All About Evie Read online

  I also sell coffee, hot and rich, and the special delicious types: mochas and lattes with whipped cream and frothiness. I sell giant chocolate chip cookies, the size of a kid’s face; banana and pumpkin bread; scones and “clotted cream”; and pie, when the fruit is fresh. I buy everything from the bakery down the street, owned by Bettina, a longtime friend of my mother and aunts.

  I sell my mother’s bouquets. The ones that are labeled, in scrawling black calligraphy, “A Woman’s Power Is Nothing to Mess With, So Don’t Mess With Me,” and “Ladies Need Luck and Wine,” and “Play Naughty More, Fret Less” sell quickly.

  I sell my aunt Camellia’s lotions and potions with names like Lavender Lust, Tulip Tootles, Daffodil Delights, Sexy Snowdrops, and Shasta Daisy Shenanigans.

  I sell my aunt Iris’s photographs of oddly interesting/sometimes creepy/always gorgeous flowers. Sometimes they seem to be rather phallic to me, or representative of a vagina, but people love them.

  People come in to buy books and to sit down for tea or coffee and treats in the café area.

  It’s a medium-large bookstore. The outside has an old-fashioned, traditional, two-story appearance, yellow with white trim, a picture window where Ghost often sits and watches people walk by, and two faux white pillars by the door.

  Inside, the walls are a light yellow and all the bookshelves are white. I have a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows in the back that overlook Whale Bay in North Sound. In the café, there are tables of all colors and shapes and sizes—light blue, yellow, pink, sage green, and purple. I have two long rectangle tables, both painted red, and we pull them together for book clubs and when people come here in groups.

  There’s also a deck, which people love to sit on so they can watch the ocean, the seagulls, the whales, and any other wildlife that pops its head up.

  The ceiling is high, with bare wood rafters. I’ve hung three huge chandeliers for some fancy bling, all bought when part of an old home fell down in a windstorm and the ninety-year-old owner decided to move because he had fallen back in love with his ex-wife who lived in Anchorage.

  I have also hung colorful umbrellas upside down. One wall has white wallpaper with yellow roses because I love roses and need them at home and work. The floors are the original wood and creaky. I will never change them. This building was one of the first built on the island, over one hundred years ago. It was a feed and grain store. It was also a saloon at one time, with a part-time hooker in the upstairs bedroom, and then it was an Italian restaurant that went belly-up. The food was awful.

  Upstairs there is a children’s book loft on one side, and on the other side is my office, a staff room, and a supply room.

  My shop is in the middle of a string of shops on the main street of our town, called Chrysanthemum Way. We cater to the tourists from June to October. It gets quiet around here from November to May, so I work even harder to get the locals in, not only on our island but from the other three islands, during that time. Ways to get people in? Book clubs.

  Book clubs social dynamics are interesting. We have fiction and nonfiction book clubs. We have a women’s fiction club called Women’s Wine and Lit—about twelve people, three of them men. There’s the Science Fiction Nerd Book club—about seven diehards, four men and three women. I even have a Classics-Only Group for Serious Readers. Seven women, one man, an ex-literature professor.

  Sometimes the people in the book clubs will vehemently disagree. You want an argument? Try a book with a mix of religion and politics together and you can have a literary firestorm. One night a woman smashed her pumpkin bread into another woman’s face to “make her shut up.” They were neighbors, too. The neighbor with pumpkin bread on her face actually picked up a plate to swing it, but I caught it in midflight like a frisbee.

  In a women’s-only ten-member weekly fiction book club named Book Babes, the members have been together about twenty years. They come from all of the islands.

  They will ardently discuss every aspect of the book from character development to the theme, but they’ll later get into “women talk,” which is often hilarious. If their husbands/boyfriends only knew what their wives talked about in book club, they’d want to curl up and die.

  I, or a member of my small staff, also host a chess group twice a month. One of our members won a junior national’s champion. Board Game Night on Friday nights. Trivial Pursuit on Saturday nights. And on Sunday night, after hours, we host about forty people who are starting a new church. The minister is young and smart and doesn’t beat people over the head with a Bible. Plus, he loves science and history, and buys a bunch of books from me on both.

  We serve all the people in the groups scrumptious cake, tea, coffee, and other treats, and inevitably they buy books and other stuff on the way out.

  In short, I do whatever I can to stay in business.

  I’m at Evie’s Books, Cake, and Tea at least fifty hours a week. I love being here, I love being around books and other people who love books. Books distracted me from a lot of terror and fear and overwhelming guilt during my childhood and beyond, because I could dive into another world and disappear.

  I do not like terror, I do not like fear or guilt, but I do like books. I read all the time and have stacks and stacks of books at home that often topple over. It’s almost embarrassing how many I have. I could well be a book hoarder, but I know this: Books have saved my life.

  * * *

  “Hello, Mom, hello, aunts,” I said, walking into Rose Bloom Cottage, the sprawling, quirky two-story white home that my mother and aunts grew up in. It is eighty-five years old and sits on twelve acres. Part of the property overlooks the ocean, where we have a small beach. You can sit and look at the lights twinkling on the other three islands nearby.

  They have an enormous garden, flowers in rows and bunches, and wide borders. Daffodils. Tulips. Irises. Peonies. Lilies. Ranunculus. Hydrangea. Stephanotis. Sweet peas. Foxgloves. Wildflowers. Sunflowers. Delphinium. Gladiolas. Hyacinth. And rows and rows of roses: Claude Monet rose, Lady Diana, Raspberry Swirl, Blue Moon, Painted Moon, Twiggy’s Rose, Cinnamon Dolce, Marilyn Monroe, George Burns, Cary Grant, on and on.

  They also have a huge greenhouse, where they grow many flowers, and vegetable starts, and an impressive collection of orchids with names like Miltonia, Laelia, Slipper, and Aerides.

  In summer and fall, Rose Bloom Cottage is near covered in climbing roses drooping over arbors and arches and trellises, roses that their mother almost frenetically planted in her quest to create a “fairy-tale rose castle.” Every year, for months, it’s like having pink, red, and white blooming magic swirling all over the house.

  “Hello, honey.” My mom, Poppy, stood up and hugged me. “I think you need some daisies in your life.” She touched my nose. I knew that she knew I’d had a premonition and saved the girl. Hence, the daisy comment, which is her way of saying, “Let’s get you into a bubble bath with a mongo-sized glass of wine and a piece of pie so your brain doesn’t flame out and explode again as it has in the past, and I love you!”

  My aunt Camellia said, bent over the stove and stirring soup, “I’m making you tomato soup.” Which in code meant, “Tomato soup will calm your nerves from what happened today with the truck and boost your inner soul’s desire to be serene.”

  My aunt Iris said, “Hello, Evie. How was your day at the bookstore? Did you tell anyone off with that temper of yours?” Which meant, “Let’s not get sappy, it’s so irritating.”

  “The bookstore was crowded. No, I didn’t tell anyone off today. I resisted.” Now and then I can get a little heated at my bookstore with customers. Especially if someone says, “I don’t read.” I get irritated thinking about that comment. You don’t read? Then what do you do? How do you live without books, you fool?

  “You did not tell anyone, ‘Only stupid people don’t read’?” my mother asked.

  I felt my brow furrow. Sometimes I swear my mother reads my mind. “No. No stupid comments.”

  “So you created a
Zen-like atmosphere,” Aunt Camellia said, waving her arms around. “Peaceful.”

  “Yes. Zen-like,” I said.

  “You didn’t draw blood,” Aunt Iris drawled, drinking a beer. “We’re proud of you. Violence isn’t the answer most of the time. Especially around books.”

  “I always say no to violence around books.”

  My mother and Aunt Camellia and Aunt Iris are in their seventies. They have all let their hair grow white, and it is stunning. It used to be blonde. They all have dark brown eyes, like chocolate, but that’s where the resemblance ends.

  Aunt Iris is the oldest. She’s about five ten and sturdy, with high model-like cheekbones. Her white hair has a short and sensible cut.

  Aunt Camellia is next. She’s about five two with curly white hair that she wears midway down her back. She likes makeup and perfume and her lotions.

  My mother is the youngest. She curves. I still see men look at her. She has a welcoming, lopsided smile; her hair is in a bell shape; and her dark brown eyes are huge.

  Their mother named them after flowers because she wasn’t quite right in the head.

  Every day my mother and aunts wear a hat, but not ordinary hats.

  Two walls in our home are filled with the most exquisite, interesting hats. Hats from the twenties, thirties, forties, all the way up. Hats with feathers, ribbons, birds, pom-pom balls, sequins, and beading. Hats made from straw. Hats with wide brims and tight brims. Hats that are two feet high, and hats that hang over an eye. Hats with netting, gauze, lace, satin, and silk. Hats that look like they came off the British Royal family, and hats from Alice in Wonderland and the Kentucky Derby and Dr. Seuss.

  Every day they grab a hat, add a few fresh flowers, and head out the door. They are called The Hat Ladies. They love it.

  “We heard you almost killed yourself saving a little girl today,” Aunt Iris said. “Shot down the street like a bat out of hell. A stampeding elk. Or a crazy lady, depending on who’s talking about it.”

  “Your spirit is always giving,” Aunt Camellia said. “It’s a kaleidoscope of generosity.”

  “My spirit is old and tired,” I said.

  “Be careful, honey,” my mother said. “Please. You were way too close today.”

  “After your mother heard what you did and how close you came to becoming human roadkill,” Aunt Iris said, “she had to go and lay in the back of the shop with a glass of wine or two or more.”

  “You should try not to worry your mother like that,” Aunt Camellia said. I heard the reprimand. My mother nodded. “It’s bad for my heart.”

  “There is nothing wrong with your heart, Mother.”

  “There could be if you don’t stop scaring me.”

  “You should apologize to your mother,” Aunt Iris said. “She looked positively white for hours.”

  This conversation would have been ludicrous in a normal family. I was supposed to apologize to my mother because she heard I had a close call saving a little girl’s life and this made my mother worry and guzzle wine?

  I saw my aunts’ stern expressions. We are not normal. “I’m sorry, Momma.”

  “No apology necessary, lovey,” my mother said, patting her heart.

  I decided to change the topic. “How was the shop today?”

  “Busy,” my mother said. She pulled out the chair beside me at the long wood table my grandfather built. He used to shoot deer, bring it home, and cut it up right here. Fish he caught from the ocean, and the chickens he kept for dinner were fixed up right here, too.

  Above us was an oversized chandelier my grandmother bought in one of her not-so-sane moments from a hotel that was shutting down in Seattle. My grandma liked it because it was a “twinkling light for a magical fairy, surely you can see them flying around the crystals?”

  Our family likes chandeliers. We like sparkles. There are even crystal knobs on the light blue kitchen cabinets and on the drawers of their oversized island, which is painted lavender with a granite top. Over each set of two French doors that lead to the backyard, Aunt Camellia has hung a group of faux crystals, “for spiritual blessings and continued happy sex lives.”

  In winter, they light a fire in the fireplace; in summer, they light candles inside the fireplace. With the French doors open, we can hear the ocean’s waves and feel the wind drifting in, soft and smooth.

  “We met with a lot of semi-hysterical brides about their wedding flowers,” my mother said. “Two called in, we met with two on Skype, and two came in. They’re all jittery. Nervous. Only one was relaxed and happy. She didn’t seem bright, but she may have been stoned.”

  “She was stoned,” Aunt Iris said. “She smelled like a skunk.” Aunt Iris is the blunt and practical aunt. She calls things like she sees them. Or smells them.

  “Oh, the joys and spiritual awakenings that occur during wedding planning,” Aunt Camellia said, coming over to the table. She pushed a piece of chocolate cheesecake toward me. I would have no more than one or two slices. I deserved it after the running I did this morning. That was exhausting. My butt still hurt. I rubbed my butt.

  “Some spirits are awoken in brides that are dangerous and hysterical,” Aunt Camellia went on, sitting by me. “I think the blonde one should slather my nerve-calming rose lotions on herself. She had definitely lost her inner peace. She had a twitch in her eye, and she kept wringing her hands and saying, ‘I do want to get married. I do want to get married.’ And I said to her, ‘Do you want to get married?’ and she started massaging her neck and then she squeaked like a mouse and had to go outside and bend over. She called later and canceled.”

  “I had one on the phone today who was hyperventilating,” Aunt Iris said. “Then she started getting absolutely specific about each floral arrangement for her wedding. I hate when the type As get married. They have to micromanage. I don’t think she appreciated it when I told her that if she didn’t chill out she’d have a heart attack on her wedding day.”

  “Wonderful image to give to a bride, Aunt Iris.”

  “I tell the truth.” She reached for a second beer. Iris likes beer.

  “We’re getting into Panicked Bride Season,” Aunt Camellia said, “which means we all have to take time each day for meditation and tranquility.”

  “Yes,” Aunt Iris said. “And beer. Or tequila.”

  “We need to put my tranquility lotions on our wrists for pulse-comfort, and on our necks for soothing our airways, and behind our knees for joint health,” Aunt Camellia said.

  Yes, lotion solves all those problems according to my aunt Camellia.

  “But your sister,” Aunt Iris said to me, “she is the perfect bride. No Godzilla there. She simply wants a huge party and dancing.”

  “Ah yes,” Aunt Camellia said. “Jules won’t have a normal wedding, thank goodness.”

  “It will be a glorious day,” my mother said, arms outstretched. “Glorious. I will wear my best hat.”

  Her sisters nodded. I knew they were already sketching out their Jules’ Wedding Day Hats.

  My sister, Jules, only eleven months younger than me, is getting married on the island this summer, right here at Rose Bloom Cottage. I adore Jules. We have always been best friends. The only problem is that she lives in Seattle and not here on the island.

  “Who is ready for meditation?” Aunt Camellia asked about an hour later.

  My mom and aunts were ready, and they started getting up.

  “A little cold out there, isn’t it?” I asked. I eyed the chocolate cheesecake on the counter. I could definitely have two pieces. The sprinting I did that morning should cover it.

  “Nonsense, Evie,” my mother said. “Come and relax. You’ve worked hard.”

  “Cool air cleans out the negativity,” Aung Camellia said.

  “Cool air means you can chill out,” Aunt Iris said. “After what you did this morning, you need some chill, girl. Here. Have a beer.”

  I certainly did need some chill, but I don’t like beer.

  They grabbed
their yoga mats. I grabbed another slice of chocolate cheesecake. I knew they’d settle them on the slight rise above the ocean, then they’d strip naked, touch their fingers together over their crossed knees, close their eyes, and meditate.

  They believe that outside naked meditation drives the negative away. At least Aunt Camellia does. My mother believes the wind on her skin makes her skin younger, and Aunt Iris believes beer tastes better naked.

  I believe those three do many strange things. Sometimes they drink too much in town, and the police chief, Chief Allroy—a longtime friend of theirs along with his wife, Daneesha—brings them home. Sometimes they lead people in raucous songs in the town square. For Halloween they dress up as sexy witches and pass out candy. For Christmas they dress up like Mrs. Claus and hand out candy canes.

  They are known for skinny-dipping and jumping off rocks into our two lakes, and they host San Orcanita’s Drag Racing Party at the end of the island, which is a popular annual event with a town potluck afterward. You have to dress in drag and drive a homemade go-cart. That annual drunken event happened two weeks ago. Only two people had to have stitches: eighty-year-old Marge, who flipped her car, and fourteen-year-old Keely, who crashed but won in her age group and was proud of the blood dripping down her face. She took a smiling selfie. The doctor was on hand and stitched them both up right there.

  They also host and organize an annual boat race between the islands. Aunt Camellia usually wins.

  To put it plainly: They do what they dang well want. All the time. And they invite everyone on the island to do it with them.

  I love them.

  We all headed out into the dark night, the moon a glowing white ball, the stars spectacular, the rows and rows of flowers they use in their floral business swaying in the slight wind, the scents of a galaxy of roses wafting by.

  “Good night,” I called out as I headed to what we call the carriage house. I do not need to see them naked.

  “Good night, dear,” my mom said.

  “You’re a bit ancient in your thinking,” Aunt Camellia called out. “There’s nothing wrong with getting close to your soul while meditating in the raw. Rawness brings truth.”