It was a brisk March morning as I walked away from the cove toward Main Street in St. Marin’s, Maryland. In the shadow of the buildings, I was just beginning to see the tops of daffodils poking up their heads, but today, I tugged the hood of my long sweater up higher on my head and pulled the collar of my peacoat closed. Short hair was perfect for the warmer days – and for owning my ever-graying locks – but in these cold months, I sometimes missed my long ponytail. Spring was coming, but it didn’t feel much like it today. We’d had ice overnight, and while the temperature had gone above freezing already, the roads were still wet and ice clung to the edge of puddles.
Still, I practically skipped down the sidewalk, even though skipping isn’t always that flattering on a slightly plump forty-four-year-old. I didn’t care. This was going to be the first weekend my new bookstore was open.
I slid my key into the lock on the front door of the old gas station and put a little muscle into turning it in the glass-fronted door. As I swung it open, I took a minute to enjoy the little bell above my head as it chimed. That bell had been hanging over that door as long as anyone in town could remember, so every long-time resident of St. Marin’s told me when they stopped by to say hi and take a gander at the newest shop in their – I mean, our quaint town. I loved that bell, not just because it was part of the charm of this building, but because I looked forward to hearing it when it meant people were visiting my bookshop.
I had just come back to St. Marin’s the previous October. I visited when I was a kid on a summer trip from our family home over near Baltimore, and I’d never forgotten the charm and friendliness of this waterside community.
I hadn’t had much time to socialize since coming back though. I’d hit the ground running because I wanted the shop open as soon as possible. I needed the income to help build my book inventory, but also to be able to help pay the mortgage. My best friend Mart – an expert on wineries – was helping cover the bills for our house since she had a good paying job at a local up-and-coming winery nearby and was consulting all over the East Coast. I felt kind of bad living off of Mart’s generosity, especially since she had basically followed me here from the West Coast when I’d decided to live my dreams and open a bookstore back here on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, but I knew that Mart didn’t mind and that I’d pay my friend back in time.
Today, though, I needed to finish painting the brick walls at the front of the store. I loved the charm of the old red bricks that I figured had probably been made nearby, but years of smokers and exhaust had made them dingy and smelly . . . so a good whitewashing helped spiff them up and made the shop look cozy instead of dirty. I wanted the place to recall the old gas station that it originally was, just not too much.
I had to get the window displays ready, too. In the north window that had once been the station office, I was putting up a collection of books about Harriet Tubman, the woman St. Marin’s was honoring this weekend in their annual Harriet Tubman Festival. Tubman had been enslaved just down the road a piece, and this annual festival honored her memory and her work on the Underground Railroad while also trying to educate people about the history and continuing legacy of slavery. Local historians and genealogists were going to be giving talks all over town, and I was hoping that Catherine Clinton, the woman who wrote my favorite book on Tubman, might come by and sign the copies of her book for the shop since she was in town for a presentation at the local library.
In the other window, which had opened onto the actual garage section of the gas station, I wanted to put out some of my favorite gardening books, including titles that ranged from how to build and maintain a raised-bed vegetable garden to how to start a cut flower business. I’d asked around about what kind of gardeners were in the community and quickly found out that St. Mariners were passionate about their plants. I took that intel to heart and stocked books in a sizable garden section near the rear of the store, where I had also placed a wingback chair upholstered in floral fabric, one of my favorite antique store finds.
The rest of the store was equally cozy with big armchairs, lots of tables where readers could set a mug of something warm, and dog beds positioned strategically to accommodate any pup, but especially Mayhem, my new rescue puppy. Mayhem had been named Maxine at the shelter, and I had picked her because she was – it seemed – the calmest in the litter. As soon as I got
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