Destiny found me at twelve, or perhaps I should say it was introduced to me.
The town where I grew up was small. Picture Andy Griffith’s Mayberry and you’re at least close. The stores lining the one, and then only, main street were a mix of sturdy brick, aging wood and painted concrete.
Sitting at the very end of the street, shaded and somewhat hidden by a small awning, was a one-room, used bookstore I personally had never patronized. More interested in socializing than reading back then, it was simply an idea which hadn’t crossed my mind. But on one fateful day, accompanying a dear friend who frequented the store, I made my first stop to stroll patiently down the romance aisles behind her.
She grabbed an armload of Harlequins.
“You should get some,” she suggested.
“Nah.” (My vocabulary was slightly less impressive back then.)
“No, really, you’ll love them,” she encouraged. “They’re only ten cents a piece.”
“Yeah, all right.” I pulled out a dollar.