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“No, but it’s brilliant! We apply for a job, get hired, and that way we can look around, see for ourselves what’s going on, and give the kind of advice these people need and deserve.”

“And how are we going to get hired? We’re both senior citizens. And if you hadn’t noticed, job offers for our age bracket are pretty much non-existent.”

“We’ll do it like in that Nancy Meyers movie.”

“The Holiday? We switch places with some ditzy rich blonde?”

“No, the one with Robert De Niro and Anne Hathaway, where she hires him as her senior intern.” She spread her arms. “We’ll be senior interns atGlimmer! How cool is that!”

Scarlett’s initial reluctance to recognize the brilliance of her plan slightly melted. “That would be cool,” she admitted. “But how do you know this senior internship isn’t something that only exists in a Nancy Meyers movie?”

“Oh, who cares? If it doesn’t exist, it should exist, and if they won’t accept us, we’ll simply accuse them of ageism, and threaten to sue. And if that doesn’t work, we can always ask Dan to get in touch with whatever bozo is in charge of Advantage and put in a good word for us.”

“Mh,” said Scarlett, but Vesta could see she was warming to her idea. “I’ve always wanted to see what a company like Advantage looks like on the inside,” she said.

“And now you’ll get the chance.” She spread her arms. “We’re going to help out three people, Scarlett. Three unhappy souls. Now what can be more gratifying? And if we pull this off, we could make it a regular thing: drop in on the people writing us, and get some background information before writing up a column.”

“It almost sounds too good to be true,” said Scarlett wistfully, as she gave her friend a look of suspicion. “What’s the catch? Cause there has to be a catch, right?”

“No catch,” she assured her friend. “We’re simply going to spread some sweetness and light. Just like we always do. Only now we’ll do it as Dear Gabi!”

CHAPTER 6

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Marge Poole had just placed a copy of the latest bestseller—Heart ofa Turtle Dove—on the rack when a light cough made her jump. She clutched a hand to her heart. “You startled me,” she told Mrs. Samson, her oldest and best customer.

The elderly lady was holding a letter in her hand, and had a sort of feverish look in her eye. The same look she got when she was the first to snatch up a particularly spicy new novel that had just been added to the library’s collection.

“What have you got there?” asked Marge.

“It was in my mailbox just now,” said Mrs. Samson. “Even though it’s addressed to you. I hope you don’t mind, but I read it before I realized it wasn’t for me.”

“Addressed to me?” asked Marge with a frown as she accepted the letter from Mrs. Samson’s hand. “Who could have sent me a—” But then she recognized the handwriting. It was Tex’s. She quickly took out the letter and scanned it. Her heart sank like a stone. “But this is…” It was an old letter. One Tex had written when they first met in college. Back when his writing was still more or less readable, before medical school had its full effect, intent as it is on teaching young doctors how to stop writing in a legible way and adopt some obscure scrawl.

“It’s pretty spicy,” Mrs. Samson commented. “I especially like the way he compares certain parts of your anatomy to a peach. A ripe peach,” she added for good measure. Her eyes were shiny and very, very bright.

Color crept up Marge’s cheeks, and she felt her face and neck burn. “But how did—how could—where did this…” And then she remembered. Tex was clearing out the attic. He must have found a box of these old letters and… An image flashed before her mind’s eye of a troop of girl scouts gathered around the pile of stuff her husband had put out on the sidewalk. And more in particular a box of… letters! “God, no,” she groaned, closing her eyes in abject dismay. “Tell me he didn’t…”

“Looks like your husband wants the whole world to know how he feels about you,” said Mrs. Samson. “The hot stud.”

“Yes, well, these letters weren’t meant for the whole world to see.”

“There’s more?” asked Mrs. Samson, not hiding her excitement. “Can I read them?”

“These are my private letters, Margaret,” Marge explained. “They were never meant to be seen by anyone other than myself and my husband.”

“He’s got mad skillz, your husband,” commented the old lady. “This stuff is hotter thanFifty Shades of Grey. Are you sure his name isn’t Christian Grey?”

“Yes, I’m quite sure,” she said as she tucked the letter into the envelope again. She then placed a hand on Mrs. Samson’s shoulder. “Would you mind watching the library for half an hour, Margaret?”

“Oh, sure.” The old lady gave her a shrewd look. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Give me another one of your husband’s hot letters to read? They’re so good.”

She grimaced.“I’ll see what I can do.”

She grabbed her phone, dumped it into her purse, hiked the latter up her shoulder, and was off on a light trot out the door.