Page 18 of Book and Ladder
“You can’t go wrong with Ramona,” I smile. “And then, when Macy advances a little, you could go with something by E.B. White. Everyone’s readCharlotte’s Web. But my personal favorite isThe Trumpet of the Swan.”
Laura pulls out her phone to write herself a note.
“Follow me,” I say. “I’ve got a list of books I suggest to readers Macy’s age.”
Laura and I make our way through the shop to the front counter. I duck into the office and hand her my list. It’sdecorated around the edge with doodles of characters from children’s literature.
“You can get a lot of these through the library,” I tell Laura, taking her stack of books to ring them up. “Then, if Macy falls in love with one, come back and buy it for her.”
“You’re not going to stay in business sending all your customers to the library,” Laura smiles.
I smile back. “My gran taught me to put customers first. You don’t need to buy every single book. If you did, you’d be left wondering how to pay for your groceries.”
“You know, you remind me so much of your grandmother. She always took the time to help me find just the right book. I’m grateful nothing has changed about Moss & Maple over all these years.”
Effie barrels up to the counter, eyes wild. “I hate to interrupt, but … there’s a … there’s a … there’s a—” She flails her hands like she’s conducting an orchestra, gasping between words.
Laura, who was about to pay, retreats a safe two steps.
Customers freeze mid-browse, heads lifting in unison.
From the back room: a crash. Shouts. And then—hissing and more screaming.
Effie gulps air. “There’s a squirrel in the bookshop!”
“A skirlll! A chimunk!” a child shrieks.
Chirruping rattles through the rafters.
I vault from behind the counter and dash toward the commotion.
The back room is bedlam.
A baby squirrel—soft-furred, wobbling like a drunken sailor—zigzags across the floor. A kid tears after it, arms flailing. The mother squirrel perches on a rafter above, tail whipping, unleashing a chorus of chirps and hisses that sound like every mom mid-scold.
Another tiny head pokes from a hole in the attic. Mamabarks the squirrel version ofGet back in bed, young lady.The kit blinks, then obediently disappears.
Meanwhile, the children in the room form a posse. They fan out, circling their target like pint-sized bounty hunters.
That’s when Mama squirrel makes her move. She leaps, lands squarely on a woman’s head, springs off like a trampoline, and skids to the center of the room. The woman shrieks.
Mama squirrel rises to her hind legs and lets the kids have it—chirruping, tail cracking the air. The children freeze—guilty, stunned.
With one swift motion, she scoops up her baby by the scruff. The kit clings to her like a toddler at daycare drop-off. Propelling herself, two front feet first, two back, and again, Mama scales the nearest bookcase, launches to the rafter, and vanishes through the attic hole with world-class gymnastic precision.
Silence. All eyes stare at the hole like a curtain falling on a broadway show.
Then chatter erupts. People mill through the room.
Parents soothe, scold, laugh.
Effie fusses over the woman whose head was commandeered as a launch pad.
I survey the toppled books, feathers of paper scattered like confetti after a parade. I sigh.
“No wonder those pages were torn,” Waylon mutters. “She was making a nest.”
“And here we had been blaming unsupervised kids!” Winona howls with laughter.
