Finding Jessie: A Mystery Romance Read Free

and then someone walked over to my own tables, so I ran back to tend them. And the moment was lost. Whatever clever thing I planned to say to you, I lost it.”
    “Sounds like something I would do. What a shame we missed each other. Do you come often to Port Sapphire?”
    “I’m in and out of the area,” she said. “Perhaps we would have met last summer if you had stepped away from your table to see mine.”
    “I don’t do that too often. I tell myself that someday, I hope to sell more books than I buy.”
    She laughed. “We are both prisoners of our book lust, it seems.”
    Say anything to keep this going , advised the angel on his shoulder.
    He couldn’t bear the thought that she might end their conversation and walk away. “What was on your table that day?” he asked, talking shop with her, just to keep her talking.  
    “Let me think. That day, I had a first edition of George MacDonald’s The Light Princess , a smattering of Beatrix Potter, some Book House sets and firsts of Winnie-the-Pooh .”
    “Nice children’s inventory,” he said. “It’s difficult for me to get away from the tables. I don’t socialize all that much at the flea markets. It’s my business, so I am pretty serious about it. I also choose my friends carefully at flea markets. People do steal books, you know, even other vendors, so I rarely chat while I am at the flea market except about the books on my table—I try not to get distracted from that.”
    She’s quite a distraction, isn’t she? remarked the angel on his shoulder.
    “So, what kinds of friends do you have, Sam?”
    “I have just a handful of friends, mostly from college and beyond, and my next-door neighbor, the grandmother of Cindy. We all have common interests in fine American literature, good poetry, politics and the last vestiges of the American peace movement. I also have friends who share tickets to live local music, and ones who like to go look at IKEA bookshelves with me.”
    She laughed. “I like everything in IKEA.”
    “The Swedish meatballs, too?”
    “Yes! So, whose poetry do you appreciate?” she asked.
    “Pablo Neruda. Especially, The Captain’s Verses: Love Poems. Robert Frost. Walt Whitman. Others.”
    “Impressive. Novels?”
    Keep going , you’re on a roll, said the angel in his ear.
    “Writing or reading?” he said.
    She looked surprised. “You do both?”
    “Yes. I write and self-publish mystery romance novels. I have moderate success in ebooks, less in print.”
    “How wonderful. I’ll have to read them. What an age we live in.”
    “It is. From my point of view, there isn’t much to talk about with other people unless they are interested in books and ebooks, music, peace, politics, and technology. I might be an introvert, but I’ve become comfortable in my own skin, by this age.”
    She assessed him with her eyes. “You’re not as old as you pretend.”
    “I’m fifty-seven but thank you.” He looked at her with a question in his eyes.
    She digested this for a moment, her eyes measuring his face.
    Ladies rarely discuss their age, said the angel in his ear.
    She glossed right over the age issue and said, “I’ve been a bookworm since I learned to read and never wasted much time on anyone who didn’t want to read books. And except for buying and selling books, I really don’t have a social life. Our type of work is not conducive to being the life of the party.”
    “Your focus on bookselling, like mine, probably explains your single status for the last twelve years.”
    “Twelve?”
    “Since your husband died on September 11th.” Now he was confused again. Isn’t that what she had just told him? He scratched his head.
    “Right.” She directed the conversation back to him. “What about your stories of singlehood?” Her blue eyes were curious and an almost-smile quirked at the corners of her full mouth.
    “Oh, please! Adventures of a lifetime bachelor? Another time, perhaps. If you ever get insomnia, call me and