Page 18 of Fate, Interrupted

Not overnight, not without the bad financial decisions and the months when I counted the deposit twice before I let myself relax. Not without my sister, Penny, saying I told you so in the most loving possible way when the reviews started coming in and the regulars started showing up.

But the shop gave me people. It has Mr. Clancy, his mysteries, and his absolute refusal to acknowledge that I have his name on a reserved copy before he asks. It has my good friend and neighbor, Jewell, writing song lyrics on cocktail napkins. And the satisfaction of matching the right book to the right person and watching their face when they realize it.

I stand at the sunflower stand for slightly longer than necessary, holding my coffee, and admit that even with all of that, I’m restless.

By Sunday afternoon, I’m antsy, even as I do all the normal things Sunday afternoons require. Laundry with an old movie on in the background. This weekend it’s The Shell Seekers, with Angela Lansbury. One of my favorites.

The windowsill plants have survived another week through what can only be described as stubbornness on their part. There’s a stack of books on my nightstand that I’ve been meaning to get back to, but they remain untouched. On to a biography I started two weeks ago and set down when it got to the chapter about the marriage, a subject I wasn’t ready for then and may not be ready for now.

I make it four pages before I put it down again.

Not ready.

I light the new candle instead, deciding to keep it at home until I get bored with it and then take it to the shop. Fragrant cedar spreads through the living room. Waves crash against the rocky Cornwall coastline on TV. I sit on the couch with the windows open and finally stop pretending I haven’t been thinking about Silas. For only a minute. That’s the deal. One minute. No jokes.

He came in and left with a tome he admitted he didn’t need and certainly will probably never read. He showed up at my coffee shop, walked me to work, manhandled my sandwich board outside and looked at my staff picks wall like it was a treasure map.

I like that he came back. I like that he wanted to see me.

I spend a few minutes muddling through that, but all that really is at the top of my mind is the dark stubble on his chin from missing a morning shave, and the slight curl of dark hair on his neck that I want to twist around my fingers.

Then I look at the clock.

One minute and forty seconds.

I’m choosing to round down.

I flip off Cornwall, pick up the biography, and try the marriage chapter again. I make it six pages this time before the first tear slips down my cheek. Progress.

On Monday morning, I breathe a sigh of relief that the weekend is over. I’ve been saved from my hot mess of a self, and I can get on with life. I leave the opening of The Last Chapter to Mark and Jesse, since Monday mornings are traditionally the slowest time of the week.

Once I’ve brewed my coffee and watered the plants, I put on a skirt, cotton tank, and strappy sandals, perfect for a steamy morning, and make a list of what the shop needs this week. The ceiling fan over the register has been making a noise since last week. I’ve been calling it a phase, but by Friday it had committed. A new overhead fan is operation critical in weather where the archaic air conditioning system at the shop barely keeps up.

The big box hardware store on Clement Avenue opens at eight.

I add ceiling fan to the list that includes a run through Staples for counter pens, steno notebooks, and credit card machine tape. After I finish my coffee, I head out. Larkin is loud and bright and moving, and Silas Coulter is not on the list.

I fold the list, put it in my bag, and leave to go find myself a ceiling fan.

Chapter seven

Norah

The last ceiling fan I bought before this one had a pull chain that grabbed. Every time I reached for it, the mechanism would catch and stick. I’d stand there on my step stool, yanking it with both hands like I was starting an outboard motor, doing this for four months before it finally surrendered the chain entirely and I had to run it on high until the motor burned out.

I’m not doing that again.

I’m going to stand in front of the display models and pull every single chain before I commit to anything, requiring me to get close to the display models mounted approximately ten feet off the ground.

Hence the ladder.

Not my ladder. The store’s ladder. The tall orange one next to the display shelving with a small sign that says EMPLOYEES ONLY in a font that is in every way authoritative.

I unchain the ladder at eight fifty-seven Monday morning and position it under the third display fan from the left, because the store is barely staffed this early, and I will be done before anyone notices. I climb for my inspection.

The fan I’m interested in is brushed nickel with five-blades, a decent span, and a remote, which solves the chain problem entirely. I reach up to check the blade pitch because the last one had blades that were basically decorative and moved air with less than adequate enthusiasm.

These are better.