A Cliché Christmas(14)

I ended the call and peeked through the large picture window of Sullivan’s Bookstore but was surprised to see that old, crotchety Mr. Sullivan was not the one behind the counter. I loved the store, but the foul mood of Mr. Sullivan usually kept me away. On the glass door was a cheery sign that read “Sunshine Books.” I smiled, remembering Nan’s words to me. “Allow yourself to see with fresh eyes, Georgia.”

“Good afternoon, may I help you find something?” the woman at the counter asked.

My lips twitched into a grin, and I was momentarily shocked at the difference one attitude can have on an atmosphere. The knife of Nan’s words kept twisting.

“No, thanks. Just wanted to browse for a few minutes,” I said before doing a double take. “Mrs. Brown?”

Her head shot up again from the open book on her lap. “Georgia? Oh, I’m so happy you came in today! I was hoping to run into you.”

My high school guidance counselor embraced me so tightly I nearly coughed. “I heard what you’re doing for the Harts, and I think it’s wonderful.”

“When did you buy this store, Mrs. Brown?”

She laughed. “I’m retired now, no need for formalities. Please call me Violet. Let’s see . . . It’s been about three years ago now.”

“Well, it looks great.”

We chatted for a few minutes more, catching up on the last seven years, including my notorious Hallmark movies, with which she seemed well acquainted.

As I strolled through the store, touching the spines of dozens of books, I thought of Nan. She had planted a love of reading in me many years ago.

There were so many stories, plots, dreams, and visions enclosed in this tiny space. So many hours of toilsome labor. After browsing through the mystery and romance sections, I came to a small shelf labeled “Classics.”

I stopped abruptly.

“No way,” I whispered.

I carefully lifted the pale-blue leather-bound copy of Little Women from the shelf and found my eyes misting up for a second time that day. This was Nan’s favorite book—mine, too. It was the first chapter book she’d ever read to me. It’s what inspired me to become such an avid reader and writer. Nan always said that I was her Jo March.

How I had longed for a family like the Marches.

Ironically, I didn’t long for a daddy nearly as much as I longed for sisters . . . and for a mom who enjoyed being a mother.

I flipped to the back, reading one of my favorite passages—though I’d almost committed it to memory like so many other passages in this book. Laurie (Teddy), who’d loved Jo as a child, shows up and surprises her by announcing he’s married Amy, Jo’s sister.

I could almost hear his voice as I read the passage:



“You both got into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with the new, that I could honestly share my heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one another?”

“I’ll believe it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be boy and girl again. The happy old times can’t come back, and we mustn’t expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking.”



“I never could get over that ending.”

I jumped at the sound of Violet’s voice.

Dreamily, I sighed, picturing the scene at the end where Friedrich comes to find Jo and mistakes her as the March sister who has recently married. Jo chases after him in the rain, and he says, “But I have nothing to give you. My hands are empty.” Jo intertwines her fingers with his and says, “Not empty now.”

“Yes, that’s a great scene,” I agreed.

“No, it’s not. It’s torturous!”

I took a step back and turned to face her. “What do you mean?”

“I think Louisa May Alcott got it wrong. I wanted Teddy to marry Jo. They were meant for each other.”

I gaped at her bold words. This was pure sacrilege—and in a bookstore no less! I took another step back in case a bolt of lightning came down to strike her where she stood.

“But Teddy couldn’t marry Jo! There was too much history between them, too many childish memories and—” Calm down, Georgia.

Violet beamed. “I can get pretty passionate about books, too. It’s why I wanted to buy this place from mean old Mr. Sullivan.”

I studied the old leather book in my hand. “How much is this?”

She looked at the book and then back at me. “It was appraised at five hundred. It’s a first edition, printed in 1911.”

I had spent more than that on Nan for vacations, but a single book for five hundred dollars? Nan would lock me out of the house if she knew I’d spent that kind of cash on a gift. Anyway, she didn’t do gifts. She believed we should bless one another all year round with acts of service instead of some onetime piece of garbage (her words, not mine). That being said, the woman had more books than anyone I knew—and she cherished them like no one else I knew.

“Okay. I’d like to get it.”

Violet’s eyebrows shot up as she took the book from me and placed it on the counter. She didn’t move as she stared at me. “I’ll tell you what . . . I’ll give you twenty percent off if you’ll come back and tell me all the reasons you think Jo and Teddy weren’t right for each other.”