Page 38 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction
I’ve only let myself shop in Canopy Books one time this summer—to buy the stacks that I needed to populate the bookshelves at the house.
Books are both my sanctuary and top procrastination technique.
It’s a slippery slope. It starts with just one book before I get back into writing, and then the next thing you know, I’m four books deep and haven’t opened my laptop in weeks.
How do I know this will happen? Because it was the story of my January.
So, I haven’t let myself in the bookstore for nondecorative purposes out of sheer principle until now.
I’m only a few days of work (and an annoying prologue) from wrapping up the memoir.
Today, I’m buying a reward book to entice myself to write faster so that I can finally read prose again that isn’t based on my own sad life or that isn’t another memoir (also usually sad).
I just want to read a low-impact, mostly-wine-club book-club selection.
I wander down the fiction aisles and head for the “beach reads.” I feel an immediate release.
The bright colors, the punchy titles. This is my home.
Ben used to tease me about my book choices, but the truth was he never made it through many of his yawn-inducing seven-hundred-page nonfiction books.
In a year, I could read twenty or thirty books while he struggled to finish a few.
I haven’t read much of my usual fare lately; life has been too heavy to disappear into the romantic dramedies of fictional characters.
As I stand here, I hope I can find joy in this all again.
There are two books in my hands to choose between.
Both promise the sweet nectar of a juicy romance.
Then suddenly, I see her. What. The. Actual.
Hell. It’s the horrible, nasty woman who ruined my date in Chapel Hill.
Why is the world so small? What twisted joke is this?
I duck before I can be spotted over the shelf and practically crawl on my hands and knees to the counter at the front of the store.
The woman at the register is someone that I don’t recognize, but there isn’t time for an introduction.
I slink back behind the counter and sit flat against it with my legs crossed.
“Please hide me,” I whisper to the woman with a tiny smile so she won’t be alarmed.
A perplexed and mildly amused look crosses her face.
“I’ll explain in a few minutes,” I add, as if that will make me seem any less crazy.
The counter is deep, so I feel confident that the horrible woman won’t see me. Not a minute later, she is up at the register to check out.
“Did you find everything you’re looking for?”
“I did; thank you for asking.”
“Are you staying in town or just passing through?”
Whoever this woman at the register is, I love her. She’s asking the right questions to get me the good intel.
“Just passing through. We live in Durham and are coming back from a week in the Smokies. Dollywood and all! Just beautiful.”
“That’s lovely. Grabbing reading material for the rest of the drive today?”
“You got it. We thought about staying the night, but there doesn’t seem to be all that much here to see.”
“Your total is $27.65.”
Horrible Woman has hit a nerve because the tone of the lady at the register shifts. Nothing much here to see? Canopy has everything . I am sure the cashier is thinking the same thing.
In a few more seconds, Horrible Woman is out the door and I’m free to finally stand.
“I’m so embarrassed, but thank you so much. She’s a terrible person that I met—no, wrong word: was accosted by—at home a few months ago. I didn’t want another scene.”
“I’m Marianne, the owner. You must be Gracie, the famous writer I’ve heard about.”
“This is not usually how I meet people, and I’m entirely mortified.”
“On the upside for me, I think you owe me the story of your last interaction with her.”
I put my books on the counter to start checking out while regaling Marianne with the terrible tale I’ve now told three times this summer—once in my book, once to Josh, and now to her. Somehow, it never gets easier.
“If she comes in again, I’m going to slap her in your honor.”
Marianne and I spend the next thirty minutes talking about our favorite books, what it’s like to pitch and write a book, and what I expect the next few months to be like.
She’s the first person besides Felicity to truly nerd out with me on all things writing and publishing.
Marianne confesses that she’s tried to write a novel multiple times in her life, but it’s never worked out.
So she sells books and supports the dreams of others instead.
A customer recognizes me and asks for a selfie—it hasn’t happened much in Canopy, but it makes sense that it would happen in a bookstore.
“I know it’s probably too early to ask, but please know we would love—LOVE—to host a stop on your book tour here at the shop.”
“Only if you promise not to tell the story of how we met.”
“Deal.”
I give her a big hug and head out the door. I need to spend the next few hours taking care of a backlog of business correspondence with Felicity, Lucia, and a host of others. Before I get to work, I text Josh.
Marianne at Canopy Books is my new BFF. You won’t believe how we met…
He calls me and I download the crazy story from the shop.
We’re on a video call, and I see his initial disbelief and then relief that Marianne was there to help the situation.
He tells me she’s a great person to have in your corner.
After twenty minutes, I beg off the phone.
I need to clear out my inbox before our big plans tonight.
I’m finally going to Josh’s house.