what?” she asked, playing dumb.
“Monday night at the movies. The only reason you’re here is to irritate me.”
“I didn’t realize I had to pay money to do that. Couldn’t I just sit out here and do it for free?”
He pinched his lips tightly closed.
“I enjoy the movies and Monday’s a good night for me.”
“Come another night,” he said.
“I don’t want to.”
Frustration showed in his face. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?” she asked, again feigning innocence. “You mean coming to the movies two weeks in a row on a Monday night?”
“Yes.”
“Well, like I said, Monday evenings are good for me and movies are my favorite form of entertainment.”
One look told her he didn’t believe a word of it. “Then how come you picked the same movies I did?”
She tried to pretend she was bored with the subject. “If memory serves me, I was seated first last week. You’re the one who invaded my space.”
He frowned as if he’d forgotten that. “Maybe so, but this week was no accident.”
“You seem to have an inflated opinion of your charms.” His mouth opened and he seemed about to launch a comeback, but she didn’t give him a chance. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home. Good night, Mark.”
He frowned. “How do you know my name?”
“I asked. I’m Barbie, by the way. Barbie Foster.”
“Barbie,” he repeated and snickered. Then he laughed outright. “Barbie. It figures. You’re about as plastic as they come.”
“And you’re about as rude as any man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”
“Then stay away from me and we’ll both be happy.”
“Maybe,” she said flippantly as she reached for her car keys, buried deep inside her giant purse. “And maybe not. I haven’t decided yet.” She left him then, with a decided sway to her hips. It was an image she hoped would stay with him for a long time.
Chapter 10
Tuesday was a good sales day at the bookstore, which wasn’t typical. Anne Marie had worked out a careful method of maintaining inventory, balancing the number of mainstay and classic books she kept on the shelf with the new ones. It was crucial to have a wide range of titles. Relatively new to the business, she was learning as she went. Past experience had come from a part-time job at the University of Washington campus bookstore. Her previous career, as a customer service rep at a national insurance company, had taught her some valuable skills, too—but she hadn’t loved it and was glad enough to give it up, at Robert’s suggestion, to work in the bookstore, with an eye to eventually buying it.
The store was independent and needed an edge to compete with the large chains. Each bookstore, whether a chain store or an independent, was important in its own way. Blossom Street Books served the community. Over the past four years, since the renovations to the entire neighborhood, the store had developed a following and earned the loyalty of local residents. Anne Marie hadn’t wanted to specialize, like some independents did, in mystery fiction or cookbooks or children’s books; she preferred to meet all her customers’ book-buying needs. She ordered books for them, ran several reading groups, offered competitive discounts on bestsellers and provided a cozy, intimate atmosphere. She’d made the store as inviting as possible, with comfortable chairs, a gas fireplace and warm lighting.
Her clientele depended on Anne Marie for recommendations and updates on authors and publishing houses. She’d managed the store before she bought it, to make sure she really wanted to take on her own business, and in the process familiarized herself with the industry.
Even as a child, Anne Marie had been an inveterate reader. She’d found her adventures in the pages of a book. Never outgoing, or one to stand out in a crowd, she’d been her husband’s opposite in personality. Robert had been gregarious and sociable, and they’d complemented each other well. He was fun to be around, and that had attracted her from the beginning. Their age difference had never concerned her because he didn’t seem older. Except when it came to having another child…
Rather than sink into depression again, Anne Marie focused on creating a fresh display for the front table. Bookstores were a low-margin business, and the real profits came from notecards, stationery, games and other accessories. She was working on a St. Patrick’s Day exhibit, featuring books like How the Irish Saved Civilization and fiction by Maeve Binchy, Marian Keyes, Edna O’Brien and other popular Irish novelists. Around the books she arranged packages of greeting cards with shamrocks on them, green candles and St. Patrick’s themed paper napkins. She stepped back, pleased with the result.
The previous owner, Adele Morris, had a bookstore in the Fremont neighborhood, and when there was an opportunity for a second store on Blossom Street, Adele took it. Because of the renovation, she’d been offered a favorable rent and for the first couple of years she’d divided her time between the two stores. That proved to be too difficult, and Anne Marie had joined as manager soon afterward; later she purchased the business with Robert’s encouragement. In her husband’s eyes, the bookstore, like Baxter, was a solution to their dilemma. If Anne Marie was preoccupied with the store, she might forget about having a baby.
At one-thirty Theresa came in and for an instant Anne Marie couldn’t remember why she’d shown up for work on a Tuesday.
“Ellen!” She said the child’s name aloud as the memory rushed in. She was supposed to be at the school for Ellen’s performance.
Theresa nodded. “You told me your Lunch Buddy was in some function at the school that you wanted to attend.”
“Right.” Rushing into the office, she grabbed her purse and threw on her jacket. She gave Theresa some last-minute instructions for her meeting with the children’s book sales rep. Then she hurriedly left the shop via the back entrance, where she’d parked her car.
Thankfully the school was relatively close, and it only took her ten minutes to drive there. But when she arrived she discovered that the parking lot and nearby streets were jammed with vehicles and she wondered if every parent in a three-state area had decided to come for the performance. After another ten minutes she located a parking space three blocks from the school. She locked the car and ran toward Woodrow Wilson Elementary.
The music had already started by the time she entered the large gymnasium, sweaty and out of breath. The place was packed with parents and students, and if there was an available seat she couldn’t find it.
Every adult in the room seemed to be in possession of a camera. Anne Marie hadn’t even thought to bring one and wanted to kick herself. Ellen’s grandmother would’ve appreciated a photograph of her granddaughter on stage.
Muttering her excuses, Anne Marie slipped past several people until she squeezed herself into a tight space where she had a good view. Sure enough, she could see Ellen standing on a riser with the other members of the chorus. She wore her Sunday best—a dress one size too small and white patent leather shoes. The
