Twenty-Five Years Ago Today by Stacy Juba Read Free Book Online Page A

blazer over
a scoop-necked blouse and jeans. Wisps of brown hair strayed out of
a gold clip at the base of her neck. Crow's feet bracketed her
eyes, the only sign of middle age. Cheryl Soares held out her hand
and Kris shook it.
    "Would you like some coffee?" Cheryl
asked.
    "Sure, if you have decaf."
    "No problem."
    Kris followed her past low tables strewn with
jigsaw puzzle pieces and children’s picture books. Flames burned in
a brick fireplace, hissing over the logs. A dusty mirror hung above
the mantel and silk roses poked out of a glass jar. She sank onto
the secondhand sofa, draped with an Indian blanket of swirled ruby,
tan and green. Cheryl carried over a tray of coffee and
biscotti.
    Twenty-five years ago, this woman's younger
sister had been murdered. Dex had asked her for a statement and
she'd said Diana was an artist. Before Cheryl Soares had been a
name on the microfilm, but here she was in the flesh, urging Kris
to try the biscotti.
    "I can't resist the chocolate almond myself.
Tell me about your story." Cheryl settled into an easy chair and
tilted her head to one side.
    Over the next half hour, Kris asked how
Cheryl had entered the business, the difficulty of the competition
and how she could afford selling books at low prices. Cheryl had
been president of the Greater Fremont Area Women in Business
organization for two years. Maybe she and Diana had been like Holly
and Kris. One a joiner, the other a watcher.
    Cheryl answered each question, slowing down
as Kris jotted notes. "My husband was skeptical when I told him
about my bookstore idea, but eight years later, I love what I'm
doing. I'm still educating people by introducing them to new books
and authors. My book discussion group analyzes literature and
examines it from different perspectives."
    "Did your family encourage reading while you
were growing up?" Kris asked.
    "Definitely. My parents took my sister and me
to the library every Saturday."
    "Does your sister still like to read?"
    "She ... she did. She's dead now."
    "I'm so sorry."
    Cheryl hung her head. "Thank you. I have to
admit, I feel more comfortable with you than I'd expected. In the
past, reporters have let me down."
    Dex? Too bad Cheryl didn't know that an
editor, not the reporter, had betrayed her trust. But would it
matter? Thousands of people had read the headline.
    "How long have you worked for the paper?"
Cheryl asked.
    "Not long." Kris found herself relating how
she had switched careers, bolstered by Cheryl's sympathetic
nods.
    "You did the right thing. Everyone said I was
nuts to quit teaching English when I knew nothing about business,
but I had to do it. I was burned out. My husband was nervous, but
after a few months of running the store, he could see how happy I
was. We both say it's the best decision that I ever made."
    "Too bad my mother isn't as understanding as
he was, or as you are. She thinks I'm crazy to work for a small
paper, making peanuts."
    "It's hard when you're afraid that your child
is making a mistake, but sometimes it isn't a mistake. Your mom
will have to realize that you know best." Cheryl laughed. "I'm one
to talk. I don't know if my son, Eric, would call me understanding.
And my own mother was uneasy about my endeavor, but that didn't
stop her from taking a part-time job here."
    Irene Ferguson helped out in the shop? Was
she there now? Kris glanced around, but saw only a couple of
customers in the corner.
    After the interview, Cheryl provided a tour
of the aisles. Kris halted before a row of Nancy Drew and Hardy
Boys books. A pang jabbed her heart. She and Nicole had loved those
mysteries. Two young mothers greeted Cheryl, and they paused to
discuss the book group’s latest selection. Kris waited by the broad
mahogany sales counter.
    Behind it hung a striking oil painting of a
girl backing away from a large jar, arms raised above her face.
Creatures charged past her, spiders and bats darting across a
candlelit room. In the lower right-hand corner, the black