Chapter Fifty-Seven

THEY SAY SPRINGTIME IS a good time to shake the dust and winter cobwebs off things. As I place my hand on the stainless-steel door handle, I feel like I’m removing the cobwebs and revealing something that has been hidden within my corners.

The smell of coffee fills my lungs as I step inside. A sense of comfort fills my entire body.

“Welcome to Books and Coffee,” a young lady with bright orange hair says as the door closes behind me. “Let me know if you need help finding anything.”

“Thank you. Where is your women’s fiction section?” I ask.

“Third aisle on the right.”

I move down the aisle slowly, looking for books by authors with the last name Reynolds. Knowing that it’s more than possible that I won’t find one of mine.

It’s been too long, girl.

I stop and take a deep breath.

Oh, my goodness.

It’s buried on the bottom shelf, but staring back at me.

The last book I wrote.

There’s a red discount sticker on the front, but I don’t care because it means that my presence in the literary world didn’t fade away completely, as I had feared it would.

I’ll have to tell Briana she was right. She said that I would find one here.

I pick the book up and then knock the dust off with my hand.

Don’t cry.

A tear falls.

Who cries in a bookstore?

I turn it over, open the back flap, and stare at the photo of myself.

Hello, old friend.

I missed you.

Not that I miss being Raine Reynolds, but I do miss what the book itself represented.

Me, as an author.

Me, doing the one thing that I could say I was passionate about.

The young lady with orange hair comes down the aisle.

“I see you found your own book.”

I stare at her. “How did you know it was me?”

“You did a book signing here years ago. I was eight at the time, but I remember you. I’m more of a sci-fi reader myself, but my mother and my sisters all love your books. I recognized you the moment you came in.”

“It’s been a long time,” I say, looking down at the book again.

“More than five years ago, give or take is when that one came out. Are you going to start writing again?”

“I think I’ve got a story or two still in me.”

She nods her head. “That’s cool. I own this store now, so if you start doing book signings again, would you consider my shop?”

“I’ll let my publisher know, if I still have one.”

“I’m sure they would be happy to have you back again.”

“I hope so.”

“I guess you won’t know until you call them.”

I look at her and smile.

Young but wise.

“You’re right. I guess I need to make that call.”

“You can use my office if you want. I’m a firm believer in doing things when the moment is moving me to act. It’s how I bought this bookstore.”

“Really? You made that decision in a moment?”

“I did.”

“You’ll have to tell me that story.”

“Nice pun. But it’s not that long of a story. One day, I came in here to buy a book and the owner tells me that he’s selling it. I immediately asked him how much. He jokingly tells me to make him an offer. I think at first, all he saw was the red hair; it was red at the time, so he didn’t think I was serious. But I put a number out there. It took a few rounds of negotiations, but we finally settled on something we both could live with.”

“How did you have the money to buy a bookstore? Sorry, that’s none of my business. It’s just that you’re so young.”

“My dad is loaded, and he was more than happy to back me since that meant that I was finally going to commit to something. But you know what, I always knew I would own a bookstore. My father thought it was hard for me to commit, but it was just hard for me to commit to doing something that I only liked. I wanted something that I was passionate about.

“Are you passionate about writing?”

I let her question roll around inside my head for a second.

“I am.”

“Then, go make the call. Why wait? My office is just around the corner. Next to the restrooms.”

She watches as I move in that direction.