A Day in My Life — Venus Bixby

Nowadays, people assume I was named after the famous tennis champion. Not so. My parents, devoted fans of Frankie Avalon and the Four Seasons, thought it clever to name me Venus and my twin sister Sherrie. This morning, as my alarm rings and The Beatles’ “Good Day Sunshine” nudges me awake, I’m reminded I’m the one who inherited their love of oldies. Why I choose to rise at dawn most mornings is beyond me—ah, yes. I picked up the habit from my late husband, who believed in getting the show on the road before the sun had fully committed.

First order of business: English Breakfast tea. I shuffle into the kitchen and glance toward the cottage. Budd’s porch light glows behind the hedge, proof it’s not Friday—otherwise he’d have delivered my tea in bed. He keeps whaling museum hours, polishing harpoons before most folks find their slippers. That steady light reassures me. Solid. Dependable. Like Sonny and Cher—my cats. “Morning, world,” I mutter, which is code for please don’t put a body in my path before noon.

I stop by Cats & Their Cradle before eight, though I don’t need to. The kitty daycare and adoption service runs smoothly thanks to Felicia, my manager, who arrives earlier than I do. “Princess Fiona is sensitive today,” she whispers, as if the Persian understands. “Of course she is,” I reply. “Aren’t we all?” Across the room, Captain Ahab, our three-legged orange tabby, occupies his usual sunny patch. I’ve grown attuned to our regulars. You don’t trip over three dead bodies in two years without sharpening your observational skills.

At nine sharp I flip the OPEN sign at Oldies & Goodies, my music and bookshop across the street. The bell announces the day’s parade. A woman I don’t recognize rifles through the vinyl, hunting for an album she heard at a party. I try not to lecture her about touching the grooves, but fail by a second. A retired fisherman browses historical fiction and pretends not to eye the cozy mysteries he inevitably buys. Around lunch, Cecilia Powers studies the new age shelf, forever seeking insight for her tarot practice. Cecilia trades in information as much as intuition. I file that away. I file everything away.

By late afternoon gossip drifts in with the sea breeze: a scuffle at the pub, headlights and a crash near the wharf after midnight. I nod, alphabetize the latest novels, and mentally sort alibis.

Closing time comes as a relief. I lock up, check that my phone and pepper spray are where they belong, and whisper a small prayer: Tomorrow, let it just be books, music, and cats. As dusk settles over Chatham Crossing, I scan the path to my car carefully.

I’ve learned to watch my step.

Good thing I wear sensible shoes.