Dreaming Shepherd Books
I liked Casey’s bookstore right away. It felt like her: unpretentious and lovely.
There was a big stencil in the window, with the store’s logo. An elegant line drawing of a shepherdess napping on a rock, her book tented over her eyes, a single sheep jumping over her. A Wow. I wondered if Alex had designed it.
At the front of the store was a window seat catching the sun, overstuffed armchairs in the corners, and of course a wall of used paperbacks.
The teenager at the counter guiltily hid his ACT prep book and hopped off his stool. “Didn’t think you were coming in today.”
“Tim, this is Laura.” So I’d earned an introduction at last. I’d have preferred “Laura, my old friend,” or “Laura, she grew up here.” But I’d take it. “You can go. I’ll close up.”
She looked around the empty store. “We do actually get customers once in a while. It’s just that it’s ten minutes ’til closing.”
“Of course. Did your mom design your shepherdess?”
“Yep.”
“I love it.”
“You don’t think it implies our books put people to sleep?”
“No.”
Casey watched silently as I walked through the small, overstuffed rooms, running my hands along shelves. She had a table of local history books; my dad would have approved. A whole LGBTQ wall, clearly marked, right up front; our town had changed with the times.
In a back corner by a window there was a giant hollow papier-mâché tree with a generously sized cutout in the trunk. A mound of overstuffed pillows waited on the floor inside, winking out invitingly, but mostly obscured by a curtain of candy wrappers strung across the opening in the tree. Not just butterscotch this time. Sheer pink, pistachio, translucent red. It was magical, shot through with sunlight. I climbed in through the crinkly cellophane strips and smiled from behind it. “Casey.”
She leaned down to peek inside at me. “The kids seem to like it.”
In her back office she made me coffee. She held up a stack of envelopes and grimaced. “The HVAC bills are brutal. This place has zero insulation.”
I sipped my coffee. “But look what you created, all by yourself.”
“I know I should probably sell, take the gain on the building and run, but...I love it too much. I love being part of the town.” She clenched and unclenched her left hand.
“Is your hand okay?”
She looked down and shook it. “Yeah, touch of carpal tunnel. Overdid it on the ten key. The one part of owning the store I don’t love, data entry. Anyway, I do like being my own boss.”
“Me, too. Some of my clients require major hand-holding, though.”
“Like that Sam guy who keeps texting? Your boyfriend?”
“He’s most definitely not my boyfriend.”
“Got it.”
“He’s seventy, only a friend. I hang out at his café sometimes. He’s funny, you’d like him, though he can be an unfiltered know-it-all.”
She started to say something but sipped her coffee instead.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I was going to say he sounded like the father-figure type.”
I paused, tried to laugh this off. “Sam’s way too obnoxious for that.”
“I’m sorry, it was a dumb thing to say. Your dad’s not replaceable.”
“It’s okay.”
It was unsettling, that she could size up my life so quickly, so well. Sam’s sense of humor was the opposite of my dad’s. Inappropriate to the point of infuriating. But there was something to Casey’s assessment. My closest adult relationship was platonic, with an irreverent, much older man.
Casey grabbed a canvas Dreaming Shepherd tote bag from a box, dropped in a bunch of bookmarks, and handed it to me. “Shopping spree, on the house. I recommend the Highly Flammable section. But take whatever you want.”
“That’s so generous, are you s—”
She closed her eyes and pushed her hand toward me like a traffic conductor. Stop.
“Thank you. But you pick them out. Surprise me.”
As Casey filled the bag there was a rap on the door. Though it was obviously after-hours, the assault on the glass continued, surprisingly loud given that the customer seemed about eighty. When Casey opened the door a sweet voice trembled out, “Oh, dear, are you closed?”
I should have guessed who it was from the passive-aggression.
One glance at too-pale face powder, white hair teased into a cotton helmet, a yellow handbag, and I knew: Barb Macon, my mother’s ancient church friend.
I ducked inside the papier-mâché tree.
Casey rang up her purchase, not complaining about the intrusion. And, mercifully, not calling for me so Barb and I could chitchat about old times.
“I heard you had a visitor. Ingrid Christie’s girl?”
I held my breath, afraid exhaling would set the wrapper curtain a-wafting.
“She’s at the house.”
When Barb left Casey laughed. “You can come out now.”
I crawled out of the tree trunk. “She’s nosy as ever. I didn’t even tell my mother I was coming.”
“She must’ve heard around town.”
“What did she buy? Religious poetry? The complete works of Rick Warren?”
“She special-orders large-print romance novels. She has a special passion for Scottish lairds.”
Raunchy old busybody.
* * *
I rummaged through the tote bag as we walked to Casey’s house from the grocery. She’d given me e.e. cummings poetry, Candice Bergen’s autobiography, The Bluest Eye, and Valley of the Dolls.
The last one I pulled out was an oversized paperback with a pink stain on the spine.
The Girl’s Total Guide to Beauty.
“No way.” I smiled at the familiar cover. A woman’s face divided into four quadrants, a different “look” in each section. One eye was rainbowed in blue and yellow shadow under fluffy bangs, one sported false eyelashes under gelled hair. One side of her lips was baby pink, the other scarlet. “I can’t believe you kept it.”
“Elle found it in a box of your stuff from the vanity. A few months ago. My mom had held on to all of it—your old makeup, an embarrassing collection of scrunchies, and of course, The Girl’s Total Guide.”
“God.” I flipped pages. “I studied this. I thought I looked so mature. Remember when I tried to do highlights and burned my scalp? My hair was coming out by the roots for weeks.” I examined the price sticker. “You priced it at a dollar and still no takers?” I laughed. “Smart girls.”
Casey peered into her canvas bag, rearranging groceries. “Oh. I only had it out for a few days. Some teenager tried to buy it but...” She shrugged. “I gave her a free copy of this other makeup book instead. Aren’t you starving? I’m starving.”