Carol

In a bookshop that used to be the home of William Faulkner, I have to admit that I have never read any of his books.  'Well, I'd start you off with the short stories', says the lady who welcomed me as I opened the door to the ringing of bells.  She is wearing a white shirt with white culottes.  Her hair is bobbed and blonde.  She has a pair of bright red spectacles perched on the end of her nose and a string of pearls around her neck.

She gets a volume off the shelf.  'We all read A Rose for Emily here in America', she says, 'I want you to read that one first'.  It is a hardback and I tell her that I'm unsure about carrying it around with me all day.  I ask what time she is open until.  'Six o'clock', she says.

At five thirty I return and she is closing the doors.  'You made it back', she says.  'Just in time'.  I purchase the book along with a play about the danger of relying on the kindness of strangers.  She runs to the back of the shop to fetch me  a 'freebie' by a local author.  It is a 'scorching' mystery story about Heloise Lewis, a 'soccer mum/suburban madam'.

As I leave I ask my question.  She tells me it is after her aunt. 

 (It is not until later that I realise that the photo on the back of my freebie looks remarkable similar to my middle name.  A little internet research and I discover that the New York Times bestselling author does indeed have a book-selling sister.  The mystery thickens...)