Fifteenth Summer - By Michelle Dalton Page 0,9

the lemon-yellow wall overlooking this little lounge was a gallery of amazingly detailed posters, each advertising a book signing and featuring a mash note from the author.

To the best little bookstore in town! And I’m not just saying that because you’re the only bookstore in town . . . .

Tell E.B. he owes me my sandwich back. XOXO . . .

On the opposite side of the store, tucked behind a few rows of turquoise bookshelves, was a children’s area enclosed by a tiny white picket fence. It had a fluffy green shag rug and beanbag chairs, plus a bright-red train engine, the perfect size for a toddler to climb into.

String after string of fairy lights swagged from the ceiling. Between the light strands dangled random stuff like a cardboard moon, a Chinese lantern, and a disco ball.

Normally I would have fallen on the bookshelves like a bear just out of hibernation. But I found that I couldn’t quite move. Because when you walk into the bookstore you’ve always fantasized about but never thought could exist in real life, it kind of throws you. Some irrational part of me thought if I went any farther, or touched anything, it would all vaporize and I’d wake up from a dream.

When the woman at the counter started to look concerned, I did take a few stumbling steps forward.

I picked up one of the index cards propped against the books on the counter. Next to the book’s title, someone had written: A-minus. As you know, I rarely give out such a high grade. I read this book when I was recovering from a breakup. Yes, I know all of you were rooting for the breakup. Don’t gloat, people. Anyway, next time somebody stomps on your heart, you should read this book. You’ll hate the lead character for being much prettier than you, but you’ll forgive her when she fails to make tenure at her hoity-toity liberal arts college.

“Everyone who works here writes up little book reviews,” the woman at the counter said, interrupting me. “That one’s by Isobel. She’s not here right now, so I can tell you . . .”

She shifted to a stage whisper.

“She’s a bit of an oversharer.”

I laughed.

“Good books will do that to you,” I said.

“Oh, honey,” the woman said, “Isobel doesn’t need a good book to tell us the most appalling things about her personal life. She’ll read the weather report and start spilling her guts.”

This woman was talking to me in that frank way that middle-aged people only talked to other middle-aged people. Which made me feel both proud and paranoid. This couldn’t all be for real, could it?

“Who are you?” I blurted. “I mean, um, when did this store open? It wasn’t here the last time I was in Bluepointe.”

“Do you like it?” the woman said with a conspiratorial grin. “Good, ’cause it’s mine! Well, my husband’s and mine, but I do more of the day-to-day because he’s a professor in Chicago. We’re nearing our one-year birthday.”

“I like it,” I said as I continued to take it all in. Outside the kids’ picket fence was a tall refrigerator box painted purple and labeled THE PHANTOM TOLLBOOTH. And next to the couch, where you’d think there’d be an end table or something, there was a basket of yo-yos. Not shrink-wrapped yo-yos for sale. Just loose, mismatched yo-yos, their strings trailing over the basket’s edge. Clearly the Dog Ear owners believed that shopping for books just naturally led to the urge to yo-yo.

“I like it a lot,” I breathed.

“Well, go get you some cookies, then, before E.B. eats them all,” the woman said. “Yesterday we had Fig Newtons, and he did not like those at all, so he’s playing catch-up.”

She craned her neck to address the dog, who was still sprawled beneath the feet of the reader.

“Aren’t you, ya big fatty?” the owner cooed.

The reader with her feet on E.B. gasped.

“Don’t you listen to Stella,” she told the dog, feeding him another cookie. “There’s just more of you to love.”

Stella rolled her eyes and said to me, “He looks more like Wilbur the pig than a dog. That’s why we named him after E. B. White.”

While I laughed, Stella turned to the girl on the couch. “Darby, are you going to buy that book ever, or just come here every day to read it?”

The woman grinned and said, “I’ll take option B.”

Stella laughed and shrugged, as if to say, Fine with me.

Best. Bookstore. Ever.

I finally found the strength to