“By eating dry beef medallions?”
“By showing up. At least if Dean’s there, I won’t have to make too much small talk. I hate small talk.” She shakes her head at the indignity of it all. “You guys have any plans this weekend?”
“Going to the movies Friday night. Otherwise, nothing.”
I steer the conversation to her latest project, then we ramble about novels we’ve read and what movies look good, and what we’re planning for the rest of the summer.
After we part ways, I walk through downtown toward Emerald Street, enjoying the breeze rustling in from the water. I stop and get an iced cappuccino to go from one of the coffeehouses.
Even though I’ve been at loose ends since we moved to Mirror Lake, I’m glad this is where Dean and I have ended up. It’s a medium-sized, Midwestern town with a crystalline lake surrounded by mountains. In winter, the lake freezes, snow and ice fall, and the college kids keep the town busy. In summer, tourists descend on Mirror Lake to swim, hike, kayak, canoe, and camp.
There’s a theater festival in the spring, numerous farmer’s markets and art fairs. It’s a town with good energy and plenty to do—a pretty little egg tucked away in a nest of mountains.
I stop in front of a shop squeezed between a fabric store and a yoga studio. A crooked wooden sign above the door announces The Happy Booker in flowing pink script and is embellished with a picture of a voluptuous, leggy blonde holding a stack of books. A bell rings as I enter.
Dusty silence greets me. Shelves line the walls, cluttered with books, and cardboard signs announcing new releases dangle from the ceiling. The front tables are stacked with book displays, and a magazine rack sits near the cash register. A vinyl runner made to resemble yellow bricks snakes toward the back of the store.
“Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!” A gnarled, scary tree leaps out suddenly from behind a bookshelf, wielding spiky, leaf-covered branches.
I shriek and drop my coffee.
“Oh, shit.” The tree lowers its branches and stares at me from behind large purple glasses. “Sorry about that.”
“No, it’s my fault.” My heart pounding, I grab some tissues from my satchel and kneel down to sop up the mess. “Shouldn’t have brought coffee into a bookstore.”
The tree waddles over to the front counter and pokes out a hand, then returns with a roll of paper towels. “You’re not here for the Wizard Party, are you?”
“Uh, no.” I glance up and encounter a round, pink face peering at me from a knothole in the trunk. Red foam apples dangle from her branches.
She extends the paper towels. “I can’t kneel in this thing, or I’d help you.”
“No problem.” I soak up the coffee as best I can, then pick up the cup and lid. “Where can I…”
The tree waves a branch. An apple plops to the floor. “Behind the register.”
“I’ll pay for the cleaning.” I toss the cup away and wipe my hands. “So… Wizard Party?”
“Yeah.” She looks at the clock and sighs, her leaves drooping. “I started advertising, like, last month. Told kids to come dressed as their favorite character from The Wizard of Oz. We were going to read a couple of stories, play games, have some treats. You know, a party.”
“Sounds great.”
“It would’ve been, if anyone had shown up.” She shoves the knothole away from her forehead. She looks so dejected that I can’t help feeling sorry for her.
“When’s it supposed to start?” I ask.
“It was supposed to start an hour ago. I thought maybe there’d been a misprint on the flyer, but no.” She flaps her branches toward the window. “Two o’clock on Thursday, it says. Hey, could you help me out of this thing? I’ve been in it for over two hours, and I’m about to have heat stroke.”
“Sure.”
We maneuver around a little while trying to figure out the best method of liberating her from the trunk. Finally she bends forward as far as she can, sticking her branches out. I grab hold of them and pull. A few yanks, a few more curses, both of us pull in opposite directions, and then she pops out like a cork from a bottle.
“Dang.” She pushes a mess of damp curls back. “Now I know what a sausage feels like.”
I grin and put the costume on a chair. “You’re the owner?”
She nods and sticks out a hand. “Allie Lyons.”
“I’m Olivia West.” I shake her hand. “Everyone calls me Liv.”
“Welcome to The Happy Booker, Liv.” She takes a water bottle from behind the counter and downs a few gulps. She’s cute and petite with floppy red hair and green eyes behind her purple-framed glasses.
“Sorry no one came to your party,” I say.
“Yeah, well, I should be used to it by now. No one came to the Winnie-the-Pooh party either, and I had a real beekeeper here with real bees.” She shrugs. “Do you like The Wizard of Oz?”
“Not really. The flying monkeys scare the crap out of me.”
She chuckles. “Me too. Want to come to the party anyway? I have cupcakes.”
“I love cupcakes.”