Page 26 of Book and Ladder
in search of you,
even if I didn't know who I was looking for.
~ Nicholas Sparks, The Longest Ride
“And then,after all that, he goes out to sea and dies!” Winona shouts. Her eyes bug out and her brows scrunch together. “The whole story I kept thinking they would end up together. The main female character had found his message in a bottle. That’s destiny.” Her eyes search mine and Waylon’s. Then she sobs, “I hate plot twists!”
Thankfully, the three of us are alone in the shop during a lull between customers. A full house wouldn’t stem her tide. When Winona’s up in her feelings, she lets it all rip.
Waylon grabs the box of Kleenex off the counter, extending it to Winona.
She dabs her eyes and blows her nose. She’s crying—over people who feel completely real to her even though they were fashioned in the pages of a book.
“I stayed up three hours past my bedtime just to have Nicholas Sparks ruin me!” Winona wails.
“That should be on a T-Shirt,” Waylon says earnestly. “He seriously needs that merch.”
“I’m pretty sure Nicholas Sparks doesn’t need merch,” I say.
Both my employees’ heads whip in my direction.
“You missed the whole point,” Winona says. And then her face takes on a quizzical look. “You know what?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” I say, smiling softly.
“We should write you a message in a bottle. Maybe some handsome, bookish man will be walking along and find it. And then he’ll come looking for you.”
“And then he’ll die at sea,” I add, straightening the free bookmarks on the counter in front of me.
“Daisy!” Winona says in exaggerated shock.
“Too soon?” I chuckle.
“You’re a sadist,” Waylon says. “One who delights in the suffering of others.”
“Yep. You got me there,” I tease.
“She’s the farthest thing from a sadist,” Winona defends.
“I know. I know,” Waylon relents. “But I do like the idea of penning a message in a bottle from her.”
“She’s right here,” I say, raising my hand. “And, just a geography refresher for the class, we’re around six or seven hundred miles from the beach.”
“We don’t have to use a bottle, per se,” Waylon says, holding his chin between his pointer finger and thumb. “It could be a proverbial message in a bottle. A message in a … in a … ah! In the Little Free Library out front.”
“Genius!” Winona says, rounding the counter to toss her Kleenex in the trash.
I honestly love that she gets so passionate about books.
“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Hold your horses,” I say. “You want me to write a love letter and just leave it out front in the box?” I shake my head adamantly. “Nope. You two should … dust the shelves in the children’s room.”
“No,” Waylon says, looking to Winona for confirmation. “We’ll write it for you. And you don’t just put it in the box out loose where any five-year-old could grab it. You insert it between the pages of a romance novel. That way whoever grabs that book gets your note.”
“I’m pretty sure that would mean a thirty-year-old housewife will be the recipient.”
Winona laughs, but Waylon’s expression is intent. “Maybe. But what if a man grabs the book. And he reads the note. And he goes seeking for you?”
“Oooh!” Winona practically squeals. “When he reads the letter, his heart beats for you and he sets out on a lover’s quest—like Prince Charming went searching for Cinderella.”
