Jazz music plays around me in a dimly lit bookstore. I sit alone at a circular dark cherry wood table but the plush, dark colored couches with throw blankets and homemade Afghans lying along the back look inviting. The glow from the candles and the thrifted antique lamps illuminates the framed paintings, drawings, and photographs that adorn the walls as the sun fades behind the mountains.

I came here to write, as I always do. This place is home. I have my computer open – the screen turned down as low as it will allow – with my Kindle on one side and my notebook open-faced on the other. I look at the scribbles, the incoherent notes jotted down in haste, and I try to decipher what I wanted to remember when I wrote it down. Three important clients are awaiting projects.

I sold my short story series to a publisher who loved the medical-drama style shorts and is awaiting a final draft to send to the editor. I kept my paramedic license and still work part-time – for content of course (okay, and because I enjoy helping people) – but these days I have shifted my full-time career to writing and editing. After I finished a degree program, I found freelance work as an editor for a company who sends me dozens of new authors each month. I devour their manuscripts. Sometimes with awe and intrigue, and sometimes kicking and screaming because they’re so bad. I try to remember that I, too, still have a lot to learn as a writer. In my free time I write reviews for published books. It’s an unpaid position but I get my hands on the newest releases and popular authors.

Books are piled around me, on the table, the chairs, at my feet. The musty smell of the pages mixed with the strong bitter-sweet coffee warm my cold bones. The snow has started to fall outside, and I forget how many inches we are expecting. I pull the sleeves of my cable-knit sweater down over my cold fingers.

Ty appears and refreshes my coffee in my bowl-mug. I smile and hold the cup in both hands, letting the steam warm my face. It’s a comfortable, cozy temperature in the store – I set the thermostat higher than I think Ty would prefer, but he doesn’t say anything and lets me be warm. He kisses me on the cheek. “How many more pages do you have?” he asks. I flip through my dozen or so pages of notes in my notebook and shrug, slightly defeated. He kisses me again. “Want to take a break and help me catalog the new books?” I nod and follow him out of the cafe area, through the rows and rows of bookshelves, and into the back room.

We had set up a small sitting area in the stockroom with a coffee table and antique reading lamps. Ty pops the cork from a bottle of red wine and pours each of us a glass. We open the boxes stacked neatly along the walls and sort them based on author and genre.

We had bought the bookstore as an empty storefront and filled it with classics, novels, paperbacks, collectibles, fantasy worlds, and every other genre. There were sections for art and gardening. We mapped out the inside to have a small sitting area – slash- cafe where we would host book clubs, live music, and guest speakers. Our decor came from local artists who could sell their creations right off the walls. We spotlighted short stories and contest winners from the local elementary and high school. We offered discounts for students, teachers, first responder… basically we never sold a book for the sticker price. Our kids were old enough to come and go and helped us at the store after school if they didn’t have soccer or a piano lesson. They would sit at the tables and finish their homework before stocking shelves and helping customers for an hour or so. Their friends would come to hang out, and we’d shoo the lot of them out when everyone became too loud or rowdy. Our kids always gave us a hug before they left on their bikes with their friends.

Moving here to the mountains was a scary but exciting dream at first. Having always been a city girl, I didn’t know how I’d fare. But with Ty by my side and having the kids home every night, I am thriving. Ty was hired as teacher after we arrived. He coaches youth soccer camps and trains the kids for soccer season. We alternate days at the bookstore, but in the evenings, we always meet back up here before we go home.

I sip my wine and pick up an unfamiliar book. It’s a mystery thriller, my favorite. I open it up to the first page Ty grins at me. “You never can resist,” he laughs. It’s true, I am notorious for becoming sidetracked while sorting books.

“Let me read the first chapter to you and then we’ll switch,” I plead. I look up at him and bat my eyes. He doesn’t protest. He kisses me softly and tells me he loves me. We have been reading to each other for years. Thousands upon thousands of adventures conquered, mysteries solved, and lives well lived.

…

The high-pitched jingle of the pager jolts me awake in my leather recliner. In the dark I forget where I am for a moment.

“Medic 1 go available for cardiac arrest,” the dispatcher’s broken voice crackles over the radio. I shove my feet into my boots, and we are out the door.

It’s a dream for now, but the vision is so clear. I can see my future. It’s happiness. It’s love.