Floozies
Two months after the business deal finalized and the lease was signed and sealed, the bookstore, freshly painted and deep-cleaned and reorganized, opened for business. Floozy’s inaugural night party was festive and luminous, with piped-in music and delicious catered small bites and better-than-expected wine, thanks to Francesca’s dad’s contribution. Caitlin herself looked radiant as she presided. Over time, guided by Colleen’s subtle counsel, she had toned down her fashion choices. Tonight, for instance, she was wearing blue jeans and a red silk vest over a white shirt—Paddy’s oversized white French cuff shirt, worn for good luck, sleeves rolled up, indicating both stylishness and industriousness. Colleen endorsed her appearance, saying that that was how a hip bookseller should look, and Caitlin was pleased with herself—and pleased she had pleased Colly.
“You’re looking très academic chic,” Colleen said. “With a little bit of pluck thrown in, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Lots of pluck to both of us!”
“I’ll overlook the clunker, and I’m not plucking around, either.”
“Colly, isn’t this a great turnout?” she said, and it was. “I know now how big our demographic is—people like me, who are getting into books for the first time, and all the lifers, too, like you.” Demographic was a fun word to say, and another new term for Caitlin. “Because you are so perfect, guiding people to their choices. Hand-selling, that’s what you call it? We are going to have so much fun.”
“Yes, we’re Floozies and these are our books, sister. Here’s to you,” she said, lifting a glass.
“No, to us, Colly, to us.”
Everyone they expected showed, and some they didn’t.
—
“Father Philip,” said Caitlin, “what a nice surprise.”
He was not in his dress blacks, opting instead for his casual civvies: sweatshirt, black jeans, baseball cap, tennis shoes. But notoriously, Catholics can pick out a priest at fifty paces, no matter what he’s wearing.
“Congratulations, Caitlin, what a wonderful night. When you get a chance, recommend a few books for an honorary floozy like me?” He didn’t need such advice, but he wanted to signal acceptance of her, and his wholesale approval of the enterprise.
“Your sis is your go-to resource.” A few minutes of happy talk later, she wandered off to greet the newcomers to the party.
Philip gravitated toward his sister. “Where’s your dad?”
“My dad,” she said, “is supposedly on his way, any minute. He’s keeping company with your dad.”
“Recommending some reading material for him?”
“I was thinking some bedtime reading, the Kama Sutra.”
“You’re going there?”
“Cait’s okay, by the way, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”
Francesca and Tommy were there, too. They looked the typical couple wandering into a bookshop after dinner down the street, either the popular Mexican or the Thai place. The store location guaranteed serious foot traffic, day and night, which was a factor the previous owners hadn’t capitalized on. They had closed their store too early, and Floozy’s was going to stay open late, six or seven days of the week.
Terry was helping with the food and wine, alongside Claire. Colleen hired her on Matty’s recommendation, and she had panned out well, so far. Matty himself was elated to see her employed, and he popped a deviled egg into his mouth as she poured him some mineral water and made not a single snarky remark. He could tell that she was thinking snark the whole time, but holding off, trying to take on a new persona. He was hoping the new persona would work better than the old one ever did. And one day she’d leave her aunt’s home and head off to college after finishing up at the public high school. Matty would see she’d get into the right place by writing killer recs.
Ruth’s office was located a few doors down, and she herself ambled in after work when she caught sight of the festivities. Nearby the Mysteries section, Philip was chatting with his sister when Ruth and his eyes locked, and they held their glance long enough for Francesca, across the way, to notice. But what was it that she noticed? She couldn’t be sure. She guessed she shouldn’t initiate conversation in public with her therapist, because maybe it was against the Law of Therapy, but she wanted to. The topic promised to come up when they met for their regular session tomorrow. Her therapist was wearing something she hadn’t seen her wear before: an untucked shirt. Unless Frankie were mistaken, and there was no chance she was, Ruth was comfortable to be seen showing in public.