“So this is my first time,” Jamie said, rising to his feet, “what do we do?”
“Set out the pillows in a circle, here,” Phillip said and raced off to the nook to grab pillows.
Jamie’s eyes met hers, so filled with knowing about that little boy’s life. As something hard around Phillip melted as Jamie and he set up the mom chairs, something hard around her heart melted, too. She could picture Jamie as a father. As each of those children came in, and appeared equally awestruck by their new story time leader, the vision intensified.
She should find something else to do.
But instead, entranced, she sat down with the moms in a circle of chairs behind the children.
He was a magnificent storyteller. He used different voices. He paused theatrically in all the right places, he lowered his eyebrows and raised them up. He controlled Phillip with firm ease that made Phillip putty in his hands.
“Oh, my goodness,” Doris Anderson whispered to her. “I’m in love.”
Even though Jessica shot Doris an exasperated look that reminded her she was a very happily married woman, secretly she knew exactly how Doris was feeling.
Exactly.
As promised, Jamie read the two stories, and then was swarmed by small people wanting hugs—Jessica had forgotten to tell him about that traditional ending for story time. He handled the unexpected assignment delightfully: uncomfortable, obviously, but soldiering through.
Normally, the mothers would grab a copy of the book that had been read today from the available stack, leave their children in the children’s section and wander off to peruse a book for themselves.
Today, they surrounded Jamie, wanting information.
“Where are you from?”
“What are you doing here?”
“How long will you be here?”
He handled it all with grace and humor, and soon had those women around him laughing.
He’s bad for sales, Jessica told herself crankily, even as she could not take her eyes off him.
He saw Phillip and his mother slipping out the door, and excused himself from the women he was talking to.
“Hey, buddy,” he called.
Phillip turned around.
“This is for you.” And he squatted down to eye level and presented him with the copy of Truck in the Muck that he was still holding.
Phillip stared at the book, and then threw himself into Jamie’s arms with such strength he nearly bowled him over. Then he let go and ran out the door after his mother. Jamie’s pristine shirt looked faintly grubby, and he didn’t even brush at the stain the child had left on it. He looked down at it, with a funny smile on his face.
Jessica went to the till, where a line was forming. She had been wrong about Jamie being bad for sales. She sold eight children’s books, three romance novels, a cookbook on dinners for two, and a dusty copy of the Kama Sutra that she had not been aware was in inventory. She was unable to meet Doris Anderson’s eyes as she shoved it quickly in a bag.
The last person in line was Jamie, with his wallet out. He had another copy of Truck in the Muck. “Please ring up the one I gave him, and put this one in the book bag.”
She did, as unable to meet his eyes as she had been when Doris Anderson bought the Kama Sutra, afraid of what he would see.
The awful, awful truth.
Falling. Falling. Falling.
Jamie found himself immersed in Jessica’s world. It was a magical place. He quickly discovered people loved her bookstore. And why wouldn’t they? It was warmly welcoming, a place to drop by for a chat with neighbors, a book browse, a quick look at the calendar of upcoming events that she posted and put a copy of in every single book bag that went out of there.
In the next month she was hosting two readings by authors, one “Summer Fun” theme night for teens and one for eight-to-twelve-year-olds. She had live music here every Thursday where she showcased local talent—and sold their CDs.
As well as hosting story time once a week, the bookstore hosted the chess club, whom he would be meeting this afternoon. She also provided evening meeting space for AA—now those people bought books; toastmasters—also book buyers; as well as a host of other local clubs, interest and support groups. She even brought in a fortune-teller twice a year.
She tracked people’s buying habits and, without any pressure at all, she would show them a book she had discovered in their area of interest.
“Mr. Thompson, I came across this book on common fossils of the Rocky Mountains. Would you like to have a look?”
Or, “Pam, I found this book about elderly parents and Alzheimer’s.”
“Sheila, is Freddy still going through his dinosaur obsession? You might like this for him.”
But none of this interest in her customers was the least bit mercenary—even though she sold a ton of books. She cared about these people. They were her friends, her neighbors, her relatives, people she had gone to school with, people her parents had gone to school with.
It was very evident to him as he shadowed Jessica through her day, that the people of her town loved her, and she loved them. Despite the fact she didn’t sell any beverages or food—bad for the books—the bookstore was their gathering place, the heart and soul of their community.
She had managed, as far as he could see, to do the rarest of things. She mixed compassion, concern and genuine caring for people with her business. The Book and Cranny was not a repository of dusty tomes, but alive with energy and enthusiasm.
And it was Jessica at the heart of all that.
Jamie thought they could probably use her “model” all they wanted. They could package her procedures and document her successes and show her numbers in a glossy-covered report and distribute them to all their clients. But it would be missing the secret ingredient: Jessica Winton. Without her, would it be successful?
When he was with her, he couldn’t
