Short Story #10 for 2023 is due today. The prompt is "Could it?" and it was to be exactly 1800 words. Here's my entry. 

Could It?

I parked in front of Bound to Please, the used bookstore in the rundown shopping center near our home. Used bookstores were frequent habitats for me at one time, and they still pull me in from time to time. Although, like many people, I do most of my reading these days on an electronic reader, I still love the feel of an actual book in my hands occasionally. The owner of the shop, Carol, looked up as I walked in. She smiled and greeted me with a generic, “Hi Hun!” inflected to indicate that she recognized me. I suspect that she recognizes most of her patrons since they are few and far between, and she loves to chat.  I remembered Carol’s name because she had a nameplate on the checkout counter, but she apparently had forgotten mine.

I had come in to find some affordable copies of books by a recently-discovered author whose work I really enjoyed. The Kindle download price for any of her books was more than I liked to pay; so I hoped to find some used copies at Bound to Please.

Carol offered to help, of course, and, after a brief discussion of the author I was looking for, Freida McFadden, she added, “I’m pretty sure that some of McFadden’s older books are in the grab bags on that table.”

She pointed to a new display. On a table near the front window were about 10 paper grocery bags colorfully decorated and stapled shut. “I put some good stuff in those bags, a lot of popular novels that we had several copies of. Each bag holds at least one or two best sellers, a couple of non-fiction works, and a couple of different genres of novels,” she continued. “There are 10-15 books in each bag. The bags are only $6 each.”

I’m not a gambler by nature, and given my advanced age, I am not inclined to waste time reading mediocre material, so I abandon books readily these days. If a book doesn’t grab my attention with the opening paragraphs, I move on to the next book in my pile. (Or, more likely, in the reading queue on my reading device.) However, to be polite, but with no expectation of actually buying one, I walked over to pretend an interest in the grab bags.

After picking up a couple of the bags and feigning interest, I sauntered on around the shop to the mystery shelves to look for books by my newly-discovered author. I found three that looked interesting and placed them on the checkout desk. I browsed the non-fiction and found a couple of painting instruction books for only $.50 each and added those to the pile. If nothing else, the paintings that were shown as examples in them would give me some ideas for new art of my own. I paint a greeting card each month for each of my college grandchildren to enclose an encouraging message and a little spending money; so I paint at least four “creations” a month and could use some new ideas.

I drifted back to the front of the store, totaling the cost of my purchases in my head. Only $3 for the novels and $1 for the two painting instruction books. I hated to walk out after making such a small purchase.

Impulsively, I walked back to the grab-bag table. One of the bags had been decorated with a cute cartoon detective artfully created in colored pencils.

“Did you do the artwork on the bags?” I asked.

“Yes, I did,” Carol smiled a little sheepishly. “Kinda silly, huh?”

“Oh, not at all!” I said. “I love the cute little detective on this one. You gave her quite a personality with that huge, blue ponytail!”

I picked up the bag and set it on the checkout desk with my selected books. An even $10. I could walk out with a clear conscience if I spent ten bucks.

Feeling satisfied with the results of my book search, I walked across the parking lot to my truck. I set the bags in the back floorboard, got in, and continued to the church to drop off some information for the secretary and then finish the rest of my morning errands.  

###

Picking up my Kindle that night to finish my current read, I suddenly remembered that I had three new paperback novels, some art books, and a grab-bag of unknown reads in the back floorboard of my truck. I put down the reading device and went to the garage to bring in my morning’s purchases.

After looking through the 5 books I’d bought separately and placing them in my To Be Read basket, I tore open the grab bag, being careful not to destroy the colorful little detective Carol had drawn on the bag.

There were 13 books in the bag. Four of the novels were unappealing genres – horror and science fiction; I laid those in the box of items to donate. There were three novels I had already read – by authors I regularly follow. I added the rejects to the donations box too. The remaining 6 included two novels that I thought I might read and one by McFadden.  I put those 3 winners in my TBR basket and pulled out a non-fiction book titled, She Who Laughs, Lasts!  It was a collection of “laugh out-loud stories from today’s best-known women of faith.” I knew I’d enjoy short stories by people such as Chondra Pierce and Luci Swindoll. The other two non-fiction titles didn’t appeal to me at all and went into the to-donate box.

After I finished sorting my purchases, I began paging through one of the McFadden books. It looked almost new, and I wondered if it had ever been read at all. As I turned it over, though, to place it in the TBR basket, I noticed the corner of a folded piece of paper that must have been used as a bookmark. I pulled it out of the book and saw that it was a sheet of smooth ivory- colored quality stationery, folded neatly as if to be inserted into an envelope. I opened the folds. Three short sentences were centered very neatly on rigidly straight lines on the top half of the sheet.

Barb, why won’t you answer my question?

I need to know.

Call me. Soon!

“What a coincidence!” I thought. Though my name was Barbara, some of my friends called me ‘Barb’.”

On the bottom half of the paper, in the same handwriting but much larger script, was a quote:

“For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.” – Khalil Gibran

I have to admit that I felt a little off kilter, seeing my name in this context.  I hoped that the real Barb and the note-writer had resolved whatever issue inspired the note. The writer sounded a little desperate. What could he/she mean by including that quote at the end? I didn’t like the implication.

I slipped the note back into the book, put the book back in the TBR basket, and picked up my reader.  

###

As I was eating my yogurt the next morning, I ruminated over the events of the night before. Something about that perfect handwriting was familiar. There was a niggling little idea in the back of my mind trying to escape and find a connection to the note I had found in the book. Where had I seen that precise script before? It feels like a memory from a very long time ago. That weird boy who was in the study group with me in Freshman science lab? I remember now how his notebook appeared so neat by comparison to everybody else’s. And he flirted awkwardly with both me and the other girl in our group. What was his name? Bradley? Brantley? I never had another class with him.

I began to wonder if the note had actually been written for me. Could it have been? Had Bradley/Brantley written the note? No! That would be too big a coincidence! Nobody could have known I’d buy that book. Besides, I’d never had a private conversation with Bradley/Brantley, and he had certainly never asked me an important question. All that was ancient history, anyway!

I wondered who left the note in the book. Had “Barb” received the note and then used it for a bookmark? Could it be that the writer never delivered the note at all and had himself left it in the book? OR….. Did the writer and “Barb” have an ongoing note-passing routine using books? How would that work? So many questions!

###

My husband looked at me like he thought I’d lost my mind. “Really?! It was in a used book you bought? Of course it’s just a coincidence, Barb! Most people wouldn’t have even read a note found in a book much less have thought it was written to them! Will you pick up some grapes when you go to the store?”

He was obviously finished with this conversation.

“But the writer sounds a little desperate! And that quote at the bottom – doesn’t that suggest suicide or even murder to you?” I persisted lamely.

My husband is very fluent in the language of the Eye Roll, and he eloquently conveyed his extreme disinterest with a humdinger of an eye roll now.

“Sure, I’ll pick up grapes.” I said, meekly.

###

I was pulling the freshly-washed grapes off the stems when I heard the garage door go up. It was too early for Frank to be home from work, so I quickly dried my hands and walked toward the garage.

“Honey, I’m home!” called Frank, mimicking the stereotypical sit-com husband. 

“How’d you get off work so early?” I asked as he kissed my cheek and walked past me to put down his briefcase.

“Well, I’m not exactly ‘off work’ yet,” he replied. I have a presentation to finish preparing tonight for that early meeting tomorrow.”  As he talked, he opened the front door.  “I noticed a sheet of paper stuck on the front door. I’ll see what it is.”

Frank walked back into the kitchen with a puzzled, and slightly irritated expression on his face. He was holding a sheet of fine stationery and scowling.

My heart dropped. I recognized the pale ivory paper. Could it be?

“What’s this about?” Frank demanded, handing the paper to me. “Is there something going on that I should know about – BARB? His tone set my name in flashing red lights.

I took the classy ivory-colored stationery he held out. In beautifully-spaced, board-straight lines and perfect script were the words.

What now, Barb?

You should have answered my question.

My husband glared at me, arms akimbo, “BARB?” he repeated with raised eyebrows and a suspicious expression.