The Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap Read Online Free

occasionally honking. “I can’t drive; they took my license away ’cause of the seizures. Bud drives me when he can, but he don’t like reading. I’ll be back after you’re open. When’d you say that’ll be? And all the books are gonna be half price?”
    The enthusiasm of Dave and James renewed our flagging energy. Soon we were even hunting for ways to join in community activities. When we could spare a minute, we looked around for places to visit, people to meet. One of the fastest ways to make friends turned out to be volunteering at the outdoor drama. Big Stone Gap has nurtured many writers, including John Fox, Jr., author of The Trail of the Lonesome Pine . In the 1970s, Fox’s novel became a musical, kind of a folk opera, staged each July and August. Barbara Polly, the original female lead, still organizes Big Stone’s annual summer run of what is now the longest-running outdoor drama in America. Jack and I did the preshow music one night, and at intermission a tall, dark-haired woman walked up to us and drawled, in a voice so Southern it fairly wafted magnolia blossom perfume, “Say somethin’ else.”
    “Excuse me?” Jack said, startled but polite, and the lady, hand to her forehead, feigned a swoon.
    “Whew!” she exclaimed, turning to me. “His accent’s makin’ my toes curl. I’m meltin’ faster than butter on hot toast.”
    That’s how we met Isabel, who became one of our staunchest friends. (And yes, she acts like that all the time. If you come to Big Stone, I’ll introduce you.)
    We also met Tony, a local pastor, and his wife, Becky. He’d been conned into selling the popcorn, and when Jack bought some, Tony said, “Hey, you’re the new couple trying to start a bookstore, right? Poor souls. Well, good luck with that. Got a church yet?”
    Word had apparently gone out that we were shopping for a church. More precisely, my Quaker husband said on our first Sunday morning in town, “Find a place we can go when we’re not at a Friends meeting, and let me know when you do.” Then he rolled over and went back to sleep. The Society of Friends, aka Quakers, met a good two-hour drive away, so we planned to attend once a month there and find a church home in Big Stone Gap the rest of the time. Off I set on this mission, wearing a skirt and a smile.
    Three churches sat just up the street from our store, and two more down. It’s a Southern small town. We have four hairdressers, three museums, two nail salons, and fifty-six churches within a two-mile radius.
    Spoiled for choice, I started with the Methodists, a mere four blocks up the road: great music, but they pledged allegiance to the American flag as part of the service. While I support both the United States and Christianity, mixing them promotes an unexamined assumption that makes Jack, a Christian who was not then American, nervous. Ixnay on the Methodists—although I met a lot of very nice individuals who shook hands and said, “So you’re half of that bookstore couple! When’s it open?” (An improvement over “You’re nuts!”) This was also my first meeting with David and Heather, a sweet couple down the street who frequented the shop once it opened. Heather later became an integral part of our pinch-hitting support staff.
    The Baptists came next. Pledge as part of service. Bless you; next.
    Another nearby church’s sermon suggested—how can I put this? that God was not only American, but male, white, and a fan of a particular football team. I really don’t consider myself picky when it comes to churches, but a few weeks later, I still hadn’t found anything plausible for Jack. Then someone at my day job suggested, “Y’all should try the one at the end of your block. It’s full of weirdos and artistic types like you.”
    Uh, thanks.
    We went, and they seemed like nice folks, so we went back, and word went ’round town that the New Couple had settled into a church. Pastors and lay ministers stopped calling.
    In the Artists