Green Dragon Books: 3 of 30
Tuesday, Nov. 3, 2026
“Top five rainy day books… go.”
It was raining outside, a cold November rain, and Gregory Brown and I were safe and dry inside Green Dragon Books. Settled into armchairs, we sipped coffee and fought the warm drowsiness that threatened both of us with an unplanned nap.
Greg retired from the county’s public works department three years ago and spent most of his time talking about books. Or the weather. Or politics. Or really anything that anybody was willing to listen to. I got the sense when he came into the store that he’d run out of ears to hear, as the apostles might say.
And Greg loved lists. They were conversational lubricant that he utilized with great skill. Sometimes I was too busy to talk, and sometimes that didn’t matter to Greg, which bothered me. But there currently were only a few people in the store, and they were waiting out the rain, too.
“Hmm… good question. Top five books about rainy days or best books to read on rainy days?”
“The second one.”
“Got to start with a mystery. Maybe Mysterious Affair at Styles or Crooked House?”
“Sure, sure. Although those seem like sunny mysteries to me. Sherlock Holmes is more appropriate. More Dickensian.”
“Ah, you’re right. Maybe Sign for Four. No, Hound of the Baskervilles.”
“That’s one.”
“Then something spooky from Stephen King. Or Shirley Jackson. Let’s say, Haunting of… uh, We Have Always Lived in the Castle.”
“Could never get into that horror stuff myself,” Greg opined.
“Mmhmm. Don’t read James’ Turn of the Screw. Freaked me out for most of my 20s. Something modern now. And cozy.”
The front door opened, the bell ringing. I leaned in my chair to see a college student wander in, shaking rain from their curly hair. I took a sip of my coffee and returned to Greg’s question.
“The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame. That’s cozy.”
“But not modern. Don’t you sell any new books here?”
“Hush. Thursday Murder Club is modern. I pick that.”
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“One more.”
I reflected back on all the rainy afternoons, curled up in my bed, a book in hand. What book was I holding?
“Ok, so it’s a children’s book, but Frances Hodges Burnett’s The Secret Garden is still one of my all-time favorites. It’s rainy out on the moor, in that big empty house, looking out onto all that space,” I said dreamily.
“Hodgson.”
“Huh?”
“Hodgson. It’s Frances Hodgson Burnett, not Hodges.”
“Really? What kind of name is Hodgson?”
Greg shrugged. “English, I guess.”
“Okay, so that’s five. Hound, Shirley Jackson, Wind in the Willows, Thursday Murder Club and Garden. What do you think?”
Greg sipped his coffee. “Not too bad. I’d say it wouldn’t hurt you to read a book published in the past 20 years.”
“I’m catching up. And I can read from my own used book inventory. But the new books have to look, well… new. Can’t touch those.” I finished my coffee and considered putting on a new pot.
“You read your own used books,” Greg side-eyed me, “and then put them back on the shelf?”
“Yeah. People know they’re used! They’re in the ‘Used Books’ section.”
“Sure, but not by you.”
“Me, you, the guy down the street, what’s the difference?”
“I don’t know. I don’t like it. Did you read this one?”
Greg held up trade paperback copy of Jayber Crow.
“Nope,” I lied.
