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honor.”
    “I would love to see this building on the historic register, Mrs. Lyndon. But I can’t afford your assessment without a mortgage. And if I mortgage the place, I’ll probably have to close the store and find a more lucrative tenant.”
    “Darlin’, that doesn’t sound terrible to me. You could make money on this building. And while I know this is a difficult time for you, I really need your support. The deadline to submit our application is June fifteenth. That’s just three weeks away. We’ll have a better chance of winning this grant if we have unanimous participation.”
    “I need to think about it,” Melissa said.
    Aunt Pam leaned over the checkout, her body language aggressive. “In a few days you’ll be officially in arrears on your property taxes. At that time the county will start proceedings to foreclose on this property, and Lyndon Properties is ready, willing, and able to buy this building. We’d prefer to pay full price if you’re willing to sell. But you could finance this, Melissa, and make a lot of money. Rick Sharp down at the bank is ready to help you with the financing, and I know Walter Braden would help you find a well-paying commercial tenant.”
    “I need to think about it,” Melissa repeated as she uncrossed her arms and stood toe to toe with Pam, staring her down.
    Pam stepped back. “All right. I understand. But you don’t have much time left, you hear?” She turned and headed toward the door. Dickens hissed at her on her way out.
    *  *  *
    Melissa was shaking when the bell above the door finally jangled and Pam Lyndon left the store. The time had come to make a decision. And, unfortunately, the decision would require her to close Secondhand Prose. Forever.
    Her eyes filled with tears as she studied Dickens. “Maybe Jeff will take you,” she whispered, then blew out a long breath. She stood there for a moment, collecting herself and wiping her cheeks.
    When she’d regained control, she headed toward the back of the store to examine the damaged pants; then she headed toward the back room.
    “Hey, are you okay in there?” she asked through the door.
    “I’m good,” Jeff replied. His voice eased her jangled nerves and soothed her aching heart. Just the sound of him calmed her down.
    “I just checked your jeans. They’re beyond repair.”
    Silence greeted her from the other side of the door, and her momentary melancholy was replaced by something else. It might be fun to open the door and have a good look at him. It would definitely distract her from her problems.
    “Guess I picked the wrong day to go commando, huh?” he finally said. “Truth is, I need to do some laundry.”
    “Do you do laundry?”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Oh, nothing. It’s just that your wardrobe is always so…”
    “What?”
    “I don’t know. Together. I figured you took everything to the dry cleaner’s.”
    “Well, yeah, I do.”
    “There’s a good dry cleaner on South Third Street. Just sayin’.”
    “Thanks. But that doesn’t exactly solve my current problem. Got any ideas?”
    Melissa had a few, but they were all bad ones. The best thing would be to get him some pants so her libido would go back to sleep.
    “Okay, look, hang loose…” She paused a moment because these words brought an image to her mind that was X-rated. “Uh…um, maybe that was the wrong choice of words. Just wait there for a minute, and I’ll get you a pair of pants.”
    She checked the size of the shredded jeans and then headed down the street to the Haggle Shop, the local consignment store, where she scoured the rack for a pair of jeans with a thirty-four-inch waist and a thirty-six inseam.
    The Haggle Shop had lots of cool vintage stuff, but you never knew what you’d find there, and the selection of guys’ pants in a thirty-six inseam was limited to four pairs of ugly beige khakis and one pair of cool argyle golf pants in kelly green and pastel yellow.
    *  *  *
    The pants were loud.