A Year of Second Chances. Buffy Andrews

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      “Has it been on the market long?”

      “About five months,” Ed said.

      The wood floor creaked as we walked inside and I felt as if I’d been transported back in time. Advertisements for vacuum tubes, record-player needles and TV antennas covered the walls. An old display case stood along the right wall.

      Ed looked around. “Back in the day this was a busy place. I remember coming here with my dad to buy my mom sewing-machine needles. The owner, Gene Smith, opened the shop in the early fifties. He was a character.”

      I smiled. “How so?”

      “He was a bombardier on a B-29 Superfortress during World War II. Flew nearly twenty combat missions, including bombing Tokyo in 1945. He was a tough cookie but a softie when it came to kids.”

      Ed saw an old red tin sitting on top of the glass counter and walked over. He picked up the dented tin and pried open the lid. “Old Gene always kept this tin filled with lollipops just for the kids. Even when times got tough and business slowed, he still kept the tin filled – just in case.”

      I loved listening to Ed’s stories as he showed me the property. Turned out the owner had lived upstairs and never married.

      “Do you think over-the-air TV will ever come back?”

      Ed shook his head. “Not like it once was, that’s for sure. Most people watch shows over the Internet. But who knows? Vinyl records are becoming popular again. And there’s been a lot of cord cutting, people canceling their cable and satellite service because it’s so expensive.”

      As I wandered from room to room, I saw potential, but also a boatload of work. And yet, it felt like home. The store, about a half block north of the square, was in the thick of the downtown revitalization, and I had a chance to be part of that. On one side was a renovated store that had once been a camera shop but now sold vintage clothing. On the other was a used book store that specialized in first editions.

      I tried to visualize what my store would look like. I definitely wanted to keep its vintage charm, but perhaps I’d integrate some bright modern pieces to make it a place where past and present met. Whenever I thought about history, I felt sad I’d never known how it would turn out. I wondered if that was what Gene, who’d recently passed away, had felt. I liked the idea that I would write the next part of this store’s history, and I couldn’t help thinking Gene would be proud.

      “So, what do you think?” Ed asked. “It’s a pretty cool place, isn’t it?”

      I nodded. “Yes, it’s beautiful. But it would take a lot of work and money to fix it up.”

      “What are you thinking about putting in here?”

      To be honest, I’ve always wanted to open a gift boutique, but I think there’s enough space that I could incorporate a coffee bar as well.”

      Ed scanned the room one more time. “I could see that in this space. Do you have any investors?”

      I shook my head. “I’d have to sell my home to be able to buy this. But I’m ready for some changes in my life.”

      I could tell from the puzzled look on Ed’s face he was probably wondering what I meant, but I’d said more than I’d intended and bit my lower lip to keep myself from saying more.

      I followed Ed outside and watched as he locked the door and put the key back in the lockbox. He handed me his card. “Call me if you want to chat. Obviously, I can sell your other property and have you in this one, hopefully by the fall.”

      I nodded. “Thanks for showing it to me, Ed. And I’ll definitely be in touch. I have a lot to think about.”

      A bell jingled as I opened the paneled door and walked inside the used book store adjacent to the property. A young twentysomething with a wisp of pink hair framing her heart-shaped face glanced up from behind the counter. “Hi. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

      I shook my head. “Just browsing.” I walked through the store, crowded with wooden tables piled high with books. Shelves hugged every inch of wall space. A black book about two inches thick caught my attention. I walked over and picked it up. It felt like it weighed five pounds. I traced my finger over the title, written in gold ink: Eugenics.

      I opened it and saw a 1904 copyright by the S. A. Mullikin Co. and started reading the introduction by Bishop Samuel Fallows. “Know thyself” were his first two words. Thumbing through the book I couldn’t help but smile. It’d been written more than a hundred years ago and contained advice on everything from how to be beautiful, to sensible courting, to diseases peculiar to men.

      It was almost surreal, standing in the middle of this bookshop, filled with thousands of old books I’d never have time to read even if I wanted to. Just like the one I held in my hand, each book was locked in its own era. Bound and dated, tombs long-since forgotten.

      And that’s when it hit me like one of David’s fastballs in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. I’d come to the realization that the plot of my life didn’t make sense to me anymore. I wanted to rewrite it, to care less about things and live life a little more playfully. Like a beach ball that bobs about during a game of volleyball with brief encounters, I wanted a life that was buoyant and unexpected but always in play.

      I wanted that store, and I bought the book as a reminder that, while I couldn’t know how history would turn out, I did have the power to write my own.

Chapter 8

      I called Mom before I went to bed to ask for the millionth time if anyone in our family had ever had breast cancer. I’d decided to tell her about my abnormal mammogram because I wanted to know if there was any family history.

      “Scarlett, the answer is the same as it was when you called this afternoon. No. But I suppose it has to begin with someone.”

      “Mom!”

      “Oh my. That came out all wrong.”

      “No kidding.”

      “Listen, sweetie. I’m sure everything will turn out. You always did worry too much. Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you to see the surgeon?”

      “No, I’ll be fine.”

      “Well, if you change your mind, call me tomorrow before seven. I promised the girls I’d meet them at the diner for breakfast.”

      “I don’t need you to go along, Mom. Go to breakfast. If I have cancer I’ll call you.”

      “Scarlett Elizabeth! Stop talking so dumb. Call me afterward and let me know what Dr. Edwards said. I’ve been checking around and I’ve heard a lot of good things about him. He worked on Ethel Musser’s breast and she was happy.”

      “Jesus, Mom. Worked on? Really? You make it sound as if my breast is a damn car.”

      “I didn’t mean it like that, Scarlett. You’re too sensitive. Dr. Edwards removed Ethel’s breast and it looks better than I thought it would. Flat with a scar right across the middle.”

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