Page 19 of Embers in Autumn
“Well,” I said, standing again, “you came to the right place.”
I led them toward a low shelf near the children’s nook. Bright covers with animals, cars, and forests spilled across it. I pulled out one with thick outlines of jungle scenes, perfect for crayons that couldn’t quite stay in the lines.
“This one’s fun,” I told him, flipping to a page with a tiger mid-roar. “Or this,” I added, showing a farmyard collection.
His eyes widened, hands reaching. His mother laughed, shaking her head. “Looks like we’re taking both.”
“Perfect,” I said, then scanned the shelf beside us until my fingers landed on a picture book I loved. The cover showed a bear curled up in a cave, all soft blues and grays.The Bear Who Wanted to Sleep.
“This one’s a beautiful bedtime story,” I said, offering it to her. “It’s about a bear who’s so tired, but his forest friends keep waking him up. The rhythm of it is gentle, almost like a lullaby. Perfect for winding down.”
She opened the cover, flipping through the pages. Her smile softened. “Yes. This looks wonderful.”
The boy hugged the coloring books to his chest, his small fingers gripping tight.
As I rang them up, the sunlight slanted through the front window, catching the dust motes in a dance. The world outside felt alive again, voices drifting from the street, laughter echoing faintly.
It was the kind of morning that reminded me why I had opened the shop in the first place. Not for money, though I needed it. But for moments like this, connecting someone with a story, watching a child clutch a book as if he had just been given a key to another world.
“We’re hosting this next weekend,” I told her. “Costumes, treats, a little scavenger hunt through the shelves. He might enjoy it.”
“I want to be Spiderman!”
His mother laughed, ruffling his hair. “We’ll see.”
“Spiderman would fit right in,” I said. “Tell him the books will be cheering for him.”
They waved goodbye, stepping into the crisp morning, the boy already chattering about web-slinging and candy.
The bell jingled again almost immediately. Carol Winthrop-Deveraux-Bennett swept in, her scarf tucked neatly around her throat, her pearls catching the sunlight. She greeted the mother and child with a regal nod before striding into the shop as though it had been arranged just for her.
“Good morning, dear,” she said, setting her leather gloves on the counter before making her beeline for the shelves.
“Morning, Carol.”
She disappeared into the aisle, her voice floating back, low enough that the departing customers couldn’t hear but loud enough for me to catch. “No new arrivals this week? Really, Amber, you’re starving me.”
I smiled, stepping around the counter. “The shipment got delayed. All this rain made a mess of deliveries. Monday, I promise.”
Carol reappeared, standing tall and elegant despite her theatrical frown. “Monday does me no good. I’m leaving tomorrow to visit my daughter, and I wanted something new for the road.”
“What about your Kindle?” I teased gently. “I know you have one. You told me yourself.”
She arched an eyebrow, blue eyes sparkling. “Yes, but my vision isn’t what it once was. And words on paper stay still. The ones on screens seem determined to dance about the moment I get comfortable.”
I bit back a laugh. “So it’s the Kindle’s fault?”
“Absolutely.” She pressed a hand to her pearls, feigning offense. “Besides, young people these days have no respect for the preferences of the elderly. You should be fanning me with fresh hardcovers, not lecturing me on modern contraptions.”
I grinned, following her toward the shelves. “I do have a few books on knitting. Lovely large print, too.”
Carol turned her head slowly, eyes narrowing with exaggerated severity. “Amber, darling, the only books about knots I enjoy are the kind where someone is tied to a bedpost.”
My laugh burst out before I could stop it. “Noted.”
Despite the joke, her poise never slipped. She stood there with the elegance of a woman who had known loss, had weathered storms, and yet still carried herself like every room should bow to her charm.
Carol drifted along the shelves, her fingers trailing over spines as if she were a queen inspecting her court. “Really, Amber, what am I supposed to do on the train without a good smutty knight or a morally questionable alien to keep me company?”
