7. Noelle
SEVEN
NOELLE
Talking with Briar was unexpected, and although we touched on some deep issues, she seems like such a sweet girl.
Part of me wants to tell Dash, because it will ease the concern—concern that I put on him—but a bigger part feels that a promise, or in this case, an agreement, is more beneficial to support his overall concerns, or at the least helpful to her.
She now has my number, too, just in case she needs it.
After Hemingway is fed and I’m showered and ready for my day, I kiss his kitty head. “Have a good day.” Then I grab my laptop and head down the stairs.
I unlock the interior door, which opens directly into the shop. I never get tired of this moment—the way stepping through feels like I’m crossing through a portal into another world.
The smell hits first. It always does. Old paper and polished wood. I walk over and start the coffee, making the scent around me even more intoxicating and comforting to a bookworm like me.
I unlock the door and flip the sign to“ Open ,” loosen my scarf, and take in the quiet. The hush before the day begins. There’s only one problem. My laptop is screaming my name, and it’s not supposed to do that until closing time.
The first customers are always the same—my faithful.
Three women, all older than me, kids of various ages and stages in life, and husbands at work, push through the door within ten minutes of each other; one carrying a cloth tote with a laminated library card clipped to it, the other with a stack of crossword puzzles she’ll work on between chapters.
“Morning, Noelle,” Angie calls, her voice brisk but fond.
“Morning,” I say, and like clockwork, I hand her the new release from her favorite historical fiction author, Kristan Hannah. She doesn’t even ask for it anymore—I just set it aside when the shipment arrives.
A couple of minutes behind her, Marcy trails in with her smile already softening at the sight of the shelves.
She goes straight for the romance display, humming under her breath as she runs her fingers along the spines.
Today, she chooses two books —one contemporary, one Regency —and cradles them like old friends.
They head for the back, their coats already slipping off their shoulders, and make themselves tea from the little bar under the stairs.
Steam curls up from the chipped mugs they both insist are their “lucky ones,” though I’ve never figured out why.
Soon enough, they’re tucked into velvet armchairs, books open, reading glasses perched on their noses.
Angie works here part-time—she’ll keep an ear on the bell and handle the register if I need to run upstairs. She’s got the whole routine down better than me some days. Marcy … well, she’ll stay until closing since she’s now officially an empty nester and her husband works late.
The bell jingles again, and Evie breezes in, the faintest whiff of expensive perfume trailing after her. Today, it’s a camel coat, belted, the kind that probably costs more than my monthly mortgage. She unwinds her scarf and drops a glossy bakery box on the counter.
“Extras,” she says, brushing it off before I can comment. “Don’t let them go to waste.”
Angie smirks. “Translation: she stopped at Leclerc again, couldn’t resist, and now she’s pretending it’s charity.”
Evie narrows her eyes. “They were on special.”
“Special,” Angie snorts. “Evie, those pastries cost twelve bucks a pop. A ‘special’ at Leclerc means they threw in a napkin.”
Marcy giggles from her armchair. “She’s right, you know.”
Evie waves a hand like she’s swatting away flies then plucks a slim hardback off the display. “Has anyone ever considered not interrogating the person providing breakfast?”
I hide a smile. This is their ritual. Angie with her sharp tongue, Marcy with her giggles, and Evie pretending she’s just one of the girls, not someone with a trust fund and an art collection gathering dust.
Watching them settle in always gives me this quiet thrill. They’ve carved out their corner of the world here that predates me. It feels like proof the bookstore will one day do what I dreamed it will—become a refuge, a little piece of magic hidden behind brick and glass for people who love books.
By the time I finish reshelving yesterday’s strays and scribble a few notes in the order book, I am dying to get back at my manuscript.
I nearly jump when Angie tucks her tote under the counter, slipping her readers onto the bridge of her nose. “You need to head up to the office for a bit?” she asks, like she already knows the answer. “I’ll keep an ear on the bell.”
I hesitate then shake my head. “Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, I could really use the help today. I’ve got to run down to the cell shop—my phone’s been acting up since the great coffee incident.”
Angie looks up over her glasses, lips twitching. “The what?”
“That wedding,” I say, and they all quietly groan, knowing I don’t really want to go but feel I need to.
“I found a dress that was perfect. I swear it’s magical, the kind of dress that makes you not just know you’re beautiful but feel it to the bone.
I FaceTimed my girls, and it was a resounding yes.
” They’re hanging on every word. “I walked out of the store with the vintage dress in a bag, and someone ran into me, and coffee went everywhere.”
“No,” they gasp.
“The dress is at a cleaner, and the phone needs to be replaced.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Evie holds her hand to her chest.
Heat creeps up my neck. “It happens. It will all be okay.”
“Do you have insurance on your phone?” Marcy asks.
“Yes.” I smile.
“Go get it fixed. We’ll be here when you get back.” Angie waves me off, already reaching for the register like she owns the place. “I’ll run the fort. Just don’t come back with one of those ridiculous phone cases with ears or sparkles.”
I grab my scarf and bag, smiling as I head to the door. “No promises.”
I leave the cell shop with a bounce in my step and, for once, a win tucked in my backpack.
My insurance covered the new phone. No questions, no fight, no worries about messing up my budget.
Just a shiny new phone and the relief of knowing I don’t have to wait for it to be shipped out to me, and possibly being without it for days.
That would mean no connection with the girls while I’m at a wedding I don’t want to go to, but must.
On the sidewalk, I slip my crossbody backpack around to the front—safer that way in the city—and unzip it.
I pull Dash’s phone out and cringe again at the fact that he doesn’t have a passcode.
I’m pleasantly surprised there are no messages that I could accidentally open and have him thinking I’m a snoop.
I quickly thumb through his contacts in hopes he’s got it saved under something blatantly obvious, like he does his teammates. KOK, Motherfaulker, Killer, Big Stones, and on and on. And he does! I think, anyway . Zbears? We shall see.
I send a text.
Me:
Sterling?
Zbears:
Sure.
What the heck?
Zbears:
Or you can call me Emmett. Ladies’ choice.
Me:
Me:
1-Phone procured. 2-Why do you not have a passcode? 3-Kick butt tonight!
Zbears:
1-We won’t be back in the city until Tuesday; keep it till then. I’ll swing by. 2-I don’t need one. 3-* will do.
Zbears:
Dress update, Sal needs another day, but all is good. No stress.
Me:
Please tell him I appreciate it.
Zbears:
I’ll swing by when I get back into town.
Me:
I can bring it to you.
Zbears:
Coming to the Vancouver game?
Me:
I believe that’s the plan.
Zbears:
Cool.
Me:
Cool.
I stare at the phone, waiting for more, but maybe that’s all there is. I’ll bring it to the arena.
Cool …
I was gone less than an hour, and I already feel guilty for cutting into Angie’s reading time.
She’d never complain. She insists that the reason she took the job five years ago was to get first dibs on new releases and ensure we order them.
Still, I know she treasures those quiet hours curled in the back with a paperback.
I ignore the fact that I’m itching to get the words buzzing in my head out onto a page and settle back into the rhythm of the store.
Angie works five days a week, noon until six. The two employees who were here when I bought the place both moved out of the city, and the old owners moved to Florida. Instead of hiring replacements, I’ve done it alone to save money.
Sofie’s been on my case about that for months.
“ Hire someone, NoNo. Give yourself space to breathe, write, live .”She’s busier than I am but carves out time for exactly what she wants, maneuvering her schedule until it works.
One of those things is covering games for Fairfax Media’s sports division; it’s below her pay grade, but the access to a VIP luxury box is a win for her and a win for all of us.
The bell chimes, and the door opens. I hit post to the online classified. Step one in hiring additional staff is now complete.
The next three hours, I nearly forget about my couple, who is telling me their story, and get wrapped up in this, our bookstore, mine and Dad’s.
A trio of NYU students flood the children’s section, hunting for picture books for a literacy outreach project.
I load them up with extras, and they promise to return.
A tourist with a crumpled map asks for “something very New York.” A retired professor corners me in the history aisle, wanting a recommendation on Civil War memoirs.
At the same time, a couple from Ohio marvels over the shop like they’ve stumbled into a movie set.
A woman in a navy suit drops in between meetings, buys a paperback thriller and a lavender tea tin, and leaves with her phone wedged to her ear.
Business on the brain, but her escape is waiting for her when she’s ready to put her day behind her.