“I got you, hon,” Skyler says, jumping out of the booth.
I glance back and see her greet the Mayor and his small party. She escorts them to a table on the other side of the restaurant, smiling and chattering the whole way like she is genuinely happy to see him. It makes me glad I don't have to play politics like that.
I sit back and happily dig into my meal, determined to enjoy the rest of my lunch.
Chapter Three
Paige
After a wonderful lunch, I walk back to my shop, feeling better and lighter than I had earlier in the day. My mood isn't quite so grim anymore. Hanging out with Skyler tends to do that for me. I love that girl. She's my rock and my bright spot of sanity and clarity in this world.
Which, probably says something about my own mental state.
I open up the shop and step inside, taking down the “Be Back Soon” sign and putting the “Open” sign back in the window. Feeling anxious and a bit hyper, I putter around the store. I dust shelves that I dusted only yesterday, try to tidy and organize shelves that are overflowing, and do everything I can to make it look less cramped and cluttered.
My level of success is minimal. Even though they're gone, and I love my parents, organization and tidiness weren't exactly their strong suits. Not that I've done much better in that regard.
What my folks excelled at, however, was community relations. They were heavily involved with the social and political scene in Port Safira and were always running events through the bookstore that got the community involved. I have no doubt that they would definitely be able to adapt to the changing culture and demographics of the city and keep the shop going strong.
But then, they always had a head for business. I don't. I majored in Classic Literature when I was at UCLA and planned to become a teacher. Eventually, I wanted to get my doctorate and teach at a collegiate level. That was my goal and my life plan.
It was, unfortunately, a plan that I never got to see to fruition because of my parents' illness. I had to come home after my junior year and care for them until the end. And once they passed, I felt lost. Lost and stuck.
Actually, I felt completely lost and stuck. I still do, in some respects.
I'd never intended to be the owner of this bookstore. Even though I can quote passages from obscure texts and give you a dissertation on classic authors, knowing what it takes to make a business thrive is not among my skill set.
Not only had I never intended to be a bookstore owner, I never intended to live my life in Port Safira. At least, not until I retired, and was looking for a quieter, slower pace of life. I grew up here, and the town, although I love it, holds no mystery or excitement for me. And once I got a taste of the world outside of Port Safira while I was away at school, I wanted nothing more than to explore even more of it.
But, with my parents gone and being the only one left to keep the store going, I feel like I'm obligated to do this. Like it's my duty to keep Bookworms afloat as long as I can. Other than the house, this is really all I have left of them. They poured their hearts and souls into this place, always calling it a labor of love instead of a job. I feel like I'd be betraying their memory if I sold or closed the doors for good just because it's inconvenient or not something that I really want to do with my life.
This shop is my parents' legacy. How could I throw it all away? What kind of a horrid child or monster would I be if I turned my back on what my folks had built?
I'm in the back of the shop doing some inventory when I hear the bells above the door tinkling as somebody walks in. A moment later, I hear a couple of voices. And I cringe when I hear one that I distinctly recognize. With a sigh, I set down my clipboard and walk to the front of the shop, already bracing for what's to come.
When I step into the front of the shop, I see them both standing there, looking around like they're already taking measurements and making plans for what they're going to do with this place – my place – as if it's definite that I'll be packing up my books and moving along.
That sort of arrogance and presumption ignites anger within me.
“Mayor Goodrich,” I say, doing my best to hide my disdain for the man.
“Ahh, Paige,” he says in his best politician voice – which sounds too much like a greasy used car salesman voice to me. “Lovely to see you again.”
Yeah, wish I could say the same. “Nice to see you as well,” I say. “What can I do for you?”
I look at the man standing next to him and don't need a name to know what he is. He's yet another in the long parade of developers Mayor Goodrich has been dragging around town. No doubt plotting the demise of even more of Port Safira's homegrown businesses in the name of progress.
The man gives me a smile I'm sure he intended to be charming, but from where I'm standing, it just looks smarmy. Wearing an obviously expensive suit and wire-rimmed glasses, the man is five-foot-ten, has blue eyes, and dark hair shot through with gray. He's well-built but is growing slightly soft in the middle.
If I had to guess, I'd say that he was probably an athlete back in college and probably still plays a little racquetball on the weekends with his boys down at their exclusive health club before going to their even more exclusive country club for overpriced drinks and meals that will put on twice as many calories as they'd just burned off at the gym.
“Paige Samuels, I'd like to introduce you to Damon Moore,” Goodrich says. “He's a property developer.”
Called it. “Yeah, I kind of figured,” I say. “Seem to be a lot of those in town these days.”
Goodrich clears his throat and did his best to avoid looking uncomfortable – and wasn't very successful at it. He'd paraded half a dozen different developers through my shop, all of them thinking that meeting me is simply a formality on the road to them buying my place and destroying it.
“Mr. Moore here –”
“Damon, please.”
Goodrich gives him that toothy politician smile that just drips with insincerity. “Damon, then,” he says. “Damon –”
“Wants to buy my property for a considerable amount, demolish it, and put up luxury condos,” I say, cutting the Mayor off. “Yeah, I've heard the sales pitch before.”
“You haven't heard my pitch, Ms. Samuels,” Moore says.
“No disrespect,” I say, “but, I really don't need to hear your pitch. I'm not interested in selling.”
Goodrich and Moore exchange a brief look and I can see irritation crossing the developer's face. It looks like our good Mayor had made some assurances or promises to the developer that he's going to be hard-pressed to keep.
“Tell you what,” Moore starts, “how about I take you out to dinner and we can discuss the matter further. Maybe in a more – relaxed – atmosphere?”
I stare at the both blankly for a moment, not believing that they just can't seem to take no for an answer.
“Am I speaking Chinese or something?” I ask.
The two men exchange another look and then turn to me, clearly perplexed. I let out a long breath, doing my best to control my temper.
“I've told you a million times already, Mayor Goodrich, I am not interested in selling,” I say. “So, you can stop bringing these damn vultures around here because it is not going to happen. Now, if you two will excuse me, I have work to do.”
Damon looks at me and a slow, greasy smile spreads across his face. I can already read his thoughts. He's taking this as a challenge. Like this is some sort of a game he thinks he can win or something. But, if that's what this creep really thinks, he's got another thing coming.
“Damon, can you give us a moment,” Goodrich asks. “I'd like to speak to Ms. Samuels in private.”