Ex and the Single Girl by Lani Diane Rich Read Free Book Online

smart-mouthed girl.” She gave me a sharp pat on my behind. “ It ’ s good to have you home, baby.”
    Then the woman who hadn ’ t missed a day at the bookstore since she was sixteen flitted out of my bedroom, leaving a wisp of perfume hanging in the air beh ind her like a big lilac question mark.
    At 8:45, Vera and I were out the door and on our way to the Page. Jimmy the mailman waved as we passed him, the same way he did when I was fifteen.
    And sixteen.
    And seventeen.
    I looked down at my feet and mindlessly stepped over the cracks, a habit I picked up at the age of seven when I felt a certain responsibility for the health of my mother ’ s back. Even the cracks hadn ’ t changed.
    “ Brigadoon,” I muttered with a laugh.
    “ What, baby?” Vera waved across Pine Mountain Ro ad to Bella Thomas, who sat knitting in her rocker the way she had since the beginning of time.
    “ Nothing,” I said quickly, hopping over some cracks to catch up with her. My mind was on Mags ’ s weirdness, but I thought I ’ d edge in with a softball first. “ So, tell me, Vera. What ’ s up with Bev?”
    “ Bev? Nothing. Why? Did she say something to you?”
    I shook my head. “ No. That ’ s just the thing. She ’ s been weird. Distant. Pissy.”
    Vera smirked. “ That ’ s not weird, baby. That ’ s Bev. You ’ ve just been away from home too long. But you know she doesn ’ t mean anything by it. She ’ s just got a little vinegar in her, that ’ s all.”
    I shrugged. “ Maybe.” We turned the corner on Main just as Marge Whitfield was pushing up the awnings over the pharmacy. Pearl McGee waved to us as she unlocked the front door of the salon, pointing a mock-accusatory finger at me. I waved, then put an instinctively protective hand to my ponytail as Vera stepped up on the stoop to the Page.
    “ So, what about Mags?”
    I caught a momentary stiffness in Vera ’ s shoulders. I was right. Something was going on with Mags.
    “ What about her?”
    “ Oh, please. It ’ s been you and Mags every day at the Page since I can remember. And today she ’ s not coming in. Why?” Vera rummaged around in her humon gous macramé purse. “ Well, it ’ s hardly something to make a federal case over,” she said. “ Sometimes people take days off.”
    “ Not Mags.”
    She gave me a tight smile. “ Well, today she did. Now tell me about your Flyer. You haven ’ t given us any details and I thi nk that ’ s just rude.”
    I shrugged. “ I don ’ t kiss and tell.”
    “ Oh, honey, everybody tells.” She pulled out the keys and stuck them in the front door. “ Some take more time than others, but eventually, everybody tells.” She pushed the door open, and we stepped inside.
    I inhaled deeply and smiled. As a little girl, I spent every day after school roaming through the shelves, touching the books, flipping through them, living in the scent of fresh pulp and ink. Whenever I needed to lighten a black mood, a trip to a bookstore or library would almost always work, but the Page was still something special. I turned and gave Vera a wry smile. “ Okay. I ’ ll give you one detail.”
    She grinned. “ Do tell.”
    “ He said we were a barmy lot.”
    “ Barmy.” She tucked her purse under the co unter. “ What does that mean, exactly?”
    “ It means we ’ re all crazy.”
    “ Honey, there ’ s no such thing as crazy. There ’ s just degrees of interesting.” The phone rang in the back office, and Vera sighed. “ I ’ m gonna go answer that, but don ’ t you think I ’ m done wit h you yet. I won ’ t rest until I know how a British Flyer kisses.”
    I shooed her away, stepping around the mismatched easy chairs and simple swivel-topped barstools that huddled around the coffee bar. I went into autopilot, scooping the coffee into the filte red basket, filling up the hot water carafe for tea. My mind drifted elsewhere, back to my room the night before and to Ian Beckett ’ s lightly dimpled smile.
    I