Open store, turn on lights, fill cash register. Wheel bargain book cart outdoors. Recently the city has decided that we can use our sandwich board (we use it for events) only if we don't have the name of our business on it! I'm taking advantage of this sales opportunity, at least. The sidewalk permit is paid up.
Business starts right up and the day remains brisk, which is a relief. The last few weeks have been sluggish, leaving me wondering if there is anyone left on the planet who reads any more. A gravelly voiced man calls to ask for directions to the store. I'm wondering if he'll turn up, but am hoping he does.
An older couple comes in with a shoe box full of books to trade in for credit, they ask where "the guy" is (meaning my husband). However, after a few false starts, I turn the wife on to Tasha Alexander, who she hadn't heard of. I grit my teeth when the husband says why read Rhys Bowen when you can read Andrew Greeley, if you want to read about the Irish. I smile pleasantly and agree, though I think anyone who skips Molly Murphy is just cheating themselves.
While they are browsing, a nice looking fellow comes in and begins to carefully dissect our Hard Case Crime shelf (or guy magnet shelf, as I call it. The books demanded their very own shelf). He's joined by an attractive Asian woman, who grabs up the used copy we have of Larssen's The-Girl-With-the-You-Know-What. She pokes around a bit and then comes up to the desk, holds out her hand, and says, "Hi, I'm Tess Gerritsen."
I have a geeky fan girl moment, where I babble about how much I enjoyed The Bone Garden. She's in town to talk to the Borders mucky-mucks but has been nice enough to stop by. We then share a double confession (and please don't post a comment about this): we are the last two people on the planet NOT to have read The-Girl-with-the-you-know-what.
We chat for a minute and after she leaves, I call my husband to tell him about her visit. After I hang up, the shoe box lady says "Was that Tess Gerritsen?" She has her own fan girl moment. She and her husband check out happy, only hesitating over the wife's reluctance to buy a new trade paperback. The husband shushes her and snaps out his credit card.
The browsing man then begins to make a stack on the desk, and as he searches for every noir title we might have, he makes his own confession: he hasn't enjoyed a writer since Jim Thompson laid down his pen. As we talk, I convince him to give Connelly's The Concrete Blonde a try. I think the deciding factor is when I tell him that Connelly rented Chandler's old LA apartment to write in, but I think I'm on pretty safe ground here.
As he comes up to the counter and peels a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet, it turns out he's a merchant marine with lots of reading time on his hands. I'm feeling even better about the Connelly recommendation, and wish he lived in town. He was very pleasant.
The day ends with book club (after lots more customers), where we have a nice discussion of John Hart's The Last Child. The social worker in the group insists that child protective services would have been called in to take the central character, a 13 year old boy, away from his mother, but the rest of us think that Hart was well within his narrative rights.
I tell them about Tess Gerristsen, and they are a) excited and b) wonder if she could possibly have been nice as her books are so darn scary. I tell them that not only was she not dripping blood or sporting a weapon, she seemed very charming. The nurse in the group insists that she hates blood and can't read Gerritsen's books.
I finally wheel the book cart back inside at 9 p.m. The day started around 9:30 a.m., and I'm happy to head home, collapse with a glass of wine, and watch the Project Runway finale. Go, Seth Aaron!
