The Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap by Welch Wendy

Author:Welch, Wendy [Welch, Wendy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2012-10-02T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

What Happens in the Bookstore, Stays in the Bookstore

If A equals success in life, then A equals XYZ. X is work, Y is play, and Z is keeping your mouth shut.

—Albert Einstein, Observer, January 15, 1950

A NICE YOUNG LAD CAME shopping for James Pattersons one spring day. Knowing “Tucker” from church, I’d assessed him as more of a classical guy. He belonged to a local book club whose members wouldn’t have been caught reading Patterson in their own bathtubs, let alone publicly. Tucker didn’t even know the title he wanted (out of the seventy-two-plus the Patterson industry has published). He just knew it was “the first one.”

“Along Came a Spider?”

“That sounds right,” he responded.

“How did you get interested in this author?” I asked, suspecting his answer as I led him to the mystery-and-thrillers room.

A sheepish expression crossed his face. “I met this girl.”

Trying not to laugh, I handed over the paperback. Sure, I could have told him then that the relationship wouldn’t work out, but it was none of my business.

Tucker returned for two more Pattersons before the breakup. He later married a nice woman with a taste for Lee Smith. As a wedding present, we gave them a dozen cozies with titles like Marriage Is Murder and To Love and to Perish. (In case the term is unfamiliar, the best description ever for “cozies” is “murder mysteries where no one cares who got killed because they’re all distracted by cooking new recipes or following intricate handicraft instructions.”)

Tucker and his new wife “Vicki” shopped with us regularly until they moved away. Once I suggested Vicki try a Patterson.

She scanned a back blurb. “Maybe. I’ve read a couple, but Tucker never has.”

I didn’t think fast enough. “No, he bought some when…” My voice trailed off.

Tucker’s wife looked at me, an expression that could only be described as a smiling frown on her face. Then, with an indecipherable wink, she strode briskly into the front room where Tucker browsed classics. Ignoring the other customers, she waved the Patterson in the air and shrieked, “You liar! You said you never dated that slut!!”

We put a sign over our computer: WHITB, SITB. (What happens in the bookstore stays in the bookstore.) The sign reminds us that shopkeeping in a small town requires a particular kind of etiquette, and a lot of keeping silent. Sure, word of mouth at the speed of cell phone helped us become a profitable business, but all that nice buzz had a sugar-crazed little sister who kicked us pretty hard in the shins: gossip.

It’s no secret that the delights of gossip present a double-edged sword; people like to discuss events while they are half formed, each storyteller interpreting in his or her own image what might have happened and why. This makes operating any small-town business—and particularly one in which people talk as openly as a bookstore—a constant study in tact and reserve. Ask any hairdresser. Small-town business operators know too much about people, and if any of it slips out, trouble will plague our houses like a pack of tigers.

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