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“If you just stopped eating those awful toffees you like—”
“Bonbons.”
“—I’m sure you could lose several pounds in a few weeks by excluding carbs …”
I slip into a coma for the next thirty minutes while she spouts the virtues of a zero-carb diet.
I leavemy parents and follow the familiar mountain road into town. I’ve been back and forth to Garland while at college and working for Abraham Jewelers, but I’ve missed living in my hometown. I almost miss the man who left this place with my heart.
Bentley.
It still hurts, knowing I wasn’t enough for him, either.
My heart squeezes as a hot tear slides down my cheek. One of these days, I’m going to have to face my parents and tell them that they need to accept me for who I am rather than the perfect image they’ve created in her head—one I can never live up to.
I dash my tears away and shake my head to ward off the sudden emotions, causing my shoulder-length chestnut curls to bob around my face. I need to stop feeling sorry for myself. I need to stop pining for emotional support that will never materialize.
As if feeling my pain, my little Chevy whines at the steep incline of the next hill. I swallow the lump in my throat and pat the dashboard. “Come on, girl. Don’t die on me now.”
Garland is over the next rise, and my heart thumps against my ribs in anticipation. I reach the crest of the hill, and my hometown is spread out before me, surrounded by snow-dusted mountains. The Douglas firs are a striking contrast to the blue sky as I weave through a series of hairpin bends before reaching the flat stretch of road leading into the town.
Garland hasn’t changed much since I was a kid. The road morphs into a wider avenue separated by a central divider with neatly trimmed foliage. Wooden benches sit on the sidewalks, and quaint shops line the street—the café, charity shop, clothing store, and homewares store. Also, Valentine’s Kitchen, the bakery owned and run by Natasha Valentine, or Natasha Thompson, now that she’s married to Link, the local mechanic.
I love the sense of community here. Sure, we have the busybodies like any small town, but if anyone is ever in need, people step up to help.
My gaze falls on the shop on the corner. The sign still readsBette’s Book Cornerbut will soon be replaced byHeart of Gold, where I’ll sell my jewelry creations. Pride and joy hit me hard as I park in the empty spot out front.
I received the sign I’d been waiting for in September last year. Bette Sanders, my mentor and English teacher from high school, called to say she was retiring—for the second time. When she left teaching, she opened a bookshop and study area on Main Street, offering her tutoring services for free to low-income families. Now in her early seventies, she decided it was time to hang up her thesaurus and move to the Caribbean to see out the rest of her days in the sun.
Which meant her little shop was available for lease. She’d bought it outright, so I would now be leasing it from her—a woman I trust who’s listened to my many woes and grumbles over the years and offered me the maternal advice lacking in my life.
It’s a win-win situation. Bette has a source of income while she suns it up in the Caribbean, and I have the opportunity to realize my dream.
I jump out of the car, my footsteps light and my smile growing as I approach my store.
Mine.
The thought never fails to give me a small thrill.
Rifling in my purse, I pluck out the key Bette gave me and unlock the door. The hinges squeak as I push it open, and I make a mental note to oil them before the grand opening.
I flip on the light switch. Nothing. I look up. Hmm, looks like the bulb has blown, but there’s still enough daylight to look the place over. My mental “to-do” list expands like my favorite body-shaping underwear when forced to contain my abundant curves.
I wander from the shop floor to the stockroom at the back, envisioning the changes I’m going to make.
Work has already started, but there’s still a lot to do before this place is fit for public consumption. Thankfully, the electrics and plumbing are in good working order, saving me a lot of money. I don’t have a huge budget, so I’ve been doing some of the work myself, and rather than being daunted at the prospect, I couldn’t wait to get started.
This is my passion, my project, an extension of myself, and the creativity my parents have never valued. In a way, I’m glad they won’t see this place until opening day—no point in showing them an empty shell that they’ll pick apart with their criticisms. While I can see past the tired décor and the holes in the walls left behind by Bette’s bookshelves, I’m not sure my mother will.
I smile wistfully at the faint aroma of old books that still lingers in the air. Bette’s enthusiasm as a teacher instilled in me a love of books and made reading and literature fun. She also gotme interested in book clubs, which has led to some fantastic friendships.
I think of my girls: Cleary, Devyn, Mandy, Cordy, Tabitha, and Peyton. We’re all so different, yet we bonded over our love of books. Our group chat is equal parts emotional and hilarious as we navigate life’s ups and downs together.
My phone pings, and I pull it from my coat pocket. As if my thoughts have summoned them, I see the messages I’ve missed from the girls in our group chat. They’re responding to my earlier message about Valentine’s Day approaching.
Me:Valentine's Day sucks.
Cordy:Nope. No way! We are not moping on Valentine's Day this year!
