“You’re certainly not putting all your eggs in one basket, are you?”
“I thought the Easter Bunny wasn’t supposed to talk?” I ask.
My grampa laughs. “Do you want chocolate or not?”
I reach into his basket and nab a foil-covered egg.
“Our little Susan has become—what do they call it—oh, yes, a man-eater,” my grandma says in a deadpan.
I unwrap the chocolate and pop it in my mouth. “The candy sure is a lot sweeter than you two,” I say.
“They’re just pulling your rather long leg,” Noah says.
My grandfather is dressed in an Easter Bunny costume. He resembles a very dapper Peter Cottontail, his white furry body dressed in an Easter blue jacket, a green-and-yellow-striped vest, and a floppy pink bow tie that matches his cute painted pink nose and the insides of his huge bunny ears, which rise like antennas over his blue eyes and buck teeth. He’s carrying an old-fashioned Easter basket filled with fake grass, colored eggs and lots of candy.
Noah is dressed like a yellow chick bursting from an egg around his waist, while my grandmother is costumed like a daffodil sporting an Easter hat filled with live hyacinth, Easter lilies, crocus and tulips.
“You’re all making fun of me?” I ask.
“The sacrifices we make for literature,” my grandma says.
“The sacrifices I make for you,” I add.
It is the weekend before Easter, about a month since St. Patrick’s, and every year on this day Sleigh By the Bay holds our annual EGGS-Cited for Easter! party. My grampa hides eggs around the bookstore, filled with candy as well as half-off coupons for books, and we hold an Easter egg hunt for children and adults. We serve carrot cake, Peeps pretzels and deviled eggs, and Leah’s Easter punch. It not only allows families to shop for last-minute Easter presents and basket gifts but also brings the community together after a long winter.
The sun streams through the windows.
And we have a perfect day.
It is a surprisingly balmy April day by Northern Michigan standards, meaning it’s sunny and in the upper forties. The snowbanks are melting, and little rivers are running down the streets.
I am dating two men at the same time. Yes, you heard that right. Two. With a third date on the way. I feel a bit like one of those high school girls in a teen rom-com who is juggling the high school jock and the nerd but is secretly still in love with the guy she met at summer camp. After going on a first date with Micah and a second coffee date with Jamie, I continue to see both of them long-distance. We text and FaceTime, and I have plans to see both in the coming weeks when I visit Holly in Chicago. I have begun marking our times to talk on my calendar in code (JM for Jamie Martin, MH for Micah Harrison), much like I do to distinguish between my publishing reps (SMP for St. Martin’s Press, HC for HarperCollins or PRH for PenguinRandomHouse).
“Here comes Peter Cottontail...”
Speaking of which...
Holly literally hops into the bookstore, singing.
“You look better than I do!” my grampa says.
She, too, is dressed as a rabbit. Jessica Rabbit, that is.
Think sexy Jessica Rabbit meets adorable bunny, complete with a little white bunny tail and a pink wig with adorable ears.
“Holly, this is a children’s event,” I say.
“Who Framed Roger Rabbit was for children,” Holly says, blinking innocently at me.
“Diva, you actually look like Bugs Bunny’s girlfriend, Lola,” Noah says.
“See?” Holly protests. “Another cartoon.”
She sniffs the air with her cute little twitching nose, which leads her to my grandma’s Easter hat.
“You smell like heaven!” Holly turns to me. “Speaking of which...”
“Yes?”
“Your third and final date is coming up next week, and it’s a heavenly one.”
“Okay, stop with the puns,” I say.
“No, keep talking,” Grandma says. “She’s been mum about the details of the third Santa.”
“I asked Holly to remain quiet about it.”
“Why?” Noah asks. “What’s he like?”
Holly looks slowly and very dramatically around the group.
“He’s a minister.”
“Oh, my God, for real?” Noah asks. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
“What religion?” my grampa asks.
“And this is exactly why I didn’t want to discuss it,” I say.
My grandma suddenly starts jumping up and down. Her hat looks like it’s shaking in an earthquake.
“A man of God in our family!” she gushes. “It’s a dream come true!”
“Okay, hold on to your petals, daffodil,” I say. “We haven’t even gone on a date yet. I know very little about him.”
Holly hops onto a chair.
“Hear ye! Hear ye!” she starts. “Tristan Taylor is a forty-year-old United Church of Christ minister.”
“UCC!” my grampa says triumphantly. “Keeping it in the family!”
Holly continues. “He used to be a school teacher before becoming a minister. He grew up in Traverse City, and he splits his time between Traverse City and Chicago, where his church has two sister branches. Susan will be attending a sunrise service in Traverse on Easter Sunday given by Tristan, and then going to brunch with him. And you gotta believe he’s not lying about having met Susan at the race.”
“Are you going to ask him what his favorite book is?” Noah says with a laugh. “I bet I know already. Authored by the true diva!”
The bell on the door tinkles, and a rush of families flock through the door promptly at one.
My grampa begins to hop around the store and offer kids chocolate.
“Nothing like getting them amped up to buy books.”
I turn.
“Rita, what a nice surprise. What brings you in on a Saturday?”
“I wanted to look for some gifts for my great-nieces and -nephews,” she says. Rita surveys the scene. “And I wanted to get some fresh air on this nice day.”
Rita says this last sentence in a decidedly hopeful tone. She skews her eyes in my direction and then ducks her head.
I know her words are code for something deeper.
“Well, it’s good to see you any day of the week.”
“Thank you, Susan.”
Winter is not for the fainthearted in Michigan. Especially when you’re alone. I place my hand on her shoulder and give it a gentle rub.
The days exist in the dark, and—after a while—you cannot tell morning from night. It’s as if you’re sleepwalking. And when there is no one beside you to wake you from the months of cold and isolation, it can be hard to continue.
Rita and I are not that much different.
An electric blanket can warm us but cannot hold us tight in the middle of the night when we wake up shivering and scared. A fire can heat our homes but not our hearts. We make pots of soup and bake dozens of homemade cookies for one.
But Rita and I are united not only by memories and an undying love for my parents but also for what they built here: a love of books.
And that is what sustains us through winter.
Words are our sustenance, characters our companions, stories our escape, this store our warmth.
“I’ve heard about your dating life,” Rita says.
I laugh. “Who hasn’t? The groundhog didn’t see his shadow this year. He saw mine as I was trying to crawl into his hole. Six more weeks of Susan!”
Rita chuckles. “Well, I hope it works out. I’m...this community is rooting for you. And I know how much your mother and father would have wanted you to meet someone. I know this has been a tough year for you. It has for me as well. Anniversaries can do that to a person. Life can’t be all...”
Rita stops.
Funerals forever?
She doesn’t finish her thought because Noah offers, “She’s going out with a minister next Sunday!”
Rita’s eyes widen.
“Go hatch somewhere else,” I tell Noah.
But Rita smiles. “Your mother once said there would be no Christmas without Easter,” Rita says.
“She was a wise woman,” I say.
“So are you.”
Winter can shatter your spirit and yet it can give you faith. I see the piles of snow melting in the window behind Rita, relenting, giving way to warmth, and I note its message to me.
Rita heads off into the chaos, and I watch the scene.
Bookstores, like winter, are not for the fainthearted either.
Did my grandparents believe they would start something that would not only unite but also change the lives of so many people in their community?
And yet they have battled small-minded people who have protested books—from Harry Potter to Jonathan Evison and Toni Morrison—without ever reading them. They have battled higher taxes, less parking, Amazon, supply chain issues, because they believed in the power of literature.
Which is why bookstores, like churches, are also places of faith.
Bookstores are the hearts of our communities, a place where it’s okay to be yourself, to be unique, to be smart, to think critically, to find and use the singular voice God gave us that we too often and easily throw aside in order to fit into this hard world. Bookstores set a foundation for our children and our futures.
When I was a kid this bookstore saved my life. I was encouraged not only to read but to think beyond the small world in which I lived.
I look at all the children rushing around the store in search not only of an egg but also in search of themselves. I watch Noah entertaining them while dressed as a chick and think of how much he has grown over the years.
For those who never fit in at school, local bookstores and libraries served as their refuge. More than anything, books encourage us to dream, and I will tell you this, once that seed is planted, it immediately takes root in a child’s soul. There is nothing bigger, or more special, than a dream.
And despite the stunning change in our world today—as well as in publishing—that core has remain unchanged. Reading changes lives. Books change lives. Bookstores change lives. And they will remain the centers of our communities and our lives. I can never restate the obvious enough: what I do changes lives. I know because it changed not only mine but those who I love most in the world.
I am the caretaker of dreams, and I take that job very seriously.
I am the keeper of a place where people find faith.
In community, in the world, in each other.
This is what has—and will always—give me strength and faith.
“Thinking about your date?” Holly asks, hopping by. “Keep the faith.”
“Mind reader,” I call to my friend who, for some reason, has stopped acting like a bunny and is now teaching kids how to do the chicken dance.
You gotta love Easter.