Chapter 34
Daisy
When in doubt go to the library.
~ J.K. Rowling
“This is in case you need a quiet place to breathe,” Mrs. Lockett, the head librarian, says, pressing a key into my hand. “It’s to the back room on the second floor. I’ve got a cozy chair in there and everything.”
My smile warms for the first time in days. There’s something about being surrounded by stories and the people who love them—it soothes the parts of me that still ache.
“Trust me,” she continues. “After story hour, you’ll probably be begging for an escape hatch.”
“Thank you. I’m grateful to have access to the secret passages and nooks.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen the secret passage yet—that’s reserved for after your probationary period.
” Her face is dead serious. Then she bursts into a melodic laugh.
“I’m kidding. I wish we had one of those bookcases that swings open into a secret room—or a wardrobe that leads to another world. Anything of that sort.”
“Don’t some historic Waterford homes have hidden spaces?”
“They do. Matter of fact, my grandparents’ home had a passageway. Just a root-cellar tunnel, but we swore it led somewhere magical.”
The faraway look in her eyes makes me nostalgic for a time that wasn’t even mine.
“I sure hope Conrad doesn’t go plowing down those homes too,” Mrs. Lockett says.
I nod. “Me too.”
Though honestly, I don’t know what could stop a family like the O’Connells from steamrolling the town one block at a time.
We end our tour at the circulation desk. I don’t have any real duties yet, but I do know how to check books in and out after my orientation, so I stand ready to do at least that. Not being in charge feels unnatural—like not knowing what to do with my hands.
Chance, a preschooler from Moss and Maple story time, rushes the desk, his mom on his heels. “Hi, Miss Daisy! Are we having story time at the library now?”
“Yes, Chance. I’ll be reading right over there,” I point to the open carpeted area near the children’s stacks.
His hand raises above the counter, a crumpled piece of typing paper in his grip. I take it from him.
His mom says, “He missed giving that to Emberleigh and Sydney before you closed.”
It’s a picture of the old shop, on the roof, he scrawled, MOS AND MAPL.
“That’s me and you on the porch,” Chance explains. “We just had cookies. See?”
I glance back at the paper. Small dotted circles are randomly drawn on the porch and grass.
“Those are chocolate chip,” Chance explains.
“I loved our cookie story times,” I tell him.
Tears don’t come in their usual rush. A soft wave of sadness rises, and I breathe through it.
“We sure are looking forward to hearing Miss Daisy read here at the library,” Mrs. Lockett says.
“Yep. She’s good at it,” Chance says.
I can almost hear the encouragement Cass gave me at our last book club: It won’t be the same, but it will be a new kind of sweetness.
The day at the library moves slowly. It’s quieter than the bookshop. Same tasks, different walls—shelving returns, categorizing, recommending books, planning community events.
On the way home, I grab a slice from The Pizza Den. Parking my car outside my house, I double check for any sign of my neighbor. When the coast is clear, I hurry up the walkway and into my side of the duplex, exhaling a long, private sigh as the door clicks shut.
I plate my pizza and grab my laptop. I haven’t checked my personal email all day. We weren’t busy, but I kept myself occupied. It’s a new rhythm—one I’ll adapt to over time.
I don’t feel like talking to my friends tonight. They’ve been amazing, but I crave silence. Well—silence, and maybe a note from the host of Burning Through the Pages. I’m hopeful he responded to my last email.
I crack open my laptop, take a bite of pepperoni, and peek at my inbox. The grin comes before I can stop it—a new message from the host. Subject line: Frisking? I laugh out loud.
Dear M)
And, for the record, I agree that no one family should dictate the progress of a community. That’s lopsided and ends up hurting innocent people who have spent their lives doing nothing but blessing the people around them.
I hope you had a sweet sleep the other night. I haven’t been sleeping so well lately.
- BTTP
I don’t delay answering him. I’m not over here being coy. Making him work for it doesn’t mean playing games. And for some reason, he’s the one person I want to connect with tonight.
Dear BTTP:
Sorry about the sleeplessness. That word always reminds me of one of my favorite romcoms: Sleepless in Seattle.
And, thanks to you, I now have images of frisking a member of that unmentionable family. The frisking was meant to be metaphorical and would never happen in real life—ever.
In other news, I started a new job today. I won’t tell you what it is, but I’ll say that I haven’t switched jobs in so long that I felt like an alien in my environment. Maybe one day you’ll know where I work. No promises. Ball’s in your court.
How was your day? Any new topics for the podcast? The Grisham book sounds interesting. And I might read one of his novels after hearing your thoughts on this one. Obviously, I won’t be reading The Whistler since a certain whistleblower gave the spoiler away. ;)
I’m not sleepy yet tonight. If you happen to get this and want to DM instead of emailing, I’m here.
- M&M
I open our direct messages, keeping my eye on both my emails and DMs in case he uses either. Am I overeager to hear from him? Maybe a little. He doesn’t disappoint—not online, at least.
BTTP: You’re up late too, huh?
M&M: Apparently. My brain didn’t get the memo that it’s bedtime. Maybe starting a new job has me amped up.
BTTP: My brain’s on strike. Keeps looping ideas on how to win over a certain woman in my town.
M&M: I’m of the opinion one can never spend too much time thinking about how to win a woman over. Sleep can wait.
BTTP: It doesn’t help that alongside my preoccupation with this woman, the same song has been running through my head all night.
M&M: Do I need to guess the title, or will you tell me?
BTTP: I’ll give you a hint: acoustic guitar, lyrics that make you think the writer had one person in mind.
M&M: That narrows it down to every song ever written by a man—or woman—with a guitar.
BTTP: Fair point. It’s a romantic song. Does that help?
M&M: Well, that really narrows it down.
M&M: Hang on. I’m not logging off. I’m just craving popcorn. I don’t know why. I already ate a slice of pizza.
BTTP: Popcorn sounds great. I’ll wait for you to come back. And pizza from The Pizza Den?
M&M: Yes. It’s so weird that you know that place.
BTTP: Grew up eating it.
M&M: I’ll be right back.
I reluctantly walk away from my laptop, put a bag of popcorn in the microwave and literally tap my foot while I wait for it to pop.
Maybe If I weren’t so distracted by thoughts of the host of Burning Through the Pages, I might’ve paused and peeked out the peephole before flinging the door open to the person knocking this late at night.
But I am distracted. So I end up standing in my entryway, staring at Patrick O’Connell while he stares back at me, seemingly as astonished that I answered as I am.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Patrick says
“If I am, it’s no thanks to you or your family.”
“I heard you took a job at the library.”
“News travels fast.”
“How’s it going so far?”
“Did you need something, Patrick? Besides rubbing the fact that I’m now a librarian in training in my face?”
“I … no. It’s nothing. Sorry.” He hooks a thumb toward his door, turns, and strides across the porch.
Mrs. Hellman leans out over her porch railing. “’Bout time you two finally talked!”
“Goodnight, Mrs. Hellman,” I shout.
“Goodnight, Daisy! Goodnight, Patrick!”
Patrick shouts goodnight, all the while staring at me as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
I step inside my house and shut the door without another word.
If anyone’s a puzzle, it’s certainly not me.
My apartment smells like freshly popped popcorn. I grab the bag and dump it into a bowl, then I carry it upstairs with me and settle into my bed with my laptop and snack.
M&M: Okay. I’m back.
BTTP: Me too. I mean … I’m here.
M&M: You won’t guess what happened.
BTTP: Do you want me to guess? Or do you want to tell me?
M&M: I’ll tell you. My neighbor dropped by.
BTTP: The neighbor who drives you nuts?
M&M: Understatement of the century. He’s a thorn in my side.
BTTP: Sometimes we don’t always know what a person is going through.
M&M: You probably think I’m just mean. Trust me, I’m not a grudge holder—not as a rule.
BTTP: I don’t think you’re mean. I’m sure if you’re irritated, your neighbor gave you reason. I’m just bringing up the fact that we rarely know the whole backstory behind why someone does what they do. I’m not excusing your neighbor. I’m just saying, maybe you don’t have the whole picture.