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to the elevators, I waved at our features editor, a grandmotherly woman whose home cooked treats could’ve come straight out of Aunt Bea’s kitchen. She carted in batches of various baked and fried goodies at least once a week (twice, if she was stressed or there was an upcoming holiday) and was thereby solely responsible for any widening of my ass that might occasionally occur.
    “Have a good one, darlin’.” The “g” disappeared into Eunice’s native Virginia drawl. “Enjoy your Friday night.”
    “Friday night, hell, I’m out of here until Monday,” I stepped into the elevator with a grin.  “See you then.”
    The promise of a whole weekend with nothing to do was thrilling all by itself. I parked my little red SUV in the Carytown shopping district and melted into the collection of people who made up the city I had come to love in the six years since a stinging rejection from my dream employer brought me south to look for a job.
    There were impeccably-dressed mothers pushing babies in hip strollers along the sidewalks, teenagers still high on the excitement of school letting out the week before, and couples walking hand-in-hand looking in the shop windows. The eclectic storefronts beckoned passersby with everything from toys and Christmas decorations to maternity clothes and jewelry.
    A cobblestone sidewalk led to the heavy oak door of Pages, so picturesque it could have been conjured from the narrative of a nineteenth-century novel. The shop was housed in an old stone cottage, the door flanked by mosaic stained glass windows half-hidden behind climbing roses and jasmine vines, growing thick in twin shoebox-sized gardens and making the summer air sweeter with their perfume.
    I turned the brass knob and shoved the stubborn old door, instantly overtaken by a very different fragrance. The smell of ink and paper and aged leather inside the little shop bordered on intoxicating. There were no maps, no sections, no pretty directional signs. Just tall shelves stretching from wall to wall and floor to ceiling in the small space, cluttered and piled with a fantastic collection of great stories. Jenna was the store’s buyer, and she spent hours each day hunting down rare volumes and first editions. Pages was no generic bookstore; it was a book lover’s haven.
    “Hey.” My friend waved from behind a stack of books perched on the sales counter. “You’re early! How’d you manage that?”
    “There was annoyingly little to be written of the story I spent the whole day chasing. I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.”
    Shoving her reddish-brown curls out of her face, Jenna turned back to the MacBook that was the only evidence of the twenty-first century in the room and scooted her square, blue-rimmed glasses down the bridge of her nose.
    At least she’d remembered them. I was convinced Jenna was going to go blind or kill some random blotch that was actually a person with her car, she forgot her glasses so often.
    “Dying to hear all about it,” she said. “Just let me finish one thing and we’ll go.”
    I nodded and surveyed the nearest shelf, picking up a fat brown hardcover. My eyes widened when I checked the copyright page: MacMillan Books, May 1, 1936. A first edition of Gone With the Wind .
    “Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were,” I recited the first line under my breath as I flipped the book closed and trailed my fingers along the cover, noting the missing dust jacket. But still, an actual first edition. I couldn’t believe Jenna didn’t tell me she’d found it. There were only ten thousand of these printed , I thought as I made a mental note to check the asking price with her. I was no rare books expert, but I knew enough about the one in my hands to land a guess in the ballpark, and that park had expensive seats. Even a thousand dollars—which might be a lowball for this one—was usually way above my price range,