Second Chance Love by Shawn Inmon Read Free Book Online

never once, in her entire career, asked a customer if he or she had purchased a 'loyalty card,' nor had she ever offered one for sale with the promise of a minor discount on future purchases.
    Instead, there were books: stacks and stacks of books, lovingly organized, dusted, and maintained by Elizabeth herself. Mr. Bartleby owned the store, but over the years he had increasingly exercised his option not to come in. The store had become her domain. There was no computer, nor did she see the need for one. The sixties-era cash register still worked fine, and it made satisfying, clunky sounds when she operated it. The inventory control and search system for the store was called 'Elizabeth Coleman.' If someone came in asking for Exodus by Leon Uris, or Giants in the Earth by Hans Rolvaag, she knew exactly where they were, and probably what condition they were in.
    To Elizabeth, the best part of coming to work was the smell. Tens of thousands of books, old and new, gave off a smell like none other. Mingled with the smell of the coffeepot she always had going, this was her potpourri. It felt relaxing, welcoming, and like home.
    The mystery side room also held a few modestly tatty sofas and overstuffed chairs. Customers could sit and read if they liked, breathing in the exotic incense called Used Bookstore. The Locked Room Readers met there on the third Thursday of the month, ostensibly to discuss mysteries but prone to wander off topic. A number of regulars stopped in almost daily for coffee, books and conversation, and this was their place.
    Elizabeth generally considered music in the store an unwelcome distraction from conversation or reading, but not today. She tuned the elderly radio behind the counter to the classical music station. Ah, Edvard Grieg , thought Elizabeth as she hummed along while making coffee, turning on lights and sweeping the well-worn hardwood floor.
    Just a few minutes after 9:00, the small bell above the door chimed. Elizabeth looked up to see and hear Gail Weathers. Gail was a regular at The Prints and the Pauper. She worked at Faded Memories, the vintage clothing store two doors down. As was her habit, Gail entered already in mid-sentence. “…and I just don’t know what they were thinking? Yoga pants? I think that was asking too much of that fabric to contain all that…”
    Someone unfamiliar with Gail would have assumed she was talking on a Bluetooth earpiece, but this wasn't the case, nor did she suffer from a mental condition. Gail just talked, as naturally as she breathed, with or without a conversation partner.
    Gail stood around 5'6", carried an extra pound or two, and wore her hair in an afro struck through with silvery gray. She was unwilling either to color her hair or update its style. She considered its markings her badge of life. Her unlined face was that of a woman who went to bed every night with questions answered and conscience clear. It made her look two decades younger than her fifty-five years, in spite of wire-rimmed bifocals.
    Elizabeth smiled. “Good morning, Gail.”
    “Good morning, sweetheart, I was watching this old movie last night, because, you know, everything’s in re-runs during the holidays, and…” She stopped and cocked her head, observing Elizabeth more closely. Any silence longer than three seconds around Gail was unusual, and this one stretched out before she said: “What happened to you?”
    Elizabeth’s hand flew first to her hair, then her face, flitting around like a hummingbird at a lilac bush, trying to find what Gail might be seeing.
    “What do you mean, ‘What happened to me?’”
    “I mean just that. I’ve been stopping off here on my way to the shop for more than ten years. Every day, it’s exactly the same. That’s why I stop in. I like things that stay the same. But today…” Gail walked several steps closer to Elizabeth, tilting her head back to look through the bottom of her glasses. “Are you wearing makeup?”
    “What? Oh, that.