Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
I settle my attention on a used-book shop and head that way.
I could think of worse ways to pass the time.
SEVEN
ANNELIESE
datsuzoku (n.) an escape from your everyday routine
I rap my knuckles against the glass countertop at Arcadia Used Books, humming along to a Celine Dion ballad being piped from overhead speakers. This is the first time I’ve been standing on the employee side of this thing, and it feels . . . unnatural. I’ve never worked retail in my life, but when Florence called me at six o’clock this morning sounding frantic and asking for a favor, I said yes before she could get to the point.
Sometime overnight, her ninety-year-old mother took a fall in her home in Arizona and hurt herself pretty badly. Florence was beyond upset, of course, and asked if I’d cover the shop while she flew out to assist her mom and get a handle on the situation.
Thirty minutes later, she met me at the shop and gave me the keys and a lightning-fast tutorial on how to open and close the place. On her way out, she almost forgot to show me how to operate the card reader. Poor thing was so flustered.
Now here I am.
It’s been three hours since we officially opened, and we’ve only had a handful of browsers. I’ve yet to ring up a sale, but it seems easy enough. I just scan the sticker on the book, wait for the price to show on the iPad, then swipe the card on the reader. Receipts are emailed. Easy enough.
I locate a feather duster behind the counter and dust a few of Florence’s knickknacks: a business card holder made of glazed ceramic, a small crystal vase filled with fresh lilies, and an amethyst paperweight holding down a stack of book requests.
The bells on the front door jangle, and I glance up from my cleaning to find a dark-haired woman about my age.
“Hi, welcome.” I offer her a friendly smile. “Have a look around, and let me know if you have any questions.”
Not that I’ll be able to answer them—but I’ll do my best.
“Thank you,” she says, letting her gaze linger on me for a few extra beats. Securing her canvas tote over her shoulder, she heads for a nonfiction shelf along the wall.
Minding my own business, I continue dusting anything and everything.
I’m terrible at just being still.
It used to drive Donovan nuts. Not in a negative sort of way, but he couldn’t understand how difficult it was for me to just be. Not moving, not speaking, not physically doing something . . . those things are torture to me. I think it’s part of the reason why I’ve poured myself into refinishing the house. It’s hard, exhausting, challenging work. And when I’m not sanding floors and scraping off old paint from wooden built-ins, I’m whipping up baby names like there’s no tomorrow, my mind whirring like a mental Rolodex.
Some part of me is constantly moving. I know no other way to exist.
“Hi. Excuse me.” The brunette pops her head around. “Do you know where the business section is?”
“Um . . .” I work my way from behind the counter and rack my brain. I only know where Flo keeps her small selection of baby-name books, but I’m sure I can find something. “Forgive me, it’s my first day . . .”
“Oh, really?” She lifts a dark brow, watching me intently. Staring, almost. Maybe she’s just one of those people who stare without realizing it? “Where did you work before?”
That’s a pretty direct follow-up question, but some people are straight shooters.
“I have my own business,” I say. “I’m a naming consultant. I mostly consult on the side, but I’m filling in for the owner of the shop while she’s out.”
“What kind of names?” she asks—another direct question. Then again, she could be making innocent small talk.
I remind myself it’s okay to let my guard down. This isn’t a big city. Florence once told me sticking noses into others’ business is practically an Olympic sport in Arcadia Grove. Besides, I was just telling myself the other day that I needed to make more friends—or at the very least . . . acquaintances.
“Baby names,” I say.
“Oh?” She follows me to the next row, her attention weighing on me as I scan rows upon rows of books for anything remotely business related. “Do you have children?”
I shake my head. “I do not.”
I’d elaborate, but doing so would involve sharing the story of Donovan, and on the off chance I break down in tears, I’d hate to put this woman in the awkward position of having to comfort me.
“So you just . . . name other people’s babies?” she asks with an amused chuckle. “That’s . . . quite a unique line of work.”
“Here we are.” I lead us to the shelf in the corner and point to the middle row. “Is this what you were looking for?”