I open the closet once again, not expecting my pleas to have any sort of impact.
Everything inside is still pastel. Of course.
But once I start rifling through the clothes, I realize my pleas might not have gone totally unheard. Yeah, baby pink isn’t exactly my color, but I’ll take a cardigan over a dress with poofy sleeves any day of the week.
I even find a pencil skirt hidden in the depths. It’s made of denim, so not a complete victory, but I pair it with a white T-shirt and a soft lavender sweater—and I don’t totally hate the look as a whole. I figure working in a bookstore means I have permission to wear sneakers, and my feet are not missing my standard four-inch heels.
When I push through the door of the tiny—and fine, I’ll admit, adorable—bookstore a few minutes and a short walk later, I expect to be greeted by some kind of person in charge. Someone who will tell me exactly what needs doing and how to do it.
But of course, when Mimi said run the bookstore, she literally meant for me to run the bookstore. There’s no one in the building except for me and a bright orange cat, who brushes against my legs and immediately causes me to sneeze.
“Great. Just fucking great.”
Well, first things first, I manage to find the light switch, hidden behind, you guessed it, a huge stack of books. The overhead lights are dim, providing just enough illumination to be able to see, and very much adding to the whole cozy and mysterious atmosphere.
There’s an ancient-looking cash register sitting on top of the worn wooden counter, tucked away in the front corner of the store. The rest of the space is filled withbookshelves, mismatched colors and sizes of spines squeezed into every available inch. In the back of the room, I find a small, squishy-looking armchair that the cat has claimed. I’m tempted to join him—or her, can’t really tell—but if I want to make this store my life’s passion, I might need to figure out how to actually operate it.
“Come on, Cam. You graduated magna cum laude from Columbia. I’m pretty sure you can manage one tiny bookstore.”
I do a lap around the cluttered space, getting my bearings before I try to decide where to start. If I let myself get too caught up in the big picture—the one where I have no idea what I’m doing—I’ll probably just collapse in that armchair and accomplish nothing. But that is not the Campbell Andrews way. I take another lap, this one slower and more methodical, familiarizing myself with the needs-to-be-completely-redone organizational system.
I’m acquainting myself with the different sections (labeled with faded, barely legible stickers) when a bell chimes to alert me to a customer. Just what I need. Another blasted bell, and an interruption just as I’m starting to figure things out.
But I slap on that fake smile that’s almost becoming second nature now and head back to the front of the store. “Hi!” I say in a voice many a salesperson has tried on me. “Welcome!”
The woman, who looks to be in her midfifties, flashes me a bright smile. “Well, hello! You must be the new girl everyone’s talking about!”
I fight to keep my smile from morphing into a grimace. “That’s me! Word sure does travel fast around here.”
She looks me over from head to toe, giving me the fullassessment, her smile never faltering. “It sure does. How are you settling in?”
“About as well as anyone who’s had their whole world turned upside down might be?” I shrug in a way she hopefully finds sheepish and charming. I take Mimi’s words of warning about the citizens of Heart Springs and assume it’s best to keep things vague. “Moving can be so tough!”
She chuckles. “Fair enough. Relocating to a new town can be so overwhelming, but we’re so happy you’re here! I just came in to pick up the new Nora Roberts. Have you put it out yet?”
“Um. Hmm. That’s a good question! I just got here and was trying to familiarize myself with the shop when you walked in.” I stride over to the counter, hoping to find some kind of organization system or a working computer with software cataloging all the books the store has in stock, but all I find is the register and some old bookmarks. I let out a puff of breath. “Well, I’m sure I can find it for you. You said the author is Norma Robins?”
The woman looks at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted an extra head. “Nora Roberts, silly!”
“Right. And what genre does she write?”
Her eyes widen. “You work in a bookstore and you don’t know who Nora Roberts is?”
“Well, to be fair, I didn’t exactly pick this job. I mean, I did, but from a very limited list of possibilities. There weren’t a ton of openings, but I’m not a big reader, honestly. I never really saw the appeal.” I know the moment the words are out that they are the exact wrong thing to say. “But I’m excited to learn! I mean, I can definitely read all these books in no time, I’m sure.” I gesture helplessly to the thousandsof books lining the shelves. Even with my law school–honed speed-reading skills, it would take me months of nothing but reading to put even a dent in them.
“I think I’ll just find the book for myself, thanks.” The woman’s friendly demeanor has completely faded and by the time I manage to ring up her book on what must be the original store cash register, she looks like she wants to murder me.
The second the door closes behind her, I’m tempted to lock it and turn out the lights, but it’s only been an hour and there’s no way in hell I’m giving up already.
I roll my shoulders back, tilting my neck from side to side like Rocky gearing up for a fight. I can do this. I can absolutely, one hundred percent, totally manage to run this store. And find a way to become passionate about books.
“Books are great,” I mutter as I begin to alphabetize the mystery section, not that I’m going to recognize any of the titles or authors or, god forbid, be able to provide customers with any recommendations.
After a few minutes, I head back to the front of the shop, searching the counter for any supplies that could possibly help. I find a worn notebook and a stub of a pencil and bring both with me as I return to perusing the shelves. I start two lists: one of things to do around the shop, like make new labels and dust, and one of titles that look interesting. Maybe, if I have a few go-to books I can suggest to inquiring customers, it might buy me some time to actually read some of them.
And so the day goes.
I send off an eight-year-old girl holding a book with a smiling clown on the cover, sell a religious romance bySierra Simone to the town preacher’s teenage daughter, and even manage to find a book about clocks for a doddering old man who told me he likes to “tinker” with old machines.
