I had found it.
It was fate.
And after their death, I had felt compelled to be there. That compulsion was one of the reasons I’d stayed there for three years despite Rachel not liking me.
The building itself was two stories, the top floor being Rachel’s apartment (since she owned the store), but the bottom was pure magic. Set on a corner with double glass doors as the entrance where the two walls met, each wall had its own unique design. One side was a row of five giant, plaster book spines almost eight feet tall with classic book titles: The Illiad, The Three Musketeers, Pride and Prejudice, Great Expectations, and Frankenstein. And the other side was a beautiful mural filled with every book character imaginable all having a picnic at a park by a lake, which I had thought was a tribute to the Stephen Sondheim musical Sunday in the Park with George, but I was quickly corrected by Rachel that both her mural and the Sondheim play were inspired by the painting A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat. Regardless of how condescending Rachel was with her explanation, it boiled down to a never-ending spiral of inspiration, which was fine with me.
A long line of customers stood against the wall waiting to get in, and as if I needed another reminder, a banner hung above the double glass doors that read: “Author Z.T. Morgan Book Signing.”
My stomach turned into bubble guts, and I instantly wanted to run, puke, or go to the bathroom. (My brain never could give me that pertinent information until it was usually too late.)
One more deep breath and I calmed myself down enough to reach the front door, pulling out my keys.
The woman who was first in line asked politely, “Is Z.T. already in there? I can’t see him through the doors.”
She was right. The glass doors had a tint to them that kept anyone from looking in.
I smiled politely as I placed the key into the lock. “Should be. We open in five minutes. I’ll let you guys in soon.”
Nodding, she turned to her friend with a squeal of excitement.
I was more nervous than excited, but that was because I had the tendency to make an idiot of myself in front of people I admired. Vomiting on my favorite designer came to mind, but I really didn’t want to remember that right now.
Turning the key, I let myself inside the store.
Pure magic.
Everywhere there were books of every shape and size. Row upon row of eleven-foot shelves like guardians of literature. The odd shaping of the store’s space created nooks and crannies where leather, plushy chairs or bean bags were placed for reading. Random stacks of books lay scattered throughout, giving the space a sense of organized chaos. It was the closest place I’d ever found to utopia, and just like in The Gateway to Winterbrook, I hoped I’d find the answers I was looking for in here someday. To be able to live even part of my life inside this magical world was worth every second of Rachel’s berating.
“You’re late.”
Speaking of which.
After locking the door, I turned to my right to see Rachel standing by Z.T. Morgan, who sat behind an antique wooden table with intricate carvings along its thick edging. A few stacks of Z.T.’s books were piled next to him, ready to sell and sign.
“I’m five minutes early,” I defended myself lamely.
Rachel turned to Z.T. with a shrug. “See what I have to deal with?” Then she focused back on me. Yay. “I needed you here to set up and make sure Z.T. was taken care of.”
“But you never told me to come early,” I said quietly, but saying it out loud, I realized I should have thought of that. Why didn’t I come early? This was a huge day, and of course things needed to be set up. Z.T. obviously came early, as he should have. The fans came early, as they should have. But me? I came five minutes before opening.
Rachel appeared “over it” as we were about to open. She turned to Z.T. with a smile she’d never given to me. “You have everything you need?”
“Yes. Thank you so much, Rachel,” he answered politely. His eyes met mine, and I was relieved that there was genuine kindness there. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name?”
I walked over and shook his hand, hoping he didn’t detect the slight shake and the wetness from the uncontrollable sweat that seemed to have a life of its own. “Jeraline.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jeraline.” Z.T.’s face was friendly and round, with not much hair on top, though it made him handsome in an old-guy kind of way. He was in decent shape, though some of that roundness stretched around his belly as well.
“You, too,” I replied shyly. Meeting successful people always brought out my shy card.
I turned to Rachel. “I’m just going to drop my backpack off in the back room real quick.”
Rachel stared at me with so much disappointment I thought I would sink into the floor with shame. Why did I annoy her so much? Being twice my age (though she didn’t look it; I’d guess she was in her thirties if I didn’t know she was forty-eight), I’d think Rachel would have some kind of motherly affection for someone who’d been working at her store for the last three years. But no. She genuinely disliked me no matter how hard I tried to get on her good side.
“Well, go on. We only have two minutes until opening.” Rachel shooed me away.
I hurried away and headed to the back room where the employees hung out and stored their personal items. Making my way through the labyrinth of books gave me the confidence and calmness I needed. I was ready for this. I could do this.
Entering the small space, I tossed my backpack in one of five lockers that lined the wall immediately to the left. A
