Katie's Way by Marta Perry Page B

entering. She stepped inside, glancing around at the shelves of books . . . brightly colored paperbacks and hardbacks of all types. There was even a rack of used books on sale for only fifty cents each.
    She felt herself drawn toward those books and pulled back firmly. She didn’t have money to spare right now, and as much as she loved to read, the shop seemed to take all her time and energy. To say nothing of Rhoda taking any energy that might be left over after the shop. And Rhoda’s idea of fun wasn’t sitting in a comfortable chair losing herself in a book.
    â€œMorning. Can I help you with anything?”
    The white-haired man who emerged from behind the counter sounded as if he hoped not. He had his finger marking a place in a book, and with his hair ruffled and wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose, he looked as if he had been enjoying a rainy day by immersing himself in his own stock.
    â€œGood morning. I’m Katie Miller. I just opened the quilt shop down the street.”
    â€œOh, yes, I think I heard something about that.” The vagueness of his expression said he hadn’t paid much attention. “I’m Cliff Wainwright. Owner of Cliff’s Books, obviously.”
    He started to hold out his hand, realized it held a book, and stopped, putting it down and dusting his fingers on a white handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. “What can I do for you, Ms. Miller?”
    â€œI have some flyers here.” She caught a negative expression on his face and hurried on. “For a quilting group I’m starting at my shop. I hoped you would be willing to give them to any of your customers who might be interested.”
    He stared at the papers she held out, and then he nodded toward the counter. “There’s room right by the register, where people will see them when they check out. You can leave them there if you want, so people can pick one up if they’re interested.”
    â€œDenke. Thank you,” she corrected herself. “I appreciate it.”
    She wasn’t sure what room he referred to. The counter was nearly covered with books and magazines, to say nothing of a fine layer of dust. Books, she supposed, would generate dust, just as fabric generated lint. Since there wasn’t an empty space, she put the flyers on top of an existing pile.
    â€œThank you,” she said again. “I am sorry if I interrupted your reading.”
    He stared at her for a moment, and then he chuckled, the sound catching her by surprise. “You caught me. To tell the truth, I enjoy the days when nobody comes in. Then I can read to my heart’s content.”
    â€œBut a shop needs customers.”
    Mr. Wainwright shook his head. “Only if you’re in business to make money.” He chuckled again. “Owning a bookshop in a small town always seemed to me the perfect life, so when I retired I opened this place. I love everything about it . . . the books, the quiet, the atmosphere.”
    â€œI can see why.” The comfortable clutter of books appealed to her, too.
    â€œI like everything except the customers, always coming in and asking for the latest bestsellers as if they have to read what everybody else does. Yep, running a bookstore would be perfect if not for the customers.”
    He shook his head and glanced toward the leather chair behind the counter, a reading light strategically placed.
    â€œThat’s an interesting idea.” But not a very practical one, she’d think. “Thank you again for your help.”
    When she reached the door and bent to pick up her umbrella, she looked back. He was already ensconced in his chair and engrossed in his book.
    She had to smile. If Lisa Macklin wanted help in her campaign to bring tourists to Pleasant Valley, she’d probably best not come to Cliff Wainwright.
    Katie passed two empty storefronts and then Paula Schatz’s bakery. Paula had already taken a stack of flyers, and one of