Page 4 of Book and Ladder
built of wood and paper …
They are, simply put, the best of places.
~ Jen Campbell
My whole demeanorsoftens when the front of Moss and Maple comes into view.
My grandparents turned an old craftsman house into our bookshop years ago. I spent every spare hour here growing up—straightening and stocking books, running the cash register, refilling the coffee, talking with customers, and best of all, often tucked into a nook somewhere in the shop, losing myself in a book.
My mom doesn’t have a mind for business and my dad runs the hardware store. When Gran retired, she left the shop in my hands. When Gran passed, six months after Gramps, the shop was mine, bequeathed to me in her will. If I close my eyes, sometimes I can see her moving through thespace, tidying or chatting with a customer. It’s like she left a part of herself behind for me. We shared a love of books and people. My mom always says I’m far more like my grandma than I am like her. Maybe so.
I stare at Moss and Maple as I pull past it to park. The house looks like any other historic home on the outskirts of town. The wide front porch and large wood door could lead to a living room filled with comfortable furniture, toys scattered on the rug, kids running in and out from the yard until their dad came home from work and their mom announced time for dinner. But Gran and Gramps bought this property and hung the carved wood sign out front over the entry years ago, and the old house has been home to Waterford’s local bookshop ever since.
Our large back lawn is surrounded by woods. The properties to the south side of us either still serve as homes or have been taken over by other small businesses, but the feel of the area remains the same—quaint, tranquil and welcoming.
On the north side of the building, a gravel lot surrounded by low wood fencing makes up our parking lot, and beyond that is an open field, a sweet reminder that not every inch of earth needs to be developed and populated.
I pull into a spot and grab my coffee, purse and box of books.
“I’m here,” I say into my cell.
“Me too,” Winona answers.
“I know, you goof.” I smile. “And thank you. I owe you one.”
“No problem. No one’s keeping score, Daisy. Moss and Maple is family. You always say that.”
I do always say that. It’s what Gran always said about our employees. She told me, “Treat your employees like family, and your customers will always feel like your shop is their home away from home.” She might not have kept the financialbooks as well as she should have, but she definitely knew the spirit of how to run a business.
I inhale a deep breath once I’m inside. The scent of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, but just beneath that, the comforting and familiar aroma of musty vanilla. Old books. New books. Shelves of real wood. Floors scuffed by thousands of shoes over the years. This shop will always be home to me.
Winona emerges from the back room, a bandana tied around the lower half of her face and her fingers aimed at me in the shape of a gun.
“Give me all your Pride and Prejudice!” she shouts.
I set the box of special editions, my tumbler and purse on the counter and raise my hands. “Even the retellings?”
“All means all,” she says, pretending to cock the hammer of her invisible gun.
“I’d rather die,” I say.
She drops her hands and says, “Me too. Never surrender your pride or your prejudice or any combination of the two.”
“I don’t know if that’s the moral of that story.”
Winona simply sighs. “Why don’t they write books like that one anymore?”
I shrug. “Attention spans are shaped by the internet. No one has time or patience for sophisticated prose in this generation.”
Winona whips off the bandana and makes a flourish in the air. “Ah. The youth of today. Whatever shall we do with their feeble minds?”
“Storytime!” I exclaim, thrusting a fake sword into the air.
“Yes!” Winona shouts. “We shall woo them with storytime.”
We both burst into giggles just like we did as schoolgirls.
The shop door opens as if on cue and the first mom walks in, her preschool daughter holding her hand and her infant strapped to her in a sling.
