An Interesting Question

Why Write that Story?

Two years ago, a girlfriend turned an unmentionable age (because she'd whack me if I said it), and a group of us traveled to Galveston to party on. We stayed at a historical hotel, dined at a famous restaurant with a large crab out front (reportedly real), did the spa thing. And being ladies, we had to have our shopping.

The Strand is the historic shopping area in Galveston. When my sister lived down that way a long time ago, the area was being renovated. Now, it is truly beautiful.

  

As our group crossed the street to go into another shop, I paused in the middle of the road and looked down the street. Shops lined both sides. Kitschy touristy ones. Huh.

A few days later, I had an image of a guy and a girl running stores. He was an architect who left town eight years ago to go to college and dumped her. She was the hometown girl who wanted to make her own mark in the retail business. He comes home to run his mom's store, and oh boy, sparks begin to fly.

And that's how "Store Wars" came to be.

Here's a fun excerpt:

          "So what else turns you off?" 

          In one corner, imitation leather purses embellished with rhinestone crowns had been stacked on a glass and chrome shelving unit. Cheap, gemstone bracelets decorated a nearby display stand. I pointed to a shirt rack and said in a soft voice, "I'd never wear these clothes."          

          With a frown, Tracy cupped her mouth. "Me, neither. They're aimed for the nighttime crowd—if you catch my drift."  

          "I do. Yuck." Taking in the whole enchilada, I stopped when I spied the jean-clad backside of a male employee sweeping the floor. God, I hope he hadn't heard us.

          I steered Tracy aside and whispered, "We'll have no problems with our store succeeding in the Depot District. We're better than the ones at the mall and all the other stores around here."          

          "I agree. Let's split up, take mental notes, and meet out front in fifteen minutes."         

          I peeled off to the left, and she went to the right. The man cleaning glanced over his shoulder and straightened. "May I help you?"       

          Instantly, my body froze like an icicle. It couldn't be—could it? Fletcher? As in my once upon a time boyfriend, Fletcher Babcock? When had he abandoned the bright lights of Big D and returned to Sommerville?   

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