“Better than bupkis.”
Ten minutes later, we’re pushing open the door to The Book Nook.
The space is cozy and cluttered. Tall wooden shelves line the walls, packed to the brim with books in every color and size, some stacked neatly, others in intentionally precarious piles.
There’s an old-school register at the front, the kind with real buttons instead of a touchscreen.
Here and there, green plants dot the shelves with life, interspersed with colorful placards with funny phrases about reading: so many books, so little time, I like big books and I cannot lie, I have no shelf control.
I follow Daphne to the counter, where a customer is finishing up. The woman behind the register hands over a paper bag, thanking them warmly.
Her face lights up the second she spots Daphne. “Well, hey there, stranger.” She steps out from behind the counter and pulls Daphne into a hug. “I haven’t seen you in a hot minute. Been busy?”
“Working, as usual.” Daphne returns her hug and then steps back. “Peggy, I wanted to introduce you to Vivien Hart.” She gestures to me.
Peggy’s probably in her seventies, with short white hair, warm brown eyes, and a pair of dangly gold earrings that catch the light when she moves. Her top is loose and colorful, with long, flowy sleeves. She looks like she stepped out of the seventies. It reminds me a lot of Beverly.
Recognition sparks in her eyes when they meet mine.
“I’m not really her granddaughter.”
“Oh, yes you are.” Peggy reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. “I remember you at the theater. Always tucked into the corner, watching everything and everyone. So shy for someone who lived in the spotlight.” Her smile softens. “She talked about you often. It’s nice to finally meet you formally.”
“You too.”
Daphne claps her hands once. “We’re here for your help.”
Peggy’s brows lift. “With what?”
Daphne grins. “Embarrassing Graham Deadwyler.”
Peggy gasps and grabs Daphne’s arm. “Oh, finally. I’ve been waiting for this day.”
“I knew you’d be on board,” Daphne says.
Peggy gestures for us to follow. “Come on. Our scheming requires tea and maybe some cookies.”
I won’t say no to cookies.
We move toward a reading nook in the back, where a mismatched collection of armchairs surrounds a low table. A kettle is already steaming on a small cart with a three-tiered cake stand full of small cakes and cookies.
I throw Daphne a startled look. She just has a full tea service set up? Like all the time?
Peggy hands us plates and gestures for us to take some goodies.
She doesn’t have to tell me twice.
“That man.” She grabs the teapot. “He’s been to Los Angeles, London, even Florida—Florida,” she spits out the word, “to sign books. But he won’t spend a few minutes in his hometown bookstore?” She shakes her head. “Disgraceful.”
“Criminal, really,” Daphne agrees.
“I’ve considered revoking his local privileges.” She sets out three delicate teacups laced with thin rims of gold and painted with floral accents. “Make him unwelcome everywhere. Even a loner like him has to go to the grocery and hardware store sometimes.”
“Can you do that?” I ask.
“No. Not really. Maybe temporarily. But I can fantasize about it vividly.”
She pours the tea into our cups. “Do you know how many copies of his books I’ve sold for him? Do you know how many times I’ve asked him to come in for a reading or a meet and greet with fans? You want sugar, honey?”
