On the way back to the Emporium, I made a detour at Good Books. I walked inside just as Beth was squatting in front of a shelf jam-packed with biographies and not-so-carefully dropping a stack of books to the floor. “With your knees, Beth.”
She straightened, looked over her shoulder, then huffed. “Don’t be smart with me, Sebby.”
“Seb.”
“I bought bulk at an estate sale the other day—real cheap,” she explained, pointing at the pile beside her feet.
“How cheap?”
“Like, five bucks a box.”
“Good deal.”
Beth scoffed while taking off her funky glasses. She wiped the lenses with the corner of her Ugly Christmas Sweater, worn about three weeks postholiday—a ridiculously fuzzy ensemble with a giant cat face, pompoms, and bells. She jingled while moving. “Yeah, well, that’s what I thought, but I should have known it was too good to be true. Is Mercury in retrograde or something?”
“I have no idea. What’s wrong with the books?”
“They were dropped off today.” She put her glasses on, waved at what looked like a dozen boxes stacked against the wall near the door to her back room, then said, “They’re all crafting books.”
“What sort—?”
“Everything! Origami, crocheting, cabinet-making, basket-weaving, macramé, leatherwork, beer-making—”
I perked up. “Beer—”
But Beth was on a roll that would not be stopped. “Calligraphy, papier-mâché, cross-stitch, casting, floral designing—both Western arrangement and Japanese ikebana—”
A teenage girl was warily approaching, holding several books in her hands and looking like she wanted to pay but was unwilling to interrupt. Beth glanced at her, stomped to the counter—Crocs today, not Birkenstocks—and waved the kid over.
“Metalwork, glassblowing,knifemaking, Sebby.”
“Uh-huh.” I turned away from the counter, moved to the bulletin board near the door, and leaned in close to study the myriad of flyers for literature events happening in both the city and tri-state area.
“The market for craft and hobby books has tanked over the last few years, and now I have enough of them to fill a damn library. Would you like a bag?”
The girl squeaked out a response, and then the register dinged as the cash drawer shot open.
I pushed my sunglasses up and squinted at a familiar advertisement. “Frick and Frack stopped by to tell you about Queer Expectations, huh?” I tapped the flyer in question, tacked beside one for a live reading of Shakespeare’s sonnets, all 154 of them, next Saturday in Central Park, come snow or shine, and another for a class being offered out in Jersey that was pretty self-explanatory:Write F*cking Better!And a phone number—ask for Desiree. Or maybe that didn’t mean what I thought it did….
“The skaters?” Beth inquired.
The teen stepped around me, hurried out the door, and vanished into the cold afternoon.
“Not the literal Frick and Frack,” I said, turning to Beth, who was still behind the counter.
“Lady, Let’s Dancewas one of my favorite movies when I was a girl,” she said with a touch of serenity in her tone. “I wanted to be a figure skater when I grew up.” Beth sighed, looked at me, then asked, “What the hell are we talking about?”
I tapped the flyer.
“Oh. Queer Expectations. What about it?”
“Did two very excited and festive individuals come in earlier to tell you about it?”
Beth raised an eyebrow and jingled as she left the register. “No. I’m on their mailing list.”
“Have you gone?”
Beth nodded. “Last year. It’s not bad. I don’t think it’s your scene, Sebby.”
