LITMIR.BIZ

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neatly in a plastic crate, but when she went to store them in her closet, there was no room—thanks, in great part, to her shoe collection. Mattie grinned at the memory. The left side of her walk-in closet had been stacked to the ceiling with crates of books, the right equally as jammed with shoe boxes. Since she refused to give up either prized collection, the idea for a used bookstore was born.

      She took two weeks vacation from her clerical position at the bank and rented some space in an old building previously used as a saddle shop, signing for the run-down real estate on a month-to-month basis. The venture was little more than an organized yard sale at the time and she had every expectation of returning to her old job when her vacation time was up. But the day she opened for business a fierce spring storm blew through Haddes and the shop lost power. Mattie lit a half-dozen candles and opened the front door. The damp air lifted the dormant smell of leather and oil, mixing with the scent of the lemongrass candles and books. Mattie was in love.

      Not only had the storm blown in that day, but customers had, as well. Somehow parting with her books had been not only easy but enjoyable when she watched them leave with a happy customer. When her own personal collection began to wane, Mattie went in search of more. Her clerical job was history. She began selling new rather than used books but also began acquiring books from estate sales. She lucked out on some rare editions and started educating herself on collectibles. Before long, she’d gained a reputation for handling antique and rare books as well as stocking popular fiction.

      These days the bookstore was well known for hosting book signings and writers clubs. There was always hot tea and slices of lemon cake and good conversation. Mattie loved the shop like a friend, was proud of its success. So why did the accomplishment feel a bit abstract, as though the shop itself was responsible for the success rather than her?

      She sighed. Possibly because, after nearly four decades in one place, she’d managed to misplace her self-esteem. Mattie ran her hand through her hair, surprised at the feel of the short strands. Della had been a little overzealous today. But then she thought of Kimee Scissorhands and shivered.

      Though she’d hung the “Closed” sign on the door in honor of the big reunion—which suddenly seemed like a short road to depression—Mattie slipped through the door, locking it behind her. She breathed deep and smiled. It was home away from home. Like a favorite pair of faded Levi’s, or slipping into fresh sheets at the end of a long day, the shop was an instant shot of pleasure endorphins, despite the work required to run the place. And it was hard work.

      Three stacks of boxes sat next to her desk, their cardboard edges battered and suspiciously dirty. Mattie knew what was inside without checking. A large order of children’s books had been missing in action for two weeks now, lost in the mysterious realm of overnight delivery. She dug her box opener from her desk and slit the wide tape from the top box. The first book in the shipment was a picture book. The artwork was delightful, sporting a neon-green cricket, the author’s name boldly splashed across the front in blue. Mattie ran the pad of her thumb across the author’s name, mentally substituting her own.

      The goal of owning the bookshop had been consuming at first, and her need to see it become successful had fueled her for years. But two years ago the shop had settled into a sort of easy rhythm that worried her. Then that indefinable craving had returned.

      Mattie thought of her writing and shook her head. She’d gotten the urge to see her own name in print, but the stories, the characters and erotic worlds she created under cover of night would never see print. That part of her would remain saved on a CD, safely tucked away in the closet where she did her late-night work. So she’d targeted the children’s book market instead, a much better fit for Mattie. Or at least the Mattie the rest of the world knew.

      With her usual determination, Mattie formed a local writers’ group and had been working steadily toward publication ever since. But so far she’d only met with rejection. Some days she wondered if the goal to write was just another distraction, something no more achievable than marriage and children. After all, marriage required a man, and children required, well, something to which she didn’t currently have access. Especially without a man.

      The number of dates she’d had in the last ten years—or rather the lack of them—was scary. Some days, especially after a rerun of Sex and the City, when it seemed the whole world was having sex, she’d vow to join them and just do it. Like the Nike commercial. She was straight. She was still relatively young and attractive. But then she’d go out with the postman, or the nephew of her insurance agent, and somehow the urge was lacking. She really didn’t want to sleep with the postman. In all honesty, she didn’t want to sleep with someone she wasn’t in love with. She’d only had sex with one person, her college boyfriend, Brad. A.k.a. a distant memory. Brad had been a disappointment. Or maybe she had. Who knew? But she’d sort of given in, then given up.

      Now she considered herself a sort of pseudo-virgin, and she was actually kind of comfortable with that. She figured there was some sort of statute of limitations. If you hadn’t had an orgasm in a certain number of years, you got to reclaim virginhood. It made sense to her.

      She spent the next two hours unloading the boxes, making order out of chaos and managing to avoid smudging her white slacks with dust. Finally she shelved the last book, stacked the empty boxes for recycling and made her way to the ladies’ room to freshen up before heading to the Stop-N-Bowl. What’s the point? her inner crab complained. Go home. Eat ice cream. Watch Oprah. Avoid more rejection. No, she countered. She kept her promises. If she was the only one that showed, she’d at least have the satisfaction of being the only friend with enough honor to remember. She smoothed pale pink lipstick across her lips, powdered away the afternoon shine on her face and mentally braced herself. No one would remember the reunion date but her. Unlike her friends, the wheel of Mattie’s life turned at a predictable pace. Manageable. Comfortable. Familiar. As easily shelved as one of her books.

      She decided to walk to the Stop-N-Bowl rather than hoofing it back to her duplex to get her car. Besides, she wasn’t too anxious for her friends, in the unlikely event that they showed, to see her recent purchase. The land barge, as she thought of her Crown Vic, had been retired from the local police force. And it was as ugly. Dirty white, with the outline of the police shield still visible from the side, it had turned out to be more embarrassing to drive than she’d expected. Mattie sighed, feeling a niggling of regret. Oh well, it was big and cheap, which was why she’d taken the plunge and bought it at auction. She could stack boxes of estate-sale books in the trunk and back seat and still have room for a pony.

      When Mattie rounded the corner to the bowling alley, she was surprised to see several cars, none of which she recognized. Probably the cleaning crew, she reasoned. The Stop-N-Bowl shouldn’t even be open this time of the afternoon. She paused when she reached the door, her hand icy despite the fact that she clutched the sun-warmed handle. In all likelihood, the door would be locked and she would spend the evening in a blue funk, watching someone eat bugs on reality television while she downed a pint of rocky road.

      Mattie squeezed the latch and the door swung open easily, enveloping her in an air-conditioned cloud of familiarity. She took a deep breath. The Stop-N-Bowl was her own personal time machine. Her writers’ group held its share of meetings there, taking advantage of the deli and private party rooms available in the back. But no matter how often she came, she always experienced the same sense that time had stood still.

      As her eyes adjusted to the interior, she found that the lanes were darkened but the bar area was well lit. Only a few tables remained, the rest squeezed out by a new pool table. Pinball machines still lined the wall but were now frighteningly referred to as “vintage.” Rows of neatly arranged liquor bottles topped a mahogany bar devoid of graffiti. Mr. Murphy, Della’s father, had an imposing presence that kept the locals in line. His glare as he wiped down the glossy wood was usually the only warning necessary.

      Della’s brother Jack hadn’t been behind the bar since his summers spent home from college. He’d moved to Atlanta fifteen years ago to start a career as a private investigator. Mattie could never seem to reconcile the quiet athlete she knew with her image of a PI, though Della assured her it was less gumshoe and more corporate inquiry than the books that filled the mystery section of the bookstore

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