April 25
Ron’s June 25
The Saturday sewing circle met at Good Yarn every week, rain or shine. Kim had learned not to schedule much else on Saturday afternoons. She had also learned to make extra coffee.
She was filling the carafe when the bell above the door chimed and seven people walked in with tote bags full of fabric and yarn, all of them talking at once, none of them noticing that three actual customers were already in the store. Kim held up the carafe in greeting. The circle sorted itself into the reading nook the way it always did. Brenda in the armchair. Eva and Macey on the two-seater. Maioha on the folding chair. Tanner cross-legged on the floor, again. The two Matthews—DeLange and Winfree—on the remaining chairs on opposite sides of the nook.
“Which Matthew do you need?” had become a standard question in the sewing circle, with a standard answer. Both of them looking up at the same time.
Kim brought the coffee over and went back to the register. The three customers were still browsing. Then the bell chimed again. Two more.
Then a family of four. Then a woman who came in, looked around, and said, “Oh, I didn’t know there was a bookstore here,” which, in Kim’s experience, was either the best or most heartbreaking thing a person could say.
It was Independent Bookstore Day, and Kim had been prepping for months like it was the Super Bowl for bookstores. She’d put in a window display, a hand-lettered sign, a stack of staff picks with handwritten notes on each one, run some social media ads, and promoted a discount on anything with a local connection. She’d told herself it was a reasonable investment. She’d also told herself that every other year, but had never bothered.
This year, she’d bothered. She hadn’t been sure anyone would notice.
“The window display did it,” Eva said, without looking up from her sewing. “I watched three separate people stop on the sidewalk, read the sign, and come in.”
Kim glanced at the window. It had taken her two hours on Thursday evening. She’d almost taken it down twice, convinced it looked amateur.
“The VFW posted about it, too,” DeLange said. “Bill Hayes shared it this morning. Said something like, ‘Support your local bookstore, especially this one.'” He paused. “He didn’t say why especially this one. Just that.”
The bell chimed again.
Tanner unfolded something from his tote bag — a small American flag on a wooden stick. He set it on the arm of his chair.
“For the vibe,” he said, when Maioha looked at him.
“You’re too old to say ‘vibe,’” she teased.
Kim helped a woman find a gift for her granddaughter. Helped a man find something he described as “not too long, not too serious, kind of about life.” She sold him a paperback and a candle he didn’t come in for and he seemed genuinely pleased about both. The bell kept chiming.
“You should do this every week,” Macey said, watching from the two-seater.
Kim grinned. “Have seven people sit in my reading nook and take up the whole corner?”
“Have people in your store.”
Kim didn’t have a response to that.
“You know what else has a holiday?” Tanner said, not looking up from the floor.
“Don’t,” said Maioha.
“Independent Glasses Day. Last Saturday of April. Very niche. Very important.”
Kim looked at him over the top of her frames.
“I’m just saying there’s a whole community of people,” Tanner said, “who feel seen.”
“He’s been workshopping that for twenty minutes,” Maioha said.
“It landed,” Tanner said.
“It did not land,” Eva added.
“Kim smiled. It landed.”
Kim had, in fact, smiled. She turned back to the register before anyone could make more of it.
Brenda set her knitting in her lap. “Ron asked me about the store,” she said.
Kim looked over. “When?”
“Wednesday. I stopped in to see him after my shift at the library. We were talking and he said, ‘How’s the bookstore doing?’ I said it was doing well, seemed busier lately.” She picked her knitting back up. “He said, ‘Good. That woman deserves it. She put the flags back up, you know.'”
The needles slowed.
“He’s been watching the store,” Tanner said.
“He watches everything,” Kim said.
“He said she put the flags back up.” Winfree looked at Kim. “He noticed.
He’s been thinking about it.”
Kim kept her eyes on the register. Outside, on Main Street, the bunting moved in a light wind. The two flags on the wall of Good Yarn hung exactly where she’d put them back, without ceremony, three weeks ago. She hadn’t made an announcement. Hadn’t told anyone. Just put them back.
“Has he asked any of you about the parade?” Kim asked.
“I heard he asks about it every day,” Maioha said. “Diana said he asked her twice on Thursday whether the permits were in order. Diana didn’t even know what permits he meant. She just said yes.”
“Diana says yes now?” Macey asked.
“Diana says yes now,” Maioha confirmed.
“Good for Diana,” DeLange said.
The bell chimed. A young woman came in, looked at the display near the door, picked up a middle-grade novel Kim had hand-sold forty times, and brought it to the register without browsing anything else.
“Is this the bookstore that’s doing the thing for the veteran?” she asked.
“We’re doing something for the community,” Kim said. “The veteran is part of the community.”
The young woman nodded, paid, and left with the book tucked under her arm.
Macey watched her go. “How many times has someone said that today?”
“Four,” Kim said. “Five, counting you.”
“I didn’t say it.”
“You were about to.”
Macey conceded this with a small tilt of her head.
“Has he asked about fireworks?” Eva asked. Back to business.
“Not yet.”
“He will. Fireworks are specific. He’ll want to know where and when.”
“Frank handled it. There’s a piece in the paper. Burn ban, display moved to Bridgeton.”
Eva considered this. “That’s credible. Though a real burn ban gets flagged in the forecast section two issues before the decision item. Is there a weather note two issues back?”
Kim looked at her. “Eva.”
“I’m just asking.”
“Frank’s handled it.”
“Frank’s good,” Eva said, which from Eva meant the conversation was over.
Brenda set her knitting in her lap. “Do you think he knows?” she asked the entire room.
The needles went quiet. Tanner’s small flag moved in the draft from the window.
Kim had asked herself this. Many times. The way Ron had held the folded flag that first morning. The way he’d touched the painted tree on his window and pulled his hand back. The crossword clues he said out loud and the ones he kept to himself. That’s the spirit, son.
“I think,” Kim said, “that Ron Drummond has been paying attention his whole life. And I think he’s probably the smartest person in this entire production.”
Brenda looked at her steadily. “Good,” she said. “I hope he knows. I hope he knows what everyone did.” She picked her knitting back up. “I’d want to know. If it were me.”
Then the bell chimed and three more people walked in.
By 5:00, Kim had sold more books than any Saturday since Christmas. A few customers mentioned Independent Bookstore Day. Many mentioned the veteran. Most just browsed and bought things and left without explaining themselves, which was, Kim had come to believe, how most good things happened.
She closed at 6:00. Turned the sign. Stood alone in the quiet store.
“What’s a six-letter word for faithful?” Brenda had asked, on her way out, squinting at her crossword app.
Kim had answered without thinking. “Steady.”
Brenda had counted on her fingers. Typed it in. Looked up. “How did you know that?”
Kim had looked at the reading nook. The armchair where Brenda had sat. Where Ron had sat, that first poetry night, Annie beside him, his hand on the armrest, his eyes full of something Kim still hadn’t found the right word for.
“Lucky guess,” she’d said.
Now she stood alone with the flags and the parade map and the photos and the quiet.
Ten days.
New chapters posted every Monday and Thursday until April 23.