West Wind

by Madeline Sloane

  A few years earlier, one of those "big box" stores opened on the other side of town, but lasted only a year. After that, a big discount chain moved into the abandoned building. It closed too. There was no competing with the hometown oddity.

  Peachy's never moved into book selling, mostly because the Sullivan family already provided the service. As much as Peachy's had a monopoly in some things, they were neighbors first

  Morose, Daisy sat at the small wooden table. She didn't look up from the bowl of cereal she'd poured for herself. "I've got to work at the pool until seven. Thanks, anyway."

  "Well, I can wait until later. We can go tonight after dinner, or we can eat out, if you want."

  Daisy knew the routine well. Her volatile mother would get angry, yell, make her cry, then try to make up. Daisy allowed it most of the time. Throughout the years, she had amassed quite a lot of music, clothes, art supplies and books by milking the remorse.

  Erica shrugged and picked up her pocketbook and car keys. She knew the routine, as well, although she'd never admit it. "I'll see you tonight, then. You remember to come home right after work; no side trips."

  "I know," Daisy said, annoyed.

  * * *

  Erica drove slowly through the neighborhood, heading for town. Summer was in full swing and children rode bicycles and played ball in the streets. She decided to take a slight detour and drive by the community pool at the corner of High and Elm streets. She paused at the stop sign and peered through the tall, chain-link fence. She spotted Brian in his lifeguard's chair, perched above the loud mob of children. He had zinc oxide on his nose, sunglasses over his eyes and a whistle in his mouth. He blew a couple of quick bursts and pointed at a little boy. "Quit splashing, Franklin, or you'll have to sit out."

  A little girl came up to his post, crying. He jumped down and put his hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong, Jody? You hurt your finger?"

  Erica watched as he examined at the little girl's hand. A few moments later, he kissed it. She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed, then sprinted to the shallow end and jumped into the pool, splashing Franklin. Brian put his fists on his hips and shook his head.

  "So, he's a nice guy," Erica fumed to herself. "He's also a troublemaker."

  A car honked behind her. How long had she been sitting at the intersection, watching Brian? She waved her hand in apology and, checking both ways, drove on.

  Once downtown, she parked behind the bookstore. My bookstore, she thought proudly as she turned the key in the lock and pushed open the metal back door. She flipped on the lights in the long tunnel that ran behind her business. It served as a storage area with boxes of books stacked along on wall and furniture jumbled in a corner.

  She walked through the shop, turning on lights, music and her computerized cash register. She arrived a half-hour before her new staff, enjoying the quiet.

  She'd negotiated with the owners to sell her the entire building. She didn't want to relocate anyone; she wanted to become their landlord and spread her business into empty storefronts. She planned to tear down walls and enlarge the existing shop. She also intended to use the empty second floor. Or, part of it at least. She talked with a contractor about raising the ceiling and converting half of the second floor into a spacious, open loft. For more than 125 years, customers funneled through the cramped bookstore. Erica felt that it needed to stretch if it were to survive.

  She admired the layout and additional amenities that large bookstore franchises offered, and that was her goal. The stacks would be roomy and she would place comfortable chairs and sofas throughout the shop to encourage reading. Her plans included adding a small coffee and pastry shop, a stage for acoustic concerts and book readings, a music and film section, and even a playroom for toddlers.

  Erica wanted her bookstore to be a destination, a place where people could spend hours, if they wanted, browsing and reading. She felt certain the business would thrive; the town couldn't support large chain stores, and hers was the only bookstore within a forty-mile radius.

  She would offer free downloads of electronic books, also, encouraging readers to come to the bookstore with their eReaders and "shop" online the comfort of the store's new cozy café, which she named "Sullivans" in homage to the longtime previous owners. She wouldn't let the "digital revolution" cripple her new business, as it had so many others. She knew that shopping for books could be a sensory experience and she intended to surround shoppers with sights, smells, sounds and textures that induced them to spend money on one thing or the other.

  It helped that the once-depressed downtown was evolving. It boasted several small art galleries, chic new restaurants and even a nightclub. Although tucked away in upstate Pennsylvania, it was becoming a popular place to live. Quiet, pastoral, historic, the small city of Eaton was a safe place to raise children. Its proximity to major cities and the advent of high-speed telecommunications also helped. More people could work at home, via the Internet and cellular technology.

  Before she took her business loan to the bank, she sat down with Robert Hall, her attorney and former employer. Their friendship began while she worked at his law firm.

  "Do you realize how many people live in this region?" he asked. "According to demographics I've read recently, there are more than 300,000 single, college-educated people within a one hundred-mile radius. You're talking about people with a disposable income of $6 billion. They don't have children, they enjoy art and literature and they don't mind spending money on what they enjoy. I think that demographic alone guarantees your new bookstore will succeed. That is, if you are willing to make the changes needed to improve it both physically and thematically."

  "What do you mean, thematically?" Erica asked.

  "Your bookstore needs to take into account topics that matter to all people, regardless of age, gender, ethnicity or sexual preference. You need to cater to all people not only adding diversity but emphasizing it. It needs to be sophisticated. Raise the bar with your décor, your book titles, your beverages and desserts."

  "Wow. That's going to cost a lot more than I anticipated." Eric chewed her bottom lip.

  Robert spread his hands. "I understand. But, you don't have to worry about going it alone. If you're interested, I'd like to invest in your business."

  "Robert! Really?"

  "Yes, Erica. We've known each other for a long time. I know you and I trust you. You're an ethical woman and you're driven to succeed. I would certainly consider investing in a business that would improve this city and provide me with hours of enjoyment. I love a good bookstore and I'm sick of having to go to a major city to patronize one."

  Not only did Robert understand and appreciate her vision, he wanted to be a part of it. Erica was thrilled with the suggestion. She knew how dedicated he was to his own business. If he were only one-tenth as dedicated to hers, she couldn't miss.

  They spent hours going over renovation plans. He enjoyed recommending contractors, interior designers, booksellers and even chefs. If she needed it, he had a client who could provide it.

  With Robert's support, Erica secured the loan she needed and at a great interest rate. Last week she signed the papers for her bookstore, "East of Eaton," a play on the book title, "East of Eden" by John Steinbeck. Robert suggested the name not for its biblical reference, but because the historic building she purchased was east of Main Street.

  "You can't lose with a name like that," he enthused.

  "You better be right," Erica replied. "Or we're both cursed, just like Cain."

  She worried about renaming the store; for more than one hundred years, it had been known throughout the community as Sullivan's. But the Sullivans were now living in sunny Florida and Erica agreed with Robert that a fresh start deserved a fresh name.

  Today, the contractors would finish tearing down the last wall. They sectioned the area temporarily with sheets of clear plastic to contain the grime and concrete dust. For the past three weeks, Erica kept ahead of the contractors, packing books into
boxes, shuttling them into the back tunnel or to the far side of the shop, safe from the debris.

  She checked the time. She expected her assistant manager, June Duval, any moment. A widow who worked at the bookstore for 28 years, Mrs. Duval agreed to stay on when the Sullivans retired. Much to her surprise, she enjoyed Erica's enthusiasm and plans.

  Mrs. Duval also adored Robert. A stylish gallant, he often escorted her to the symphony and the occasional art gallery opening.

  Robert enjoyed discussing books and films with her and appreciated feminine company without the complications younger women entailed. "You have no idea how intelligent that woman is," he once told Erica. "She's read every book she's ever sold. She's a walking encyclopedia."

  "She's had time," Erica responded. "She's devoted her life to this shop. I'm just glad she agreed to stay and that retiring to Florida doesn't interest her yet."

  At a quarter 'til nine, Mrs. Duval inserted her shop key into the brand new front door. Made of heavy oak with twelve beveled glass panes, the door and the hardware were antique reproductions. As the door swung open, it struck an old-fashioned bell. Erica raised her head at the sound. She spent a lot of time picking out the right bell. It had to be musical and faint; not the kind that disturbed people browsing or reading, but would catch the attention of the person at the counter.

  Her eyes lit up as the elfin, silver-haired woman gently shut the door and flipped the "Closed" sign.

  East of Eaton opened for the day.

  "I'm glad you're here," Erica said. "I have to run to the convenience store. We're out of sugar and creamer. I'm sorry; I was too distracted this morning to pick it up on my way."

  Mrs. Duval's face was serene, nearly unlined and belying her age. At sixty, she could have passed for fifty any day. "You go along, dear. I know you can't drink your coffee without it. Don't worry. I'll be fine. The contractors know what to do and until the shop is finished, I'm just here to dust, pack and sort." She wryly added, "Then dust some more and unpack."

  "I hear you," Erica said, pulling her purse from underneath the sales counter. "I'll only be a minute."

  She walked out the door, head bent as she fished in her purse for her wallet, and collided with a man on the sidewalk. The impact knocked her to the ground. She sat there, stunned. Her open purse spilled its contents onto the walk. The man staggered several steps before stopping against a large flowerpot, part of the city's beautification project.

  "Excuse me," he said, gathering his wits first. "Are you alright?" He knelt by Erica and offered his hand. "Can you stand up?"

  Looking into his eyes, she wasn't sure if she was dizzy because of the fall or because she literally bumped into the most handsome man she had ever seen. Well, not as handsome as Robert, but …. She blinked and struggled to her feet.

  Brushing off the back of her pants and her elbows, she apologized. "I'm sorry. I was trying to hurry and I didn't see you."

  She squatted to pick up her purse, shoving her wallet, keys, cell phone and ink pens into the cavity. Her lip moisturizer had rolled away and she stretched to retrieve it. Their hands met, his closing around the tube first.

  "Here; let me help you," he said putting a hand under her elbow and gently lifting her.

  Erica found herself staring into concerned blue eyes, unable to speak. His eyes were deep set and crowned with thick, dark eyebrows. How unfair, she thought, noticing his long, lush lashes. Dark brown hair curled against his collar, sweeping his cheek as he bent over. He hadn't shaved for a couple days and on him, scruffy was definitely sexy. His mouth was wide, his lips thin, his nose straight and narrow. Taken separately, his handsome features seemed delicate, but combined for a dreamy, poetic look.

  "Wow," she said, dazed.

  "What?" he asked.

  Erica blinked. Had she spoken aloud? "I think you should sit down for a minute."

  He took her hand and led her to a nearby park bench, another aspect of the city's beautification plan. When she sat, he crouched in front of her and examined her eyes, first one and then the other. "Your pupils seem okay. I don't think you have a concussion. How many fingers do you see?"

  He waved his hands in front of her face. She blinked and tried to focus. "Seven? No, eight. You know, most people generally hold up two."

  "I think you're fine," he said, laughing.

  He sat on the bench next to her and gestured towards the bookstore. "What's going on? Is this place closing?"

  Erica felt herself flush as his jean-clad leg brushed against hers. "No. We're renovating. We'll be open to the public in another week."

  "What happened to the old couple who used to run it?"

  "They retired to Florida. I bought the building and I'm expanding."

  He whistled. "You mean this entire building will be a bookstore?"

  "Well, almost. The florist is staying and so is the goldsmith at the end of the block. I'm taking out a few walls so there will be more space between the stacks and room for browsing. I want shoppers to stay for a long time. I'm also adding a coffee shop and on weekends we'll have live music."

  Her face glowed as she told him her plans and he found himself studying her as she spoke. Erica blushed at his scrutiny.

  "Sounds great. But what about my book fix? I need something now."

  She bit her lip. "It's a bit of a mess in there right now. We've been moving all of the books from one side of the shop to the other so the contractors can work faster. What are you looking for?"

  "I had my eye on a book in the history section."

  "Oh well, that side hasn't been touched yet. I guess I can let you in, if you promise to be careful and stay away from falling hammers."

  "Falling women are my specialty."

  She blushed again and stood up quickly. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she walked over to the shop and opened the door. The bell rang softly. "Enter," she said, her back against the door.

  In three long strides, he was next to her, his arm snaking behind her head to hold the door. Eye level with his collar, she was fascinated by the dark curls at his throat. She breathed in his aftershave and her eyes closed. It had a dizzying effect and she began to sway.

  "Hey, hey. I thought you were okay. Maybe you have a concussion?"

  Her eyes snapped opened and she rubbed her face with her hand. "I'm fine. I guess I just stood up quickly. Head rush," she explained. She stepped through the door and flung her purse on the counter.

  Mrs. Duval stopped packing a box and made her way towards the front of the shop after hearing the bell ring. "That was quick." She glanced at the man behind her employer. "Good morning, Clay. We're not really open to the public yet."

  "I know, June. But I ran into …," smiling, he turned to Erica, his hand outstretched. "I'm sorry. I don't know your name."

  She slid her hand into his and he gave it a light squeeze. She froze. His smile faltered and he lifted an eyebrow quizzically.

  "Erica," June supplied. "Clayton Knight, this is Erica Moore. She's the new owner of East of Eaton. She is quite capable of speech, though apparently not at the moment."

  He released her hand slowly and his lips turned upward, this time lighting his eyes. "Have we met?"

  Erica recovered her wits. "Yes. Five minutes ago outside. I'm the person who ran into you."

  He laughed easily. "No. I mean before. Your name sounds familiar."

  "No. I would have remembered you."

  Clay and Erica's eyes locked for several seconds until he broke the connection. He studied the scaffolds, the compressors, the curtains of plastic sheeting. "East of Eaton? That's a terrific name. Where are your workers?"

  "They'll be here later this morning. Mrs. Duval and I are shuffling books around today, making sure they aren't damaged during the construction phase. The history section is right over there. There are a lot of boxes in the aisle, but you can move anything that's in your way."

  "Thanks. I will."

  Erica watched the tall, slender man saunter to the far end of t
he shop, then she turned to Mrs. Duval. "You know him!"

  It was not a question. Mrs. Duval was mildly amused. "Of course I do. I've worked here nearly all of my life. Clay is one of our best customers. Not only does he shop here regularly, but he sends his students our way also."

  "Students?"

  "Clay is a history professor at Marshall College. He's also one of our local authors."

  Erica found herself peeking at him as he shoved cartons of books out of his way and rested a hand on the top of the bookshelf. A couple of the top buttons of his white shirt were undone. His jeans were faded and snug. He also wore a jacket, a comfortable, black blazer that gave him some semblance of formality. A casual chic style. She gave him four stars on the hunk meter. Hell, I'll give him five, she thought.

  He glanced at the women and caught both of them staring at him. He winked. "Thanks. Found it," he called, a book in his hand. He opened it and flipped through the pages.

  Erica turned to Mrs. Duval and stammered, "Oh, my."

  "Yes; he is a sweetie, isn't he?"

  "Is he married?" Erica's eyes followed his every gesture.

  "No. I don't think so. I really only know the basics. He's not much of a talker. Guess he does enough of that with his job. Do you like him?"

  "I don't know him but, wow, who wouldn't like him?" Mrs. Duval changed the subject. "Where's the cream? You didn't go to the store?"

  "No. It can wait."

  "Your coffee can wait? This is a first."

  Erica dragged her eyes from the lone customer. "You're right. I'm acting like a fool. Guess I'll try this again," she said, picking up her purse and stepping from behind the counter.

  "Bye," she said, peeking over her shoulder. She caught a smile and a wave from the new customer. Erica ducked her head and walked out the door. She made a mental note to double-check that the history section of East of Eaton was well stocked.