Second Chance Love by Shawn Inmon

didn’t run back to The Cottage Grove,but they hurried.

 
    Chapter Fourteen
     
    Elizabeth Coleman walked briskly along the city sidewalk in the early morning sunshine. It was mid-May, and the warmer temperatures nearly made her forget the times she had made this same walk through snow and icy wind.
    She had kissed Steve goodbye at the curb in front of her apartment fifteen minutes earlier. Though her fortieth birthday was coming up, she felt like a teenager.. The feel of his lips still thrilled her. After twenty years without a kiss, attention came as a change of pace. It would never be old hat. Not with him .
    In front of Elizabeth was an old brick building with a green awning and a large plate glass window. Across the window, faded, peeling gold script read: The Prints and the Pauper . She turned the key and pushed open the door. Its smell had become the fragrance of home for her: tons of musty old paper, a dash of binding glue, and a strong finish of thousands of gallons of coffee. Steve had hinted on more than one occasion that maybe she should think about quitting this, the only job she had ever known, but Elizabeth refused to contemplate it. The store had been her second home for too long to leave it behind now, and dependency on anyone else had never been her way.
    Steve had made the point that a used bookstore specializing in nothing other than pleasing its customers couldn’t survive in a 21 st century economy. Steve's point was immaterial, because it was based upon Steve's business assumptions. The store's owner, Mr. Bartleby, did not care about profit. The only time he looked at a Profit & Loss Statement was every April, at tax time. “Another good year,” he would say, smiling. “Another write-off for me.”
    She went into the back room, took the basket assembly out of the old percolator, and dumped the grounds into a plastic grocery bag that hung under the sink for just that purpose. She took the bag home each weekend and dumped it into the rhododendrons in front of her apartment building, and the philodendrons and African violets she kept in her kitchen window. It was the secret to her green thumb. She was spooning fresh grounds into the basket when she heard the bell chime over the front door, accompanied by a rather carrying female voice.
    Gail.
    “…so I said, sure, why not. I’ve watched enough of those shows, I might as well be on one of them. After all—"
    “Morning, Gail. What kind of show is that? Did they finally call you to be on Dancing with the Stars?”
    “No, damn it, they didn’t, and why not? Just because I’m not a size two? Or is it because I’m not a star? I suppose that could be it, but can they really say with a straight face that all those people are stars? I don’t think so. That guy that played the pool cleaner for two seasons on Melrose Place ? Or, how about that Olympics table tennis champion they had on last season? Had anybody ever heard of him? I don’t think so. I think they might do better—"
    “What were you saying about being on a show?”
    “Oh. Oh, right. Well, they’re holding auditions for Guest House Gestapo this week, and I’m going to try out.”
    “How can they resist the force of nature that is Gail Weathers? But,” a look of mock concern crossed her face. “They do have more than one microphone on that show, right? Because you will need one all to yourself.”
    Gail nodded. “Those kind of shows like people who talk a lot, so I figure I’ll fit right in.”
    Gail, my friend, besides being a wonderful person and friend, your most shining virtue is that you are completely unapologetic for being who you are .
    “I still don’t have television,” Elizabeth said. “What’s this show about?”
    “Well, it’s on the CW, so it’s not exactly the big time, like Survivor or Big Brother , but they have a $100,000 prize for the winner. You know the drill…” Elizabeth didn’t, but Gail continued on as if she did. “…throw a bunch of