I read almost everything. Almost all genres. I read before I sleep. I read when I wake up. I read when I take a break at the bookstore. I read on Sunday afternoons. I read on Friday nights. I listen to audio books. My life is filled with words.

I understand people who are addicted to books. I have found that many people use books to escape life. To battle one problem, one challenge or another. Books keep the tears at bay. They also bring on the laughs, the wonder, the education.

Yes, I love books. I love stories. Always have, always will.

And I want other people to love books, too. Hence, I do get a teeny bit uptight with customers in my bookstore now and then....

* * *

I met Emily Medegna when I was eleven. My parents, Jules, and I had moved to San Orcanita Island and into Rose Bloom Cottage about two weeks prior.

I remember a lot of hushed conversations in our Washington, DC, home right before we moved to the island. I remember my parents arguing, which they rarely did. The arguments, behind closed doors, always ended up with the two of them hugging, kissing, saying sorry, tears. There was a ringing tension in our house, though. Newspapers were put down when I walked in the room, the TV turned off when I got too close during the news.

“Is something wrong?” I asked my mother. She kissed me, hugged me, and said, a little too brightly, “Nothing at all, sweetheart. Let’s go out for ice cream.”

“Is something wrong?” I asked my father. He smiled, a tight smile, too tight, and said, “No, love, nothing at all. Hey. Do you want to go bowling this weekend?”

“What were you and Daddy fighting about in the bedroom?” I asked my mother another day.

“Oh, no, dear. We weren’t fighting. We were having a discussion.” She smiled, her voice too bright. “We were talking about Dad’s next move, what he wants to do with his career.”

“What were you and Mom fighting about in the backyard?” I asked my father. His smile was too tight once again.

“Nothing, honey. We were talking about . . . about . . . where we want to take you girls on vacation this year.”

“What’s going on?” I asked both of them at another dinner when they wouldn’t talk. Our dinners were always noisy, chatty, filled with my dad’s humor and my mother’s laughter and Jules’s funny stories and my conversations about how I wanted another cat.

“Nothing, Evie,” my father said, then his voice broke a tiny bit. “We sure love you two.”

“All is well,” my mother said. “You are the light of our lives, girls. Have we told you that, Jules and Evie?”