Fantastic Shorts

Odds and Endings-1

Odds and Endings

The Odds and Endings Bookstore was simply the best place on earth. At least as far as Chris Ramsey was concerned.

A sprawling, grand old Victorian house painted purple and green and blue. Endless rows of books jammed into every possible space on all three floors, with a delightful collection of children’s books and toys tucked into the cozy fourth floor turret. Chris had spent countless happy hours adventuring up there when he was a kid.

His beloved Auntie June the Great knew he was the one she could count on. Out of all her nieces and nephews, great or otherwise, Chris always kept himself entertained when she wanted to browse uninterrupted the whole day long.

Odds and Endings was owned by a wonderfully eccentric couple who had to be in their eighties but looked and sounded more like a young sixty. For over fifty years, the Seagons had somehow managed to find obscure texts, first or rare editions, and signed copies that supposedly didn’t exist.

Nothing that came from their bookstore had ever been proven fake.

Maybe best of all, Odds and Endings had an ongoing writer-in-residence program that lasted for a full year, with plenty of interaction between the writer and bookstore patrons.

Well, no, that wasn’t the best thing, at least not for especially passionate life-long readers like Chris.

Even at nearly forty years old, he believed the best thing was the nearly top-secret true nature of the place and its charms. Only an intimate, cozy group knew about the bookstore tucked away in the wild and gorgeous Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. All of them dedicated readers who were more than enthusiastic enough–and appreciative enough of the honor–to keep their favorite bookstore comfortably in the black.

Tourists wandered through, sure, smiling at the remarkable variety of books packed into the quaint and historic space. Strangers who only found out the bookstore existed when they happened to stroll or drive past. They chatted with the owners and other patrons, admired the elaborate carved wood accents and architecture, and often got to meet the current writer-in-residence during a public event.

They left glowing and delighted with their experience, clutching treasures from across all genres, planning to return as soon as they passed that way again.

Most of them never did.

Welcome as those occasional visitors were, they also never got invited to the special events with the writers-in-residence. Like the welcome party for the newest resident, getting underway at (more or less) seven this very evening.

Chris often wished he lived closer, but his bank account and credit cards were healthier for a little distance. The four hour drive protected him from buying too much. He’d thought it unwise at first, a bookstore that refused any online presence in the era of the smartphone. Now he understood that was part of the charm.

And maybe part of that mysterious magic.

Chris and over a dozen others who’d made the journey now gathered in the height of literary luxury, hidden away in the private basement study. They ranged from younger than Chris at thirty-eight to not a whole lot younger than their white-haired hosts. All of them happily chatted and caught up on the year that had passed since they were last together.

A roaring fireplace surrounded with beautiful hand-painted green and purple tiles set the welcoming tone, with a gleaming maple mantelpiece worthy of a museum. Only one of the rich brown leather chairs and sofas–many close to the same age as the house–sat empty, waiting for the guest of honor. Fine tables perfect for holding tea, bourbon, or books waited patiently near each.

Like upstairs, the main feature of the study was shelves for those books, but nothing like the modern, efficient versions in the store. These were built into the structure of the room, aged dark and lovely, and full of volumes far too rare and thrilling for display to mere tourists.

More leather and spines with gold edging flashed and sparkled in the fire and lamplight. Some were new enough to be produced by machines in very limited editions. But most were created one by one, stitched by hand.

These treasures that would have been highly valued in the outside world sat alongside everything from modern trade paperbacks to mass-market versions to hardbacks, going all the way back to the bright spines of several slim dime-store pulp titles. Every shape and size and color on the book spectrum.

And every one loved beyond measure by someone in the Odds and Endings family.

A heavy oval slate perched on an antique oak easel stood close beside the fireplace. Fragrant beeswax candles arranged on small shelves built into the easel highlighted the evening’s event in dancing yellow light. Mrs. Seagon’s loopy words decorated with Mr. Seagon’s elaborate drawings of flowers, bees, and rainbows seemed to float against the deep gray slate.

A Special Odds and Endings Welcome

to Our Newest Writer-in-Residence:

EllaJane Cole!

Chris had never heard of EllaJane, but that wasn’t unusual. The resident was often a real up-and-comer, and the year spent at Odds and Endings made all the difference. He was normally delighted to play a small role in the launch of a new powerhouse author like his Auntie had before him. Encouragement, feedback for readings and sometimes works-in-progress. Group lunches and dinners, helping the writer discover and love their home for the year.

But this year, Chris hoped to play more than a supporting role. Again, like his Auntie had, spending large stretches of time right here without Chris or anyone else along or really knowing what she was doing.

He hoped to be part of making it all happen.

For the first time, Chris was going to enter The Contest.

Everyone dressed like he did, in neat but comfortable clothes that would have been better suited for Casual Friday at the office than for a typical gala event. Jeans and t-shirts, sweaters and skirts. This was a reunion of close friends and a true family, after all.

Several sipped at Mrs. Seagon’s wonderful Earl Gray tea, the floral and citrus bergamot aroma providing a lovely countermelody to the earthy scent of the fire. A few sipped an especially fine bourbon instead. No one who spent time in the study ever passed up the chance to enjoy Mr. Seagon’s fresh-baked, impossibly thin ginger crisps.

According to long-standing tradition, affectionately followed even though no one remembered why, Mrs. Seagon tapped her silver teaspoon against her delicate china teacup at precisely eleven minutes past seven.

Everyone knew her cup always held that fine bourbon on these nights rather than of any sort of tea.

She didn’t stand, and at a couple of inches short of five feet tall and slender as a sapling, she wouldn’t have exactly towered anyway. But she had no problem commanding attention, even with her soft voice and lilting mountain accent.

“Thank you all so much for helping make this another wonderful year here at Odds and Endings! I know you’ve seen the great success of our most recent writer’s career over the past few months. Not only did Frankie publish nine titles, each one better than the last, but he hit the USA Today Bestseller list with the last three. He told me just last week he’s had the attention of two big New York publishers and a whole bunch of smaller ones.”

Mrs. Seagon waited for the smiles and nods before she went on, a joyful songbird giggle in her voice.

“And he was happy to tell me he turned ‘em all down flat!”

Mr. Seagon waited for the laughter to fade before he took his turn. He did stand, at a touch over five feet tall. He was a good deal more stout than his dainty wife. But his voice was every bit as musical and soft.

“We have a real special treat this year, one I know you’re all just going to love. Our writer isn’t looking for one partner for her work. She’s looking for three. One for a month. One for three months. And one for the whole year.”

Chris’s heart sped up, and he tried to keep his expression cool and calm. He knew which partnership he was hoping for.

“And best of all,” Mr. Seagon went on, “she’s from just down the road in Boun County, barely an hour away from here. Even still, I hope you’ll all help me make welcome EllaJane Cole!”

Everyone stood and applauded as a woman walked into the warm circle. Like most writers who made Odds and Endings their temporary home, EllaJane was anything but a jumpy kid fresh out of college, waving around an MFA with the ink still wet. She wore blue jeans and a faded Bountyfield High School sweatshirt, and her shaggy brown chin-length hair sparkled with what Auntie June had called streaks of white lightning.

Chris thought EllaJane was probably in her mid-forties. Old enough to know she wasn’t going to outgrow this writing “hobby” of hers after all, and young enough to take serious action like a year-long residency to study and learn and grow.

She moved around the circle, shaking everyone’s hand. Her grip was warm and strong.

EllaJane took her place in the huge wingback chair left open for her, making a show of asking for tea with a good shot of bourbon to settle her nerves. She laughed along with everyone else when Mrs. Seagon handed her a big Odds and Endings coffee mug full instead of a tiny teacup: a great, unashamed laugh from her belly and her heart.

“I have to thank all of you for that welcome,” she said, her voice deeper than Chris expected, and smooth and rich as honey. “You wiped out a lot of my nerves in just a couple of minutes. I’ll tell you a tiny bit about me, since we’ll all spend a lot more time together over the next week, some of us longer. After surviving a couple of decades working with computers and networking, I started writing seriously about three years ago. I’ve sold a handful of short stories to some pretty good markets. I’ve published six novels, nine novellas, and a bunch more short stories that no one else seemed to think much of. Thank goodness readers still make their own choices.”

EllaJane grinned and held up her mug, then took a sip. Chris and everyone else joined in.

“Whew, that’s good stuff. I write all kinds of things depending on what notion strikes me when I sit down. All kinds of fantasy, science fiction, a little bit of romance. Some historical fiction, some contemporary. A few stories that I hear keep people up at night listening to every creak and crackle in the dark. This year I want to do a whole lot of all of that and learn a whole bunch more. I’m really looking forward to working together and having a heck of a lot of fun along the way.”

She nodded at Mrs. Seagon.

“We sure do appreciate you being so brief and tidy, EllaJane. Now it’s time for the real business of the night. I wish a good night to everyone heading out, and we’ll see you all for breakfast across the street at Kay’s Café at nine in the morning. Everyone else, hurry back here just as quick as you can.”

The group applauded again, then broke into quick goodbyes and restroom breaks.

Chris stood, but he hadn’t managed to drink enough of his tea to need a break just yet. He was equal parts nervous and excited at staying behind for the first time instead of leaving after the writer’s introduction. His Auntie June hadn’t ever told him what happened at these late night sessions, and he’d never been able to arrange his job to allow enough time off to stay more than a week until this year.

Accompanying his aunt after he turned twenty-five and had the vacation time, and by himself since she passed six years ago, hadn’t blunted his desire to be a real part of what made Odds and Endings so special.

To learn about the real magic.

He helped rearrange the heavy chairs until only nine remained, then poured a splash of Mrs. Seagon’s dark amber spirit into his cold tea. The first sip cut a line of warm fire from his tongue down to his belly, but a smooth, mellow line that relaxed him all the way to his toes.