The Stories We Carry, page 3
The mayor had erected the fence as part of his beautification project a decade ago to hide the railroad tracks, a graveyard, the stone works, and broken-down, abandoned houses. Tree branches curled over sections of board, and people had hoed and dug and seeded and painted, personalizing their property, whether they rented or owned, lived or worked in it. During their courtship, Glory had enlisted Eli to build large planters to the right of the back door. On the left, under the gnarly, outstretched arms of a red maple tree, Dude had set up for the night.
When a mosquito landed on her hand she slapped it, making the plate she carried wobble dangerously. As she moved her foot to steady the dish, the door swung closed with a decisive thunk. She tugged on it, despite knowing it locked automatically from the inside. Immediately, she pictured her keys hanging on their hook. “Shoot!”
“Is that for me?”
“Mercy!” Glory’s free hand tried to restrain her racing heart as she whirled toward the low voice behind her. The book fell to the pavement with a splat, but she caught the cake for the second time. As she squatted to scoop up her battered copy of How Green Was My Valley, she heard the creak and crinkle of movement and the scraping of approaching feet.
“Let me help you.” One grizzled hand reached for the book, and the other extended a palm.
Glory took a second to notice clean, barely there fingernails before gazing up into limpid hazel eyes that looked like they’d seen more than they should have but held no grudges over the who, why, and how of what they’d witnessed. She smiled and accepted his dry, wrinkled palm. “Hey there, Dude. Thanks for the lift.” She chuckled and pointed to the five-hundred-page book. “It took me some time, but it’s a good one. Eli and I are going to watch the movie tonight and see how well it matches up. I’ll let you know.”
He nodded, and seemingly assured that Glory was firmly upright, he let go.
She gave him the plastic-sheathed cake and watched him return with his dessert and his reading material to the Adirondack-style chair the Pryors had provided him the previous summer based on expert advice and lots of research. Glory had concluded that it made sense that everybody had a birthday, so they should manufacture, and therefore recognize, Dude’s. With a firmness that brooked no argument, she’d declared, “He’s family.”
“Oh, more family?” Eli had had the audacity to ask.
She’d laid an evil eye on him and continued threading purple ribbon through the three-inch-wide wooden slats on the back of the seat. It took some of Eli’s gentle persuasion to convince her not to “Glory-fy” the gift the way she tended to and simply set it up by the fence.
“We don’t want to scare the man off.”
“He’s a person, not a deer,” she’d grumbled, but acceded to his removing and putting away the strip of satin before helping him tote the chair outside when they’d heard Dude was cooling off at the community pool. Neither of them said a word about their present, including the birthday boy when he ventured back a day or so later. He just sat down, receiving it with the equal measure of fanfare with which it had been offered.
I wonder if I’d make him uncomfortable if I walked ov—
Squeak! The door behind her swung back against the brick exterior of the house. Glory turned to see Eli framed in the light of the kitchen.
“Are you alright back here? You’ve been gone a minute.” Eli rubbed the back of his neck and flicked a glance over her shoulder.
Glory figured she’d stolen enough time from him. It wasn’t like they were some old married couple with more years spent together than apart. They were just old, and they could count their time as a legally bound twosome on one hand. But still, she sighed again. And with a last look at Dude, who was reclining in the dusky shadows of the quivering leaves of the maple tree, she left the fresh air behind.
3
GLORY USED HER SPOON to lift out the string and let the tea bag drip on the inside of her mug. Grateful to start another day with a steaming ten-ounce serving of black tea, she closed her eyes and lowered her face to let the steam tickle her chin.
“Still sniffin’ chai?” Ophelia’s voice sounded drier than the cloth she’d wrung out.
“Ha! My flavor’s more effective than that.” Glory staved off the sting of the baker’s sarcasm with laughter, her eyes concealed behind closed lids lightly dusted with a gold shadow that matched the iridescent accents in her midnight-blue dress. Her way of attaching an “un-” to the day’s “usual.” She turned a deaf ear to Ophelia’s persistent ministrations around the pitted concrete bar top in order to settle herself into the week ahead. The sharp-tongued other woman could always spot water and crumbs that, to most people, were invisible. Or nonexistent. Always needing something to do.
“How was your weekend?” Ophelia shook her cloth over the wastebasket. Seemingly satisfied with the patter of debris, she stood on tiptoe and started scrubbing another section. She and Eli were distant cousins, their family ties stretched so thin they could’ve married each other without raising an eyebrow. Yet they were close enough that, when he’d heard she needed extra income to support her food truck business, he automatically offered her and her son, Jason, and daughter, Mallory, positions at By the Book.
Glory hadn’t needed to be convinced to hire them, not that Eli had asked. They’d needed another full-time host in the store after the last one had quit suddenly and inexplicably. Plus, by hiring Ophelia, By the Book could provide more than coffee, tea, cold drinks, and cookies and encourage people to make Glory’s home their home and her books theirs, too.
At first, Glory feared that bringing on Ophelia and her new menu posed a danger to her precious merchandise. Eli’s “reconfiguration” had addressed that problem by adding shelves of donated and old books around the café area to allow patrons to eat and read without damaging new products. What made Glory’s hair stand on end were the comments that tagged along in Ophelia’s sidecar, especially regarding her church-going habits—or lack thereof.
“Y’all make it to church?” Ophelia scrubbed at a spot in front of the covered glass dish holding wax versions of their rotating specials of kouign-amann, cheddar-and-chive biscuits, butter pecan scones, and pimiento cheese squares.
“Why are you always stirring that same pot, and it’s barely seven o’clock? Put down the spoon, Ophelia. Sunday was the time for sermons, not this beautiful Tuesday morning. I’d appreciate it if you let me enjoy the start to my week.” When Glory had opened By the Book, most proprietors recognized the Sabbath by either closing their doors altogether or opening them in early afternoon. She’d established Tuesday-through-Saturday work hours, allowing her a two-day “weekend” while showing respect for all the churchgoers. Though times and piety had changed, Glory never had.
The bookseller reared back her shoulders and raised her head to her full five foot nine inches, gathered her cup and saucer, and rounded the counter. Anchoring her foot under the bottom rail of a tall stool, she pulled it back to sit at the end where she’d left her pen atop her leather daily planner. An orange-and-yellow sun glued to its cover beamed at her, inviting her to commence her daily routine with the right mindset, beginning with sipping tea between bites of whatever pastry Ophelia had baked the day before while perusing her schedule for the week. To give the tea more time to steep and cool—much like her current temper—Glory unclipped the pink band around the planner and opened it. She hooked a glossy nail tip under a marked tab and flipped to the date, hoping that if she kept her head down, Ophelia would return to the kitchen, her usual spot at this time. This was her “me time,” and she surely wished she could get to it. In silence.
“Where is my cousin this morning?” Swipe, swipe went the cloth.
“Exactly where I said I left him, sleeping on the wrong side of the bed. His side. Where he usually is at this time of day. You know Eli. There’s something about Tuesdays when it comes to my husband.”
“He’s never been an early bird,” Ophelia bristled, apparently to defend her family’s honor.
“Mayy-bee.” The way Glory elongated the word conveyed that her concession didn’t indicate approval. “But he moves like a turtle on our first official workday. You shouldn’t expect to see him raring to go before half past nine, thirty minutes after I’ve unlocked the front door.”
Glory knew Eli burrowed under the covers for more than an hour after she’d closed their bedroom door with as soft a click as she could manage. Long after her goodbye kiss had evaporated from his forehead, he’d drag himself to the sitting area in their bedroom to complete a puzzle, check his email, or do whatever he did there, then mosey downstairs to the kitchen for a cup of strong coffee and a bleary how-de-do with Ophelia. By the time she raised the green shade covering the door’s egg-shaped glass, the spa across the street and Dollars to Donuts, the coffee shop down on the corner, had been serving guests for several hours.
While Eli’s hustling days were long behind him, Glory usually sprang out of bed; on Tuesdays, after two days of unbroken “together time,” she beat the worm to work. She meant to hoard those precious hours for a rainy day when she was feeling particularly overwhelmed by the needs of others, including the one who’d placed a ring on her finger. Glory was grateful their personalities and habits complemented each other, like two straight, perpendicular lines forming a right angle, what she discovered during their long talks before they got married.
Before Eli introduced the subject of leaving the store.
Sensing movement, she glanced up to find the baker facing her across the two feet of glazed concrete between them, her arms crossed over the bib of her striped, gray apron. Glory started counting down from twenty, knowing Ophelia wouldn’t take that long to launch into a diatribe of her own making or one inspired by her cousin and “that wife of his.” She spooned out her tea bag, let it drain, then set it in her saucer. . . . Sixteen . . . fifteen . . . fourteen . . . thirteen . . . twel—
“I asked about his whereabouts because it is the first Tuesday of August. Aren’t we supposed to review the inventory and the menu for September? I need to do my shopping and start prep. October will be here before we know it, bringing the festival right behind it. You like to do things up for the two people who might wander into the store for the first time, and you’ll be giving me more than eight weeks’ worth of work. Not to mention, I have to outfit my truck. Every year, I tell you two we should stop waiting until it’s nearing fall to plan. And every year, I find myself telling y’all—”
“‘The very same thing.’” Glory’s mellow contralto cut off Ophelia’s higher, more strident notes, aiming to derail the redhead’s train of thought. “Yes, I know all that. We’ll get to the menu and the inventory. But I like to feel . . . ” Her ideas flitted about like butterflies around her head, and her hands moved in similar fashion, trying to catch them. “Led? Mmm-hmm, that’s the word: led. Books are creative. They inspire thoughts and ideas. And when it comes to that festival of theirs, I think that’s how people should feel—led, inspired, changed. In fact”—she slapped her hands together, her bracelets clinking against each other—“that should be the theme!”
Ophelia was digging into the niche in the back corner where the wraparound counter didn’t quite reach the wall. She retrieved the broom, then froze with it balanced against her shoulder, its rounded wood tip in line with her ear. “What should be the what, Glo?”
“The theme! For the festival!” This time, Glory ignored Ophelia’s shortening of her name. She propped her chin in one hand and gazed out the window overlooking the café, past the clouds and the recently awakened sun that was struggling to gather the strength to pierce them.
“Why do you care? You refused from the get-go to involve yourself and your bookstore in the town festival. Have you changed your mind? And if you haven’t, then why bother yourself with whether or not there’s a theme?”
Glory rolled her eyes, the drumming of her fingers communicating her excitement, her only response to Ophelia’s interrogation.
This would be the seventh year—a “jubilee” year, her mama had once taught her—for the annual, town-wide celebration of Gilmore’s food, enterprises, produce, and crafts. Anything local and homegrown, from lemonade stands run by elementary students to handblown glass made by local artisans. Most of the stores along Springs Church Road held special sales and giveaways and decorated their windows and businesses. The three-day event culminated in a carnival held at the fairgrounds, a few untilled acres belonging to Willard Farm on the outskirts of town.
A few years after he’d erected the fence, the mayor had sought out the bookseller on his way home from church. Eli, actively engaged in courting Glory, led him upstairs where she was rearranging the stacks and pretending not to bask in her new beau’s attention.
“We need By the Book for the festival. This place is a Gilmore mainstay. How would the young people describe it? Iconic. That’s what it is.”
She’d peered at him over her oversized maroon spectacles, thinking he could be selling snake oil. “You know I don’t like attention, Mark. I’m just trying to run my little old place and live in peace.” Gilmore’s out-of-the-way nature had appealed to Glory when she’d moved there as a young woman. There was small chance of anyone finding her there since most of her family was either gone or dead.
“Little?” His ingratiating smile did as much to soften the edge of his skepticism as aftershave improved the smell of a pig. He threw wide an arm and turned in a half circle. “Old perhaps, but there’s nothin’ little about this three-story, five-thousand-square-foot house.”
Is that envy or admiration? Glory hid a shudder at the way he took stock of her business, like a shrewd cowboy inspecting the withers of a horse he might buy. She sensed Eli felt the same when she saw him grimace, and she liked her suitor all the more.
The mayor smoothed his mustache. “Now, how would it look if every store on the street except the biggest and the busiest participated? What will folks say if your shade is drawn and your door locked? You already entice a ton of people to the town.”
“Come on, Mark, ‘a ton’? Methinks you exaggerate.” She studied one title after another and separated them into piles.
“And methinks the lady protests too much,” the mayor sneered. “That’s a quote you should recognize.”
“I should and I do. Most people get it wrong, the same way you did.” Her arms loaded down with historical fiction, Glory stepped around the familiar, caring hands that reached for her and the other stacks of books. “No, Eli, I don’t need your help, but thank you. What I do need are those days off Mark is suggesting I give up. He doesn’t understand they’re part of my weekend.”
The mayor braced a fist on each hip, and his suit coat flapped behind him like a cape. “You’re working right now!”
Eli, who’d been leaning against the stair railing, straightened up and took a step toward him. “Hold on a minute, Mr. Mayor.”
“It’s alright, de-ah. The mayor didn’t mean anything by it.” Glory waved off her would-be knight. Though chivalry looked cute as a button on him, she could do fine fighting her own battles. It was too soon for Eli to step into her brother’s footsteps. “Mark’s just excited.”
She loaded the books on a nearby cart and began transporting them to another section of shelves. “I’m not usually working like this on Sundays. Someone’s been distracting me.”
Eli grinned at her as she passed him.
“I’m not saying it isn’t a good idea, but I don’t like the idea of a bunch of looky-loos out of something to do, descending on our little burg. Bringing their sticky hands into my store and touching everything after eating hot dogs and funnel cake and BBQ.” She shuddered. “Leaving prints.” The possibility that someone from Georgia or from college might recognize her also crossed her mind. After all, hadn’t Eli sought her out?
Mark’s patent leather loafers clapped on the ends of her wide-legged palazzo pants. “Think of the lost sales and potential new readers! If you’re closed Sunday, you’ll miss the biggest of our three-day festival. Based on our research, Friday, people are working; Saturday, they’re running errands and coming over later; Sunday is for family time, even for those who don’t go to church. Like you and Eli over there.”
Any indecision on her part disappeared—poof!—with his thinly veiled condemnation. Here he was, fresh from the pew, conducting business. Glory rolled the two-tiered cart to the room on the second floor that peered over its pitched slate roof onto Springs Church Road and parked it between the shelves she’d already emptied. She had decided to mirror some of the first-floor sections, starting with modern classics. That way, anyone who couldn’t make it upstairs wouldn’t feel like they were missing anything. She reached for a book and feigned a deep interest in The Nightingale.
“Mark, maybe you should give us some time to think about this.” Eli had followed the sparring twosome. His shoulder bumped hers when he stepped closer.
At first, Glory had balked at the word us. It was the first time that someone else had spoken for her since her parents had died, one following the other, after Glory graduated from college. The first time she’d allowed anyone to. Feeling a change coming on, in their relationship and in herself, she leaned into Eli. Turning to the mayor, she winked and pronounced, “You heard my man. Give us some time. We’ll get back to you when By the Book is ready to join the party.”
More than half a decade and a husband later, Glory considered finally joining the festival fun. As she pondered the pros and cons, both trepidatious and excited, her fingers continued to play an invisible piano on the cool concrete of the bar. “Create. Inspire. Grow. Change. Or something along those lines.”
Ophelia’s head rocked back like Glory had slapped her. “This festival is about entertaining some folks, gettin’ them to spend some money in town and boost the economy a notch. Not changing their lives.” She aimed the broom handle at Glory before resuming her sweeping. “That’s what church is for, changing lives. You talk about Creation, read the Bible.”
