Growing up, I loved getting lost in books. It didn’t matter to me if the book was adventurous, dramatic, suspenseful or fantastical, as long as it transported me somewhere else I was happy. I’d be so immersed in my book that I’d barely hear my parents calling me for dinner. Another chapter—just one more—often took priority over the chores my father asked me to do with decreasing patience. That love of reading has stayed with me. I love the way books push you out of yourself and into the lives of others, and how, with the best books anyway, you return to your life altered by the experience.
When Matt and I got married, he was convinced we would end up on Mercer Island raising our family. I was less sure. It was his home, not mine, and I wondered if it would ever feel like a home to both of us. Matt would often sell me on the merits: the small welcoming community, everyone knows each other, excellent schools, the beautiful setting. I saw all great qualities, but still was not entirely convinced. Then one afternoon, Matt took me to Island Books ... continued