Hearts in Circulation (Checking Out Love #2)

Chapter 1

You cannot be serious,” I say, my voice oozing with dubiety as I take in the heap of metal littering the corner of the library’s parking lot.

The monstrosity looks like it’s in need of a tow truck to take it to its eternal resting place in the junkyard and not at all like a vehicle primed and ready for its reincarnate life as the new bookmobile.

“I’m afraid he’s deadly serious, Hayley.” Evangeline breathes out the words while also staring at what has become my newest worst nightmare, dethroning my recurring irrational fear of getting stuck inside the “It’s a Small World” ride at Disney World.

“Maybe we shouldn’t use the word deadly.” Martha winces from my right.

I’m sandwiched between our small town’s other two librarians, the three of us in a disbelieving stupor, still trying to make sense of the .

. . the . . . thing . . . parked cattywampus in front of us.

When Marge from the town council had dropped by last week to say there would be a surprise waiting for us this morning, not in a million years would our imaginations have come up with something like this.

And our imaginations are Olympic-level, let me tell you. We’re librarians, after all. We practically marinate in the creative realms, and yet we’ve still been blindsided.

“Yeah, new rule. Deadly and all of its synonyms are no longer a part of our vocabulary when referring to . . .” I wave my hand in front of me, gesturing to the heap of metal.

The paint is chipping and peeling, the seams are flaking iron oxide at an alarming rate, and I can’t imagine the parts under the hood are somehow in any better condition.

It still needs a name, though.

I swipe my hand in its general direction again. “Cletus.”

Martha whips her head toward me, her wide, caramel-colored eyes disbelieving. “Cletus? Really?”

Evangeline laughs softly. “Haven’t you noticed Hayley’s little quirk of naming inanimate objects?”

Martha shakes her head, her curly hair growing bigger by the second with the humidity in the air. “Okay, fine. But Cletus?” She huffs.

I shrug, not seeing why she’s so put out with my choice. “It looks like a Cletus to me. You don’t think so?”

She turns so her whole body is facing me. We are no longer the three of us united against . . . Cletus.

Okay, maybe not the best name, but I’m nothing if not stubborn, so I’m sticking with it. Especially in the face of Martha’s incredulity.

“The name Cletus is of Greek origin. It means illustrious.” Now it’s her turn to wave her hand at the unwanted, not-asked-for automotive hand-me-down. “Does that thing look illustrious to you?”

I purse my lips and pretend to inspect the newly acquired bookmobile, hiding another wince by tapping my mouth with my finger. “It does have a certain je ne sais quoi about it.”

“If je ne sais quoi means tetanus shot.” Evangeline mumbles more to herself but loud enough that we all can hear.

“The definition is actually ‘a quality that cannot be described,’” Martha supplies helpfully, which is no help at all. “And that, ladies”—she punctuates by pointing a finger at Cletus—“can be described with a litany of negative adjectives.”

“We’re in the foothills of southeastern Tennessee, not the cliffs of Santorini, so of course I meant the hillbilly version of Cletus and not the Greek rendition.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Evangeline’s voice holds a note of forced optimism.

Optimism I’m just not seeing at the moment.

Martha’s eyes brighten. “Did you know that the first bookmobiles precede anything with an engine, and library deliveries to the remote regions of the Appalachian Mountains were made with horses as the means of transportation? It was called the Pack Horse Library Project.”

I cock my hip. “I’m pretty sure this is the perfect time to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Because if this was the 1930s, then the proverbial horse we’ve just been given is an old, lame swayback nag that would probably have keeled over on the first strenuous incline to a hollow where we—so sorry, I—would’ve been left stranded to fend off wildlife and the elements or perish. ”

“Someone is being a bit dramatic.” Martha attempts to quell her grin but fails.

I sigh as I let my chin fall to my chest. We’ve sorely gotten off topic. “Explain to me how we inherited Cletus.”

“Without getting too mired in small-town politics, Mayor Breckenbridge made acquiring a bookmobile for the library one of his reelection campaign promises. Even though we’re a part of the county library system, because of our geographical location and the fact he’d planned to donate the mobile library, it was a promise he could fulfill because he knew the county would use our branch as the bookmobile’s home port.

What he failed to inform the good citizens of Little Creek, however, was that when he said bookmobile what he really meant was the beat-up, rust-bucket, ancestral remains of a Volkswagen Transporter that was sitting in his front lawn. ” Evangeline tsks.

“And how did the responsibility of mobile librarian fall on my shoulders again?”

“I can’t drive a manual transmission,” Martha answers simply.

I spin on my heel and clamp desperate fingers to Evangeline’s shoulders, pinning her in place. “You can. My cousin taught you. I’ve seen you driving Tai’s Challenger around town.”

Maybe I’m overreacting, but I can’t shake this queasy feeling in my stomach every time I picture myself behind the wheel.

Like there should be ominous music playing in the background.

Or if my life were being written by some cosmic author, this is when they’d be cackling with ill-conceived glee at laying down breadcrumbs of foreshadowing for some major event in the near future, filing them under the words conflict and raising the stakes.

Evangeline eases out of my grip, a fake-innocent smile playing at her lips. “Ah yes, but you see, it’s your turn.” She says that last bit in a sing-song voice.

My jaw slackens. I’ve never not liked my words being thrown back in my face more.

She rubs her chin dramatically. “I seem to recall a time when I asked you to help me out with a certain matter of a critter stuck in the book return receptacle. Do you remember what you told me?”

“That it was your turn,” I grind out, then throw my hands up in frustration. “But this is different!”

Her tattooed eyebrows rise ever so slowly. “I could’ve needed a rabies shot. You might need a tetanus shot. I think we’re even.”

I seal my lips against the mild curse pushing to be released. Not a bad word; more like a hex. Not voodoo doll stuff, though. We live in the South, but New Orleans south is another brand altogether.

I just sometimes wish for a tepid inconvenience to be brought down upon another person’s head.

Like, May you never have matching Tupperware containers and lids.

I don’t want real harm to befall anyone I’m mildly annoyed with, but the idea that they could be somewhat inconvenienced cools my negative feelings toward them in the moment.

I do not, however, wish these curses on my friends. Ever. And Evangeline is one of my best friends.

Mayor Breckenbridge, though . . . Oh yeah, he definitely deserves a curse.

My lips turn up at the sides. Mayor Breckenbridge, may you only ever find one square of toilet paper left on the roll for the rest of your life.

“Why does she look like she’s hatching an evil plan?” Martha stage-whispers out of the side of her mouth.

Evangeline lifts a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, squinting. “Is it revenge evil or overthrow-the-government evil?”

“Um.” Martha frowns. “Both?”

Evangeline lowers her hand and flicks me lightly on the forehead. “I love ya, Hayley, but I don’t have money to bail you out of jail, so just don’t, okay?”

“I wasn’t scheming anything nefarious, thank you very much. It’s nice to see what y’all truly think of me.”

“I truly think you’re a force to be reckoned with.” Evangeline loops her arm through mine.

“Peach-pie-sweet but with a hefty splash of spicy bourbon added to the recipe.” Martha links her arm with mine on the other side.

Once more, the three of us face down Cletus and the threat he poses.

I take in a deep, bracing lungful of air and let it out slowly.

“I guess Cletus and I should get better acquainted. Maybe we can come to some kind of agreement for our working relationship.” I force cheerfulness into my voice.

“He won’t break down on the side of the road and leave me stranded, and I won’t forget to put on the parking brake and secretly hope he rolls off the side of a mountain. ”

“That’s the spirit?” Martha’s voice pitches high at the end. “Okay, ladies, I’m off to get ready for preschool story time.” She unhooks her arm and gracefully glides toward the library’s entrance like some kind of literary book fairy. It’s no wonder all the kids who come in love her.

Evangeline moves to stand in front of me.

Her eyes have lost their teasing glint, and she’s looking at me seriously.

The early morning sun is hanging in the sky just behind her head, casting her in a slightly shadowed silhouette.

“Tell me the truth. Are you really scared to drive that thing? Because if you are, you don’t have to do it.

I mean, you were right. I know how to drive a stick shift now too, and neither one of us needs to get a CDL.

It’s not exactly on my bucket list to wrestle a heap of metal masquerading as a bookmobile around narrow country roads or anything, but you shouldn’t be afraid of coming to work just because of Mayor Breckenbridge’s, uh, generosity. ”

I snort at her liberal use of the word. Mayor Breckenbridge wasn’t thinking of anyone but himself if he’d planned all along to bestow this rust bucket on us.

But it’s not fair to ask Evangeline to shoulder the responsibility either, especially since she’s technically head librarian and already has a full plate.

Saying it was my turn was a diplomatic way of her assigning me the task.

Besides, I may be more than a little nervous at the idea of driving Cletus farther than ten feet, but Evangeline has faced enough fears and been brave beyond measure this year.

She’s earned herself a nice, long reprieve.

I let my gaze roam over the beautifully artistic tattoo inking her bald scalp, taking in the lacework lines, colorful bouquet of flowers, and the striking image of a rising phoenix.

A few months ago, she’d been hiding the fact she has alopecia, afraid her friends and the townspeople would see and treat her differently simply because she’d lost all of her hair to the autoimmune disease.

She’d nearly given up on the idea that anyone would ever love her or find her beautiful just the way she is.

Now she more often than not forgoes wearing any of her wigs, proudly displaying the new tattoo that Tai created for her.

There’s no way I’m going to ask her to do this instead of doing it myself.

Like she said, driving Cletus isn’t on her bucket list. But it is on mine.

I mean, the words Drive Cletus obviously aren’t written down physically on a piece of paper anywhere, but I can remedy that real quick since I add to my bucket list (if that’s what we’re going to call it) every day anyway. Literally.

Every day starts with a blank page in the little notebook I carry around with me, looking for something to jot down and check off, all under the same heading. Make It Count.

I can never pay back my debt, but I’m really hoping I can pay it forward.