Publishable By Death - Andi Cumbo-Floyd (ebook reader wifi .txt) 📗

This weekend, she’d turned down a really impressive – and well-paying opportunity – near Charlottesville, Virginia to consult with a celebrity winery owner just so she could be here for my grand opening. I was very grateful because I wasn’t sure I could do this without her, but I still felt a little guilty.

Mart set a huge plate of food in front of me and then placed a small saucer of eggs up on the bookshelf for Aslan. My best friend had been totally suckered into believing that poor cat was suffering, and that chubby feline was not going to dissuade her of that delusion.

I looked down at Mayhem. She was sitting up, head on my thigh, hopeful. She knew the bacon was an unlikely treat, but maybe some of those eggs would make their way to her waiting mouth. I gave her a scratch and then tucked into the food.

By seven, Mayhem, Mart, and I were walking up to the shop. Woody’s sign looked great, the strings of Edison bulbs that I’d splurged on were giving the front windows a warm glow, and the bright pink Grand Opening banner on the awning at the front of the store was shining bright in the glow of the morning moonlight.

I had a lot riding on today in terms of money, but also reputation. If the store didn’t get a good start, it would be hard for me to gain enough momentum to stay up, much less grow. So I’d gone all in. I’d taken out ads in the local newspaper, posted to Facebook in every book-related group in the area, and pushed out a huge press release about the grand opening. The local paper, the St. Marin’s Courier, had come out to interview me for a feature piece in last Sunday’s edition.

The reporter, Lucia Stevensmith, had visited the shop last Thursday for an interview, and I had been so excited that she wanted to be in the space and get a feel of it. But I almost immediately regretted that we hadn’t gone down to the waterfront or something. The look on her face when she walked in wasn’t a welcome, excited one. She looked like she’d just tasted a raw persimmon for the first time. Her thin face was puckered, and beneath her graying eyebrows, her eyes were tiny with what I thought was disgust. “Oh, I see you haven’t gone for a full remodel,” was the first thing she said.

Then, she was bossy to the extreme and gave me advice about how to organize the shelves, suggested I move the location of the register closer to the door for “loss prevention” – it took me forever to figure out she meant shoplifting – and tried to persuade me that I’d never be successful with a general bookstore. “You need to specialize in something. Maybe nautical books or history about Maryland. You’re just not going to find people who want to read mystery novels AND buy nature guides.”

“I read mystery novels and buy nature guides. I’m sure I’m not the only one,” I had said.

She had let a little snort out and continued her critique as she moved into our small café. Apparently, I would “lose my shirt” with food. “Total money pit.” I had found it hard not to either defend myself or cry, but I silently bore up under her barrage.

Finally, Mart had put a stop to her bevy of “suggestions” by saying that she had prepared cappuccinos for us. “Is it decaf? I don’t touch anything but decaf after ten a.m. I have a sensitive system,” she’d said. Mart told her that it was not decaf, and I was pretty sure Stevensmith whispered the word “heathens” under her breath, but decided to let it go.

The interview itself was pretty straightforward, and I was grateful for the chance to talk about my hopes for the shop – that people would make it a place they gathered, that they’d suggest titles I should carry and authors they’d like to see read here, and that All Booked Up would become a part of St. Marin’s, just like the other wonderful shops on Main Street.

Stevensmith had said, “How quaint” with a certain dismissive tone and then snapped a few pictures with her phone before heading out. Fortunately, the paper had sent over a photographer the next day, and they had done a nice piece with a few great photos and key quotes in the Sunday edition. Most of Stevensmith’s persnicketiness had gotten edited out, thank goodness.

When I’d asked Woody about the reporter, he’d rolled his eyes. “That woman rubs every single human on the earth the wrong way. She always has an opinion about everything, and is never afraid to share it. In fact, just last week, she started telling Lucas – the director of the maritime museum – that she thought they should get rid of the exhibition about the enslaved men who fished these waters and ran boats along the waterways here because it made people uncomfortable.” I knew I liked Lucas immediately when Woody said the director had rolled his eyes and said, “That’s sort of the point, Lucia.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s not just me, then?” I asked Woody.

“Nope, pretty much nobody likes the woman, but we try to be neighborly, you know.”

I did know. In small southern communities, neighborliness was the currency on which everyone survived. Without each other, no one would make it. But of course, this also meant there were a fair number of crotchety folks that people had to put up with, and apparently, I’d met one. Lucky me.