Eleanor Tatum

While playing typical tourists trapped in a nearby coastal town, my strongest supporter/fan and friendly-husband combination surprisingly suggested a visit to a bookstore. He urged me to leave my business card with the owner. She informed me that she usually buys only local authors’ works, but she’d “look into it”. It wasn’t a no, because she asked for my phone number.

After a few blocks of ambling and a cone of Bear Tracks ice cream, he nudged me into another bookstore. This one was older, crowded with toppling towers of books, far less organized and far more interesting. The nooks and crannies had those coveted over-stuffed chairs and promises of delivered lemonade.

“OMG!  Yes! I want you to speak about your books. Call me to set up a signing.”

I noted my husband’s grin. Why wasn’t I suspicious?

The answer was a guitar-pawn shop next door. My 1970’s rock-star lover is a clever business bargain-master. I couldn’t say no. Fortunately his quest, a Taylor wasn’t available, but they had a Martin.

I taught a Martin Taylor many decades before.

I enjoyed my bookstore hopping.

Enough!