Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 106839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
I start pulling my cart down the brick sidewalk, enjoying the clip-clopping sound of the horses as they pull their carts down the brick-paved street, and then stop short when I spy Rosie Harlow leaving a small shop across the road. It’s kinda set back, this building, and it’s real small. Maybe fifteen feet wide at the most. Like the space it takes up was an empty alley before it was a shop front.
There’s a tiny courtyard in front surrounded by a white picket fence, and Rosie is just opening the gate to exit when she catches my eye, waves, and calls my name. “Amon!”
I’m about to cross and go over to say a proper hello, but I’ve got this heavy cart and Rosie is light on her feet, so before I know it, she’s scooted her way through the horses and buggies and is standing right in front of me. “What are you up to today?”
“I was gonna ask you the same thing.”
“What’s all this?” She makes a circle with her finger, gesturing to my cart.
“Bones for my dogs.” I make a circle in the air, gesturing to her clothes. “What’s all this?” Because she is in a full-on Bishop costume. I’m talking petticoat, gown, apron—the works.
Which is a very nice look on her.
Rosie Harlow is petite and fresh-faced, but she never looks the same from day to day. Oh, her long hair is always brown and yes, she’s always lookin’ cute as fuck. But since I’ve been back, I’ve seen her dressed up in go-go boots, leather fringe, bell bottoms, and gold lamé. She’s not afraid of fashion and if she were an actual woman of the vintage sort, she’d be a doe-eyed sex symbol and all the teenage boys would have her poster on their bedroom walls.
But today Rosie Harlow is something all-together different. She’s vintage, but not in a Valerie Bertinelli rock-star girlfriend way. Today, she looks very… trad wife. But she’s not puttin’ off a milkin’ cows and makin’ sourdough bread kind of farm-y trad wife vibe. More of a powerful high society, wind-beneath-the-wings kinda trad wife, à la Bishop style.
And it’s kinda hot.
Rosie raises up both shoulders, shootin’ me a smile. “My new dress.” Then she twirls for me.
Which again, is kinda hot. “Well, I like it, Rosie. A lot. But… why are you here, in Bishop, wearing a costume?”
“Oh!” Her smile drops into a more serious face as she leans forward a little. “I work here. Two days a week.” Then she turns and points to the sign above the little shop she came out of. “The Bishop Busybody. I’ve been writing this rag for about four years now. Doesn’t really make a profit—yet. Start-up costs and everything. But it’s finding its audience. It’s fun. And it makes me happy, which is the most important thing.”
I study the sign, then look her in the eyes, noticing that they’re bright gray for the first time ever. “You write for a newspaper?”
“Well, ‘newspaper’ might be a bit ambitious a word for the Bishop Busybody. It’s more of a… fictional thing. Which, of course, the Bishop News is as well. But it’s not really news at all. It’s… lonely hearts.”
My eyes squint down in confusion. “It’s what?”
“Lonely hearts. You know, like… personals.”
“Personal ads?”
“Yeah. ‘Desperately seeking somebodies.’ Mail-order brides and that sort of thing. But it’s fake. I just make all the ads up and every edition comes with a little announcement. Like a wedding or a baby. Just enough so readers can keep up with their favorite fictional desperately-seeking-somebodies over time.” She pauses to think here, making a very cute face while she does it. “It’s like an early version of a soap opera. A very slow-moving one. But aren’t they all?”
It takes me a few seconds to catch up with her question mark because I’m still envisioning the soap-opera image she just put in my head. I blink. “I guess. But… people actually read that kind of thing?”
“Well, not many people. Which is why it doesn’t make a profit. But I’ve clawed my way up to seventy-three regular subscribers and sell about two hundred more on a good week.”
“Rosie Harlow. When the hell do you have time to run and write a frickin’ newspaper?”
Rosie laughs. It’s a nice laugh that makes her face look even friendlier than it already does. “Amon, no one ever has time for anything. Time is something you make for things you like doing. And I like doing this on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings.” Then she gives me a little curtsey and turns away, walking off in the opposite direction to where I’m heading.
“Bye, Rosie,” I call.
“See ya around, Amon,” she calls back.
I start walking again, pulling my bones behind me and heading for my truck, which is parked outside the Bishop historical district, since this part of town is horse and buggy only. But she’s right, I realize. Time is something you make for things you like doing.