She is a stately woman, the kind you think doesn't exist anymore, except maybe in Britain. She is tall, or at least feels tall, and naturally thin. Her hair is the grey I get a little envious of; she's the kind of woman who I'm confident has never had to worry about coloring her hair, the kind you can't imagine with anything but the crown of glory in her possession now.
The pillow comes with her, though I don't really know why. She carries it into the shop, up to the register, and I like to pretend she uses it to make herself sit taller in the pickup truck she drives around; the pillow somehow contributes to her stateliness, which is really a testament to who and how she is.
She comes in every couple of weeks to order a new mass market paperback with a pun in the title -- something about knitting or sewing, with a little bit of murder thrown in for kicks.
A friend brought her into the store once, back when she was just a tourist in town. She wandered the shelves and was friendly, asking questions about Thomasville and what it's like to live here. The next thing I knew, she'd moved to town, in part, she insisted, because of the bookstore.
I'll happily take credit, because she's quickly become a shop favorite. She's one we never mind seeing walk through the door; she picks up her books, maybe places an order for another. She mostly pays with a credit card, and the other day, I noticed she signed with "Rev." in front of her name.
It's really not that surprising at all, stately Reverend Jane in her pickup truck. I've come to expect no less around here.
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