"YOU worked in the New York Public Library?" 

From my resume in her hand, the woman looked up at me. 

Aurora or Rory, the owner of the bookstore, was a fifty-year-old widow. She had short chestnut hair, olive green eyes, and freckles across her face. 

She still looked beautiful despite the wrinkles. She had a smile as warm as the chocolate cappuccino she ordered me earlier. 

"Yeah. I'm originally from New York." I smiled and took a sip of my hot chocolate. 

We were in a local coffee shop across from her bookstore.

She said she had built that bookstore five years ago in memory of her husband who was...