Page 11 of Booked on You
“Fine,” I say, caught off guard. “Thank you. Your shop is beautiful. Eclectic. I love it.”
Her smile widens. “Why, thank you kindly. It’s my mama’s store—my sister Cherise and I run it now, mostly. Mom stillcomes in on Fridays to supervise, but she’s been talkin’ about retiring for over a decade.”
I give her a nod as I glance at the colorful scarves on a rack.
“Now, these here? My aunt Jeannie washes all the fabric in her secret softener before she sews ’em. Then she steams everything in distilled water—only distilled, mind you—and finishes with a mist of essential oils she mixes herself. Swears it makes ’em feel like butter. And she’s not wrong.”
I run my fingers across one, and it’s the softest thing I’ve ever felt. “Amazing,” I say, meaning it.
She beams and follows me as I wander deeper into the store.
For every item I pause over, I get a story: earrings designed by her cousin in Savannah, sunglasses they import from a family friend in Italy, a bracelet reworked by her cousin. Though she’s a stranger, she’s kind and friendly. I’ve missed human interaction like this in the city and have stayed isolated and to myself for far too long.
By the time I reach the counter with a scarf and a pair of leaf-shaped gold earrings I don’t need, I know the name of her dog, that her favorite ice cream is strawberry, and her opinion on the upcoming Labor Day parade. They moved it to aSaturday, bless their hearts.
Cherry rings me up with a wink. “Now, what brings you to our neck of the woods? Girls’ trip? Romantic getaway?”
“Work,” I say, inserting my card into the reader. “I’m a writer. Just trying to meet a deadline.”
“Ooh, how exciting! What do you write, sweetheart?”
“Romance, mostly.”
She gasps as if I told her I was a fairy godmother.
“Like Nicholas Sparks? Ilovehim. My girls and I went to seeThe Notebookin theaters six times. I sobbed every single time.”
I don’t dare explain that Nicolas completely rejects being labeled as a lowly romance author. “A little less tragedy, a lotmore steam and naughty words. All the four-letter ones. Happily ever afterrequired.”
She claps. “Oh, I like those dirty books even better. What’s your name? I’d love to look you up.”
Cherry hands me my receipt, and I take it with anotherthank you.
“Scarlett Collins,” I say.
“Good luck, Scarlett Collins! It was really lovely to meet you,” she tells me with a wave.
As I step out into the sunshine, the weight that was on my shoulders has almost dissipated. Retail therapy always makes me feel better when I’m struggling.
I can’t say I’m inspired, but I feel lighter, like maybe I remember how to have conversations with people.
Across the street from the boutique, another storefront catches my eye. The company name is written across the glass in simple gold.
“Paris Pottery & Studio.”
I recognize the logo from the bottom of the mug I drank from at Ezra’s this morning. I cross the street before I can talk myself out of it.
The moment I step inside, the air changes. It’s cooler, but full of excitement. The building smells of clay and clean earth after a heavy summer rain. Wooden shelves line navy walls and are stacked with handmade mugs, bowls, and shallow dishes in soft matte glazes. The deep blues, charcoals, and sea glass greens pull my attention. Not one item in here is mass-produced. Everything is made with intention.
My fingers trail along the rim of a mug the color of rain clouds. It’s gray with a swirling white drip edge. The weight feels good in my hand. It’s balanced, but not heavy. I can tell it was made to be treasured.
A soft voice behind me speaks. “Those are our bestsellers.”
I turn and find a woman, older with effortless curls, wearing overalls and a name tag that reads “Paula.”
“They’re stunning,” I admit.
“Each one’s a little different,” she explains, joining me beside the shelf. “Many are thrown and glazed here in the back. It started with just one potter and exploded. Now we help keep the shelves full while he works on custom orders or special projects.”
