Bookwoman Novels & Stories

It concentrated heavily around a small, newly opened bookstore on the corner. Jax kept his distance, slipping silently into the darkened alcove of a closed bakery across the street. He watched the glowing storefront with unblinking focus. The hanging wooden sign above the door read *The Bound Page*. Inside, the warm glow of fairy lights and brass reading lamps illuminated the cozy space. Jax’s gaze locked instantly onto the figure moving behind the front counter. She was completely unaware of the predator watching her. She was beautiful in an understated, frustratingly ordinary way—soft, slightly disheveled hair, determined eyes, and an aura of quiet, stubborn independence. She was stacking

Rows of books stretch out like narrow hallways, dim and waiting. Behind a wide oak desk, a woman looks up. She’s maybe in her sixties, hair pulled into a bun so tight it gives me a headache just looking at it. She wears a buttoned cardigan the color of dusty rose and has the kind of sharp eyes that could slice through lies like hot wire through butter. “Good afternoon,” she says politely. “Hi.” I step closer. “I was wondering if you have any historical records of…um…on Hucow Hollow?” I finish.

/

I’m turning that over in my head when an older woman—late sixties, kind eyes, cardigan—sets her books on the counter and smiles knowingly. “You boys planning something special?” she asks. Matteo opens his mouth. I freeze. Matteo freezes. Like prey animals sensing danger. “I—” Matteo starts. The woman chuckles. “You don’t have to say. I’ve heard enough.” She gestures vaguely around us. “This place. It means something to her, doesn’t it?” My stomach flips. Matteo slowly turns to look at me. The bookstore. After closing. Quiet. Warm. Safe.

Read again, then paused once more. When a sentence touched something inside her about how coming home does not always mean returning to the same address she took a small notebook from her bag and wrote slowly. “Take it slow,” she murmured, barely audible, as if soothing herself. A librarian passed by a middle-aged woman with thin glasses and a smile that was never excessive. She paused briefly at the end of Madeline’s table. “Is the book a good fit?” she asked softly, keeping her voice low. Madeline nodded. “It is. Not heavy.”

And as we ate, we watched one of Lucy's cartoons again. I'm starting to like these crazy animations. Lucy fell asleep and I took her to her bedroom. I headed back to Danica’s bedroom to check on her one more time. I leaned against the door seeing her knee-deep in the book she was reading. I took a peek at the cover to see what kept her so entranced, and I smiled when I saw it. Man into Woman, written by Lili Elbe and published posthumously in 1933. I watched her as she read the book.

I donated a dozen books from the Barlowe house—stories I wanted other young girls to find: Jane Eyre, Little Women, The Secret Life of Bees, Becoming, The House on Mango Street, and more. Books that had whispered to me when the world was too loud. Books that had taught me what a woman could be. Mrs. Bertram smiled as she scanned the titles. “This will change someone’s life,” she said. I nodded. “That’s the goal.” I stopped at the market afterward for fresh apples and ginger chews. A few people I knew offered kind smiles, congratulations, warm nods. The town had softened. The whispers had quieted. And even when they hadn’t… I no longer let them land.

This was so hard to do. However, standing here now, staring at those same pair of arms that held her close on cold nights, wrapped around another woman so tightly, it made this a little easier. With that, she pulled out the envelope and tossed it on the table. Derek’s eyes shifted to her, and then he suddenly noticed the suitcase behind her, “What’s this Leah? What are you doing?”

Introduction: Black housewife finds young white stud at bookstore. Read and enjoy.... ********** "Hi, may I help you find something?" I ask as I approach a strikingly beautiful woman looking around the bookstore. "Yes," she smiles at me. "I'm looking for books on orgasms." She says it so matter-of-factly that it catches me off guard. Or maybe it's her exquisite eyes, deep brown with an almost oriental look, coupled with her mahogany complexion that makes me catch my breath.

She was wearing a short-sleeved knitted shirt and a plain skirt that reached her ankles while her hair was tied up high. “Oh, it’s you!” Arabella was surprised. This woman was the owner of the wooden book house in the Resort. Because she looked like a woman from Cador and had the grace and gentleness of a Jurvik woman, Arabella had a pretty good impression of her. Stunned, Wendy Garcia looked carefully at Arabella before suddenly remembering that this was the first customer of her bookstore. She stood up and smiled gently. “What a coincidence. My name is Wendy Garcia. You can call me Mrs. Hoffman.”