“I’m so happy,” she squeaked out. “Mack and I were in the hot tub last night. He’s an intelligent man. He knows so much about creativity in the bedroom, well, in this case the hot tub, and he made sure I wasn’t getting too hot, and I didn’t make too much noise because of the neighbors, and then we talked about how we can’t wait to be Mr. Mack and Mrs. Jules!” She honked her nose into a tissue. “I’m getting married and you’re my maid of honor and Mom and the aunts will be there and Dad will be there from heaven and Mack’s family will be there and all our friends are coming on their motorcycles in leathers!”

I burst into a fresh round of tears, so she did, too.

“Look at your dress!” she semi-shouted, shaking it. “Look at it!”

We both sobbed again.

* * *

The nonfiction book club met on Monday night. They read a book about Everest and invited me to join them, as usual. I had read the book. I will never climb Everest. I don’t want to be anywhere near Everest. The scenes during the snowstorm scared me even when I was at home in the bath reading the book. I was so freaked out, I had a piece of apple pie. Apples are fruits. Therefore the pie was healthy for me.

The chess club came in later in the week. I played one game. I won. I had a croissant. Croissants are pretty, which means they add vitamins and nutrients to my day.

A group of women came in for their weekly coffee and treat date. They invited me, as always, to come and chat, so I did. They bought coffee cake. I had a slice, too. Coffee beans are healthy, therefore the coffee cake probably boosted my immune system.

I chatted with customers from all over the world. I sold books. I sold my mother’s bouquets. She had titled them, as usual. “This Bouquet Is for a Saucy Woman Who Takes No Crap” and “Love Monster” and “Tulip Titillation.”

I sold my aunt Iris’s photographs of strange talking, laughing, sexy flowers and her cards. One that was selling especially well, which she’d had to reprint many times, was a purple flower that looked distinctly like a penis. Two red roses were clearly boobs.

I sold Aunt Camellia’s lotions and potions. Her latest, which smelled like a blend of lemon and vanilla, was called You Light Me Up, Baby. It was selling well, too.

I was surrounded by books, my forever friends, who have encouraged me since I was a little girl to escape from my premonitions between their pages, to dream, to travel to places in my head, to learn, to see through others’ eyes, and to imagine.

Book nerds get this.

They will understand me when I say that I love owning a bookstore.

* * *