Page 5 of Booked for the Holidays
Theo Gardner is breathtaking when he smiles.
“How do you feel about adding a few holiday drinks to the menu early?” I ask. A change in conversation to escape a likely interrogation is necessary.
My best friend narrows her eyes, but accepts the diversion. “One step ahead of you. I brainstormed a couple of ideas last night. They’ll be finalized by next week, right in time for the holiday craziness to unfold.”
Chandler lasted three days at the Culinary Institute of America, deciding she prefers slinging beverages over sautéing steaks or onions. She became an aficionado at mixing frappuccinos and flavored teas. Each new season, people line up outside, covering two blocks of sidewalk to see what her drinks of the month are going to be. She has the creative ability to take four random ingredients and create flavors that seamlessly fuse taste and originality to a delicious blend in paper cups.
“Have I told you today you’re the best?” I laugh.
“You haven’t, but I know I am.” Full of sass, she tosses her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder. “Don’t forget I’m going out of town this weekend and won’t be back until Tuesday.”
“Your camping trip to the mountains of North Carolina doesn’t make me jealous at all, by the way.”
“Are you forgetting I invited you?”
“I’m not intruding on your solo adventure, Chan. So go forth, my wilderness woman, and enjoy bonfires under a star-filled sky. Sleeping bags with no pillows. Jacket potatoes roasted over an open fire. Hiking the Appalachian Trail. Please, just don’t get eaten by a bear. I’d miss you too much, and I can’t operate the fancy espresso machine without your help. I have to use the old one.”
“You’re so freaking weird sometimes.” The smile on her face betrays the snarky quip. “For the record, I’d miss you too.”
I grin, heading for the large delivery waiting for me. At the start of every month, we receive large packages from various publishers, distributors, and authors themselves. The shipments include upcoming releases, a replenished stock of best-sellers that fly off the shelves like hotcakes, and independently published novels from authors who might not be on someone’s radar yet.
That’s what makes literature so wonderfully beautiful and poetic. There’s quite literally something for everyone. What one person considers a two-star read with little purpose and merit might be someone’s most prized possession. A book they return to because it offers solace in times of great need or a friend they long for on a lonely day. It’s a subjective love affair that varies from person to person with enough sub-genres and obscure branches to satisfy even the most hard-to-please readers.
I do my best to accommodate a wide variety of topics from an array of different sources, so no one leaves the shop empty-handed. It’s not about the sales or the money. Financial success is a goal, yeah, but it’s more important to me to help people find a series or story that will become their favorite work of fiction. The scenes, characters and passages they’ll think about daily, profound words sticking with them long after they read the last line.
It’s what makes this job worthwhile.
I drag the first of ten boxes toward the book section, ready to get to work.
Chandler and I agreed on an open floor plan when designing the shop. We considered where each piece of furniture would go, taping the ground and walking through the room hundreds of times to get the layout perfect.
The bakery and café are in the far right corner of the space. A long, laminate counter with a cornflower blue surface forms a large L-shape. Eight stools flank the bar. The white leather on the chairs is a little worn, where patrons have spent long hours deep in conversation over drinks and pastries. Smells of lemon and nutmeg drift from the ovens, a sweet and spicy fragrance duet left behind from my baking.
To the left, a wall-to-wall bookshelf stretches from the floor to the ceiling. Painted a rich navy blue and stocked with books on every subject—from native Florida bugs to monster romance series—the piece is a focal point and where everyone’s eyes are naturally drawn. A rolling ladder is the only missing element, the final piece and a dream addition I hope to add somewhere down the road.
Across the floor, chairs, couches and beanbags are scattered. Some are pushed away, against the perimeter, to allow a free-flow of foot traffic. Others are nestled between two smaller shelves, an opportune place to sit and flip through the pages of a home design magazine, searching for a new renovation project to tackle. Blankets cover the arms of recliners, quilted patterns creating a palette of color.
There’s a cozy, inviting ambiance to the environment. Muted, filtered lighting. A speaker playing soft rock through the store: Lou Reed, T. Rex and Queen, the artists of choice. It’s a place you might spend several hours getting lost in the pages of a fantasy world or heartbreaking love story, reality passing you by. We wanted it to feel likehome, familiarity and a blissful contentment welcoming you every time you walk through the door.
I think we’ve done a good job creating a place people want to visit. The store is always busy, a mix of familiar faces and people stopping by for the first time, our bright chalkboard sign beckoning them inside. They come for the books; they stay for the drinks and snacks, and leave with a full heart of time well spent in a place they know they’ll return back to soon.
“Do you hear that?”
I look up at Chandler’s question. A stack of holiday romances I plan to swap out with the thrillers we displayed throughout October sit by my side, ready to be shelved.
A sound lances through the walls, drawing nearer. It becomes more distinct; a shrill, continuous beep piercing the air. Her eyes meet mine from across the room, my grin mirrored on her face.
“Greta,” we say in unison. I hurry to join Chandler at the café.
The town's busybody, a ruthless, humorous woman named Greta, retired from the Secret Service in the 90s. Always on the hunt for the latest scandal, gossip is now her weapon of choice. You can hear her horn a mile away whenever she catches a whiff, determined to scour for details of a developing story. A honk is the only warning she gives innocent pedestrians, lest they get mowed down by her motorized wheelchair. She received a citation last winter for running a stroller off the sidewalk, an incident she vehemently denies.
I’m surprised when she stops outside our shop and shifts the ECV to park. She climbs off the contraption with more grace and poise than someone who’s had two hips replaced should. She flings open the door and ambles inside, a bright yellow flyer clutched to her chest.
“Ladies.” She nods and makes her way over to us.
Resting her cane against the counter, she slowly climbs onto an empty stool. Once comfortable, she slams the colored paper down with ferocity, rattling the dirty silverware sitting in the sink I’ve yet to clean, plagued by other tasks and to-do items.
“What is this?” I ask.
