I put the key back into the envelope.
For an hour, I told myself I would not go.
Then I realized refusing to look simply because Julian had mentioned it would be another way of letting someone else determine my choices.
So the next morning, I drove there.
The landlord was waiting.
She was a woman in her sixties named Nancy who wore sneakers with a wool coat and carried a ring containing what looked like forty keys.
“Julian said you might be interested,” she told me.
“How do you know him?”
“He helped my brother restructure a company about ten years ago.”
That sounded far more believable than the version my imagination had briefly created in which Julian secretly owned half the neighborhood.
Nancy unlocked the door.
The space smelled faintly of dust and old wood.
The floors were scratched.
The walls needed paint.
A fluorescent fixture in the back room buzzed loudly enough to irritate me within thirty seconds.
It was not magical.
That helped.
There were problems I could see.
Problems had solutions.
The front windows were wide and faced west.
A raised platform near the back could hold chairs for readings.
There was enough room beside the front counter for coffee equipment, although the plumbing would need work.
I walked through slowly.
Nancy explained the rent, security deposit, lease terms, utilities, and the repairs the owner would handle before occupancy.
I asked practical questions.
More than I expected.
When I finished, she said, “You’ve done this before.”
“No.”
“You’ve run events.”
I looked at her.
“How did you know?”
“Julian mentioned it.”
Something about that annoyed me again.
“He doesn’t know me very well.”
Nancy shrugged.
“Then maybe he listens well.”
I stood in the middle of the empty store after she stepped outside to take a phone call.
Sunlight stretched across the floor.
I tried to imagine shelves.
Tables.
A register.
Coffee.
Children sitting cross-legged on Saturday mornings.
For the first time in years, I caught myself thinking about a future that did not begin with Daniel’s schedule.
I went home with the lease application in my bag.
I did not sign it that day.
Or the next.
Opening a bookstore was not a romantic decision.
It was a business.
I knew enough from Daniel’s world to understand how quickly a beautiful idea could turn into an expensive mistake.
So I did something I had stopped doing in my marriage.
I took myself seriously.
I built a budget.
I researched inventory costs.
I calculated how long I could cover rent if sales were slow.
I spoke with a former coworker who had managed retail before joining our nonprofit.
I met with Nancy again.
I negotiated.
I walked the neighborhood on weekday mornings, Friday evenings, and Saturday afternoons to see who actually passed the storefront.
I counted families.
Retirees.
Office workers.
Teenagers.
People walking dogs.
I noticed there was nowhere nearby to sit with a book except the coffee shop, which was usually crowded.
I asked Nancy for utility histories.
I priced business insurance.
I called two book distributors.
I estimated how much shelving I could afford if I bought used instead of new.
The more numbers I collected, the less the bookstore felt like a dream.
It began feeling like a decision.
Daniel noticed the change in me before he knew the reason.
One night, he found me at the dining table with a notebook, calculator, and printed spreadsheets.
“What’s all this?”
“A business plan.”
“For what?”
I closed the notebook.
“A bookstore.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then his expression shifted into something close to disbelief.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Since before I met you.”
“I mean now.”
“I’m looking at a space.”
His face changed again.
“Where?”
I told him the neighborhood.
“How did you find it?”
I hesitated.
That was enough.
“Who?”
“Daniel.”
“Who found it?”
“Julian told me it was available.”
He stepped back as if I had confessed something.
“Hart?”
“He sent me an address.”
“He sent you a property?”
“He sent me the address of a vacant storefront.”
“Why?”
“Because I told him I once wanted a bookstore.”
“When did you tell him that?”
“At the gala.”