Page 2 of A Heart On A Sleeve

one

Olive

The Flasher

The wind blows softly, sweeping through the trees and creating a low whistling sound as I step off the front steps of my rental cottage and push through the gate of the white picket fence.

The first signs of a new season pepper the ground as I walk carefully toward Mage Square.

I have only a few blocks to take this place in before I’ll be stuck behind a desk with my nose in a book, not that I’m complaining.

Books are better than people. They don’t judge, don’t expect anything, and most of all they provide an escape.

The low rumble of a motorcycle vibrates through my ears.

Normally, I would look up and search to see who’s brave enough to ride such a thing.

Instead, I remain mesmerized by the brightly colored leaves that rest at my feet.

I attempt to sidestep the freshly fallen pile—the leaves are too beautiful to crunch, with their burnt oranges, scarlet reds, and crisp yellows.

But as I admire the foliage, a whoosh hits me like a cool slap to the face and my dress wraps itself around my head.

Flailing like a baby bird leaving the nest for the first time, my arms fly in every direction, and my purse launches like a rock from a catapult, landing with a thud.

I twist in an attempt to right myself. Seconds feel like minutes while my undies are exposed to God knows who.

I struggle to find it but finally grip the hem of my dress and pull it down, desperate to maintain some sense of decorum.

I’m starting a new job today, my first real job since I graduated from college, and isn’t this just my luck?

The irony of my new beginning starting with no less than a hearty dose of embarrassment and indecent exposure isn’t lost on me.

If I thought I was nervous before, there’s a good chance my new boss, and everyone else in this sleepy little town I now call home, just saw my granny panties from across the street.

Freaking perfect!

Like any semi-sane person would do, I glance around furiously to see who might have lain witness to this tragedy.

My heart thumps, and my cheeks heat in that same embarrassment that comes with waving to someone who doesn’t see you or doesn’t wave back.

You know the kind, an embarrassment that leaves you mumbling under your breath— hello to you too —before promptly playing it cool.

There’s only one voyeur, thank goodness , a man on a motorcycle dressed in all black with a dark helmet that has an iridescent quality to it.

He’s halted mid-street, staring. Red flushes over my already-heated skin, crawling up my neck and painting my face the same color as the crimson leaves that got me into this mess.

We didn’t have the same seasonal changes back home in Alabama, so basking in the beauty of it stirs something in my soul.

And apparently, distracts me enough to flash the whole town on my first full day here.

Rather than give into the strong desire to crawl into a hole and never return, I straighten my proverbial crown—like the good pageant queen I am—and give the rider a brief wave before continuing across the square.

By playing it coy, I’m hoping that this will be one of those things that I can shove into a tiny box in my mind where all the mishaps I want to forget go to die.

As if my wave snapped the stranger back to life, there’s a dramatic squeal of tires, and the rider zooms off.

Shaking my head, at them or maybe myself, I stop on the sidewalk to take in my new place of business.

Black Kettle Bindery is a unique establishment.

It opened its doors nearly fifty years ago with a mission of restoring old books and historical texts to their former glory.

Now, while they still restore and preserve works, they also sell a variety of new releases, kitschy trinkets, and custom-order or rare-edition books.

As a person who specializes in historic restoration work, it’s the perfect gig for me.

It allows me to live close to my best friend, and it's thousands of miles from my mother’s endless mission to marry me off to the highest bidder.

Black Kettle has a magnetic curb appeal, much like everything in Mage Hollow.

Calligraphic gold lettering adorns the stark black wood sign hanging above a picture window.

The entrance is tucked away off the street with historically accurate oil lamps hanging on each side of the doorway.

A reading nook is visible through the glass, sitting off to one side with tufted bench seating for patrons to linger with their books.

This store is a perfect match for Mage Hollow, the austere town that may be a little more Hocus Pocus than Gilmore Girls but is charming all the same.

Here the streets wobble and sway with the ebb and flow of the hundreds-of-years-old cobblestones.

The houses are styled in a mixture of Victorian-era Second Empire, with mansard roofs and intricate adornments, and the more well-known Greek Revival style that one typically imagines when picturing coastal Massachusetts.

Quaint shops mark the uptown square as a bustling yet relaxing place to be.

The town is ethereal in all the best ways.

Like a snapshot in time, an ode to history.

Lingering signs of summer lurk amongst the blossoming colors of fall.

It’s the perfect mix of old plants withering while new ones bloom, as if the change of seasons is as transformative as the seasons of our lives.

I pull in a deep renewing breath as I close my eyes and smell the sweet scent of the swiftly dying limelight hydrangeas that surrounds the tree-lined street.

Peering up at the sign once more, I smooth my hands over the tea-length gingham dress I’d selected in one final attempt at making sure I’m wrinkle-free—especially after what just happened—before first impressions are made.

Reaching for the door handle, I press down on the vintage lock and pull it open swiftly.

The comforting smell of old books melded with vanilla candles envelopes me as I step into the place I plan to spend most of my days.

Behind the stately counter, fashioned with a gold-leaf cash register, sits a man who must be Beau Brooks, my new boss.

“Well, you must be Olivia,” the portly man in his sixties with round-framed glasses and a tweed vest greets me.

“How do you do, Mr. Brooks? It’s a pleasure to meet you.

Please, call me Olive.” I muster up my award-winning smile, attempting to charm him.

I spoke to him on the phone briefly once, but securing this position had been mostly handled through a backroom deal with my best friend’s father.

It took calling in a favor to prove to my parents that my degree actually meant something.

That the tiny piece of paper went beyond another box to check on the list making me, as they would say, the perfect wife.

“Oh my. Tony said you were a Southerner as sweet as smooth molasses, but I never imagined this. Are you sure you know what this job entails?” His eyes are narrowed, deep frown lines evident as he takes me in.

“Uh, y-yes. I’m not sure I know what you are asking. I apologize.” How am I already messing this up?

“This job requires you to lift heavy boxes, clean dusty, old books . . . I can’t imagine a beauty such as yourself getting her hands dirty.

” He’s confused because he thinks I’m pretty?

I mean, this is better than him being scandalized by my latest mishap, but still.

Where I grew up, I’m not far from underdressed.

“Mr. Brooks, I assure you that while I do appreciate fashion, I’m prepared with what it takes to do great work here.

I have completed my education, and I can promise that I value history far more than appearances.

” Pouring every ounce of conviction I have into my reply, I try to soothe whatever misgivings he has about me from first glance.

I need him to like me, to want to keep me in this position.

“Very well, then. Come with me and I’ll show you your desk,” he says, nodding and motioning for me to follow him toward the back corner of the shop.

I set my bag and tools down at the worn wooden desk and am pleasantly surprised with the tour he takes me on.

Beau, which I have been given strict instructions to call him from now on, shows me the various books, ranging from contemporary romance to an elite selection of treasured first-edition classics.

He gives me a brief overview on pricing and how to run the ancient cash register, as well as a glimpse into the handwritten schedule of appointments for the restoration work that I am now solely responsible for.

Of course, Beau reminds me that restoration projects only get worked on before we open and after we close.

It was the very first thing Tony told me when describing the position, and I’ve made my peace with it.

Taking this job was the only way to escape my mother and her expectations.

Not to mention, the onslaught of suitors she always has at the ready.

There’s not much I wouldn’t do to finally have that freedom.

During “customers’ hours,” as Beau lovingly calls them, it is my responsibility to serve them, answer questions and make recommendations.

I wouldn’t love that aspect of the job as much if it meant long hours; however, as in most small New England towns, shops here are only open from ten to four with an hour lunch break in between.

That makes for a total shopping window of just five hours—it’s a wonder Beau makes any money at all.