As far as February days in Fairhope are concerned, it was an intolerably cold one. Weaving in and out of the small shops around town, I was desperately eager to find a place where I felt I could take up residence for an hour or two. My limited knowledge of the area combined with my desperation was a sour recipe for success. As I made my way back to my car, I opened, entered, and shut the door in what would have appeared to bystanders as one swift movement.

The car started and I felt a feeling of failure, partially due to my unsatisfied need for a hot beverage and partially due to my own impatience. I blasted the heat, turned up the seat warmer as far as it was willing to go, and took a moment to let out a dejected sigh. Adjusting my rearview mirror before shifting to reverse, I caught a glint of a terracotta-tone brick to the right side of my vision.

“No way,” I whispered.

What followed was seemingly out of a movie scene, in a place that ironically has served as the backdrop for a number of them. My pace quickened as I exited the car, and within a moment I was inside. The door shut behind me and it was as if I was sucked into the space. What met my eye was a welcoming scene. Locals and visitors slowly made their way around the perimeter of the store, stopping to pick up a copy or two as they went. I overheard the excited chatter of three of what had to be lifelong friends catching up and exchanging what seemed to be riveting stories.

An avid reader, I was immediately drawn to the far left wall, determined to make a thorough study of the shop. As if by fate, the first set of books I looked at immediately interested me. What sat before me was a shelf of three books entitled Analog Sea Review. Volumes one, two, and three looked back at me as if waiting for me to wade into their waters. And, as if following their commands, I did just that.

Fifteen minutes had passed, and I was still standing entranced in the corner, having made no progress to explore the remainder of the room. Just as I tucked volume one under my arm, I heard the soft clank of metal on metal and a gentle hiss. Could it be? My feet found their way through the space back to the entrance of the store. I followed my nose and found myself in front of a coffee counter covered in pastries.

“You’re kidding,” I mumbled under my breath.

To my back and left were what appeared to be locals enjoying a newspaper and book, respectively, without a single movement. Perfectly still and beautifully content, the two gave the impression of enjoying an early morning in their own homes. At the soft-spoken voice of the customer in front of me, my attention was drawn back to the counter and the chalkboard menu overhead. Unfortunately committed to avoiding caffeine, I studied the board with a lack of hope that turned just as quickly to honest excitement. Spotting a tea or two that seemed perfect for me as the woman in front of me completed her order, I shot quickly to the counter prepared to make my own request.

Moments later, I was standing with chamomile tea and curious new book in hand. I seemingly came to at that moment and realized that, in the haze of my new discovery, I had yet to buy the book. Slightly concerned that I had stumbled into another shop with a stolen product from the previous, I hurried back into the bookstore and rushed to the checkout counter. Waiting with a strong sense of urgency, I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation between the customer and employee in front of me. I was struck by their tone. While I stood, overly anticipatory, behind them, their conversation kept a casual and calm cadence. It was as if the pair had been old friends for years and this was nothing but a typical Tuesday catch-up.

Releasing the tension in my shoulders and taking a short, deep breath, I matched the energy of the conversation before it was my turn to check out. As the man stepped aside and promised to return next week, I made my confession over the checkout counter.

“I realized I had walked over to that coffee shop without checking out,” I admitted sheepishly.

With a relaxed tone, she replied, “No worries! That’s our coffee shop.”

I let out an undetectable sigh of relief and straightened my posture.

“Oh, amazing. This is the perfect setup. It’s exactly what I was looking for. I’m new to the area and was looking for a place to get comfortable for the afternoon.”

“Well, you’ve found it,” she smiled generously.

*****

Page & Palette is a local bookshop in Fairhope that’s beloved by locals and tourists alike. In their own words, “To say we’ve been open since 1968 isn’t enough. We have to give that time, dimension. Otherwise, we just come off sounding, well, old. We are seasoned and proud of it but our thinking has to be new. Hell, we’ve been through more hurricanes than Pat O’Brien’s on a Saturday, and we’re still here. Still standing.

“Our strength comes from a center that the big box boys just don’t have. What is it? We have a story…

“A story with a whole cast of characters. Millions are in the books we sell, but look more closely. You’ll find them in our aisles, behind the register and camped out in the café. You see, there’s no need to create some mystique when you’ve been around this long. It’s here.

“Page and Palette. There’s a story here.”