I’d ever felt like I belonged.
I’d first discovered And Then There Were Books as a little kid walking home from school while my parents worked. The generous collection of children’s books had beckoned me inside, and Edith’s freshly baked chocolate chip cookies hadn’t hurt.
What started out as a place I stopped by on my way home became a second home to me.
Edith, not wanting me to sit on the floor as I read and did homework, had gotten me a special reading chair—a rich, dark green armchair that I could only assume she’d found in an antique store, what with its evidence of wear and tear—which she kept hidden toward the back.
Safe to say, there was nothing corporate about it at all.
Edith and I had taken to sending long emails to one another over the years to keep in touch. But that wasn’t any comparison to talking with her, face to face, over a sweet treat split in half.
I opened my email and scrolled through to locate our latest exchange.
My heart plunged. I’d forgotten to reply to her last message sent a week ago.
I’d write up an apology later. Tonight, I just needed to focus on getting through this date.