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Kiley bit her lip thinking. “Let me search and find out.”
Cherry came over to see us out. “Y’all want old books?”
With a chuckle, Cherry told us about her grandfather’s place about six blocks away. “You know where the hardware store is, a block north of Kendalia’s bakery?”
Kiley chuckled. “Ah, yeah. Manny’s place, Tools ‘N Things. I’m very familiar with it.”
“Go two more blocks past it and hook a right,” she said gesticulating with her thumb. “It’ll be right in front of you. Getty’s Bookshop.”
Following Cherry’s directions, we easily found the sweet old bookstore tucked between a mom-and-pop-type coffee shop and a hobby store.
I popped out of the car and took a good look at Getty’s Bookshop. “This place looks ancient. I can’t wait to go inside!”
With the tinkle of a bell, we entered a whole new world. Every shelf was stuffed with books of various degrees of use and age. I was already reaching for a book before Kiley had even entered the store.
“Looking for anything in particular?” an elderly man’s voice asked.
Thing was I didn’t see anyone.
So, I spoke into the room with some gusto. “Um, maybe. A gift for a good friend.”
“No need to shout,” he said, emerging from a nearby rack.
I smiled. “Hello. I’m Phoebe and this is Kiley. We’re friends of Cherry.”
A smile stretched across his lips. “I’m Getty. Can’t understand what makes my granddaughter use that silly nickname. Her name is Cheryl, you know.”
I grinned. “Makes her feel bigger than herself. At least, that’s how I feel about mine.”
He raised his chin a little. “Someone gave you a nickname?”
I nodded. “Someone really special to me, Getty. He’s so special I’m scared.”
He gave me a knowing nod. “What do you plan to do about it, dearie?”
I paused thinking. “Do you have an Emily Dickenson book of poems? I’m looking for that poem about hope.”
The old man looked at me with suspicion. “The one about wings? Yeah, I’ve got it. You have hope or need it?”
I bit my lower lip. “I want to get there. Guess I just want to let him know I’m trying.”
Getty raised his saggy chin, his beady eyes focused on me. “Hope is something we have in large supply. But faith? Faith is only something a select few can muster. Faith is something you do when you stop thinking.”
I smiled. “You’re a philosopher too?”
When he disappeared into the stacks, I let my hand linger over a few of the books in front of me. They were vintage books, perfect in their imperfections.
If I felt that way about books, could I feel that way about myself? Enough to let go and try to see that things with Ransom could last? That he loved me despite of or even because of my imperfections?
By the time Getty returned, he had two books in his hand. “Got your hope, found you my recommendation for faith when you’re ready. You trust me?”
My smile was unstoppable. “Implicitly.”
As Getty wrapped up my purchases in aged crinkled tissue paper, he glanced at me off and on. “You know, I usually have a no-returns policy. But I think, for you, I’ll make an exception. Faith isn’t something I easily have. And hope is elusive. If you change your mind, come back and exchange them. I won’t give you a lick of grief.”
I gave him a brave smile. “You’re a good man, Getty.”
“Have a happy Christmas, Phoebe,” Getty said, handing me the bag with my books, “and stop by and see me another time. Like any good story, I’d love to hear how it ends.”
