Page 41 of Hooked on Emerson
The drive to Westdale was quiet but more comfortable than the drive earlier, the tension of the previous day somewhat eased by their conversation on the pond. The landscape rolledby—fields giving way to forests, small towns appearing and disappearing as they followed the winding county road. Ava leaned her head against the window, watching it all with a contemplative expression.
“So, this bookstore,” Emerson said as they entered Westdale, a town slightly larger than Millfield but with the same small-town charm. “Any idea where it is?”
Ava pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “Mom’s notes say it’s on Oak Street. ‘The one with the green door and cats in the window.’“
They found it easily enough with its narrow storefront wedged between a bakery and an antique shop. The door was indeed green, though faded with age and weather, and a large tabby cat dozed in the bay window, surrounded by stacks of books that looked as if they might topple at any moment.
A bell jingled softly as they entered, the sound almost lost in the hushed atmosphere of the shop. The scent of old paper and leather bindings enveloped them, along with a hint of cinnamon from a candle burning somewhere out of sight. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, creating narrow aisles that wound through the space like a maze. The lighting was soft, amber-tinted, giving everything a gentle, aged quality.
An elderly man appeared from behind a tall shelf, peering at them over wire-rimmed glasses. “Good morning,” he greeted, his voice as soft as the shop itself. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Just browsing,” Ava replied with a smile. “My mother used to come here. She always spoke highly of your collection.”
The man’s eyes brightened. “A returning customer, then, in spirit if not in person. Please, take your time. The cats may join you, they’re the true proprietors. I merely handle the transactions.”
As if on cue, the tabby from the window stretched and leapt down, padding over to wind around Emerson’s legs. He bent to scratch behind its ears, earning a throaty purr of approval.
“You’ve been chosen,” the shopkeeper noted with amusement. “That’s Dickens. He’s very particular about his humans.”
Ava watched the interaction with a soft smile, her eyes warming at the sight of Emerson crouched down, gently stroking the cat’s fur. It was such a simple thing, this moment of connection with an animal, yet it revealed something essential about him—his gentleness, his patience, the careful attention he paid to living things.
They separated to explore the shop, Dickens trailing after Emerson like a furry shadow. Ava wandered through the literature section, fingers trailing along spines, occasionally pulling a volume out to examine its cover or read a passage. Emerson found himself in a corner dedicated to woodworking and craftsmanship, leafing through a book on traditional joinery techniques.
Time slipped by unnoticed, the quiet of the shop broken only by the occasional turning of pages, the soft footfalls of cats moving between shelves, the distant chime of the door as other customers came and went. It was peaceful, this shared solitude, each absorbed in their own exploration yet aware of the other’s presence nearby.
Emerson glanced up from his book to find Ava standing motionless in an aisle, a small volume open in her hands, her expression one of surprised recognition. He approached quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever moment she was having.
“Find something?” he asked softly when he reached her side.
She looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “It’s a book of poetry. My mom had a copy, but I never saw her read it. I had seen a bookmark in it just before she died, only halfway through.I never did find it.” She held it out so he could see the cover. “And here it is.”
Emerson looked down at the slim volume—”Wild Geese and Other Poems” by Mary Oliver. The cover showed a simple illustration of birds in flight against a watercolor sky. “Are you going to get it?”
“I think I have to.” She closed the book carefully, holding it against her chest. “It feels like... I don’t know. Like finding a piece of her I didn’t know was missing.”
He nodded, understanding without needing further explanation. “Let’s find you a few more, while we’re here. Make it worth the trip.”
They spent another hour browsing, occasionally sharing discoveries or reading passages aloud to each other. Ava found a cookbook featuring lavender and other edible flowers that made her laugh with delight. Emerson selected a novel he’d been meaning to read for years but never found the time for. By the time they approached the counter, they each had a small stack of books—treasures discovered in the quiet of this hidden shop.
The shopkeeper wrapped their purchases in brown paper tied with string, an old-fashioned touch that seemed perfectly in keeping with the atmosphere of the place. “You’ll come back, I hope,” he said as he handed Ava her change. “Both of you.”
“We will,” she promised, though Emerson caught the slight hesitation in her voice, the shadow that crossed her face at the commitment to a future that still felt uncertain.
Outside, the afternoon had turned golden, the sun slanting through the trees lining the street. They walked back to the truck in companionable silence, their paper-wrapped packages tucked under their arms, shoulders occasionally brushing as they navigated the narrow sidewalk.
“Hungry?” Emerson asked as they reached the truck. “There’s a place at the edge of town that’s supposed to have great pie.”
Ava nodded, a smile lighting her face. “I could definitely eat pie. Mom always said bookstore browsing works up an appetite like nothing else.”
The diner was a chrome-and-red-vinyl affair, straight out of the 1950s and proud of it. They found a booth by the window, setting their books on the seat beside them. A waitress with impressive hair and a name tag reading “Dot” brought them menus and coffee without being asked, as if she’d been expecting them all day.
“Pie’s fresh,” she announced. “Apple, cherry, or blackberry. The blackberry’s my recommendation, picked the berries myself.”
“Blackberry for me then,” Ava said. “With ice cream, if you have it.”
“Wouldn’t serve it without,” Dot replied with a wink. “And you, handsome?”
“Apple, please,” Emerson said. “Also with ice cream.”
