Chapter 1
Chapter
One
Tabby
I despise asking for favors.
But today, I am begging.
Emboldened by a triple pumpkin spice latte and by a dozen cherubic faces that surround me on the auditorium stage, I say the words out loud.
“The children’s annex needs room to grow.”
The stony faces in the audience all know what I’m really asking for: more money.
This is a budget meeting, after all. We justify our expenses year after year. But this time, I’m asking for way more than what my department is supposed to get.
The East Neighborhood Branch of the city’s public library system has been mostly a fantastic place to work for these past two years.
I adore the children. Every Saturday, they come to my postage-stamp-sized room, ready to hear a story.
I also feel grateful to the parents who took time out of their weekend to bring their kiddos to stand on the stage with me as I give my pitch to the county commissioners who decide everyone’s operating budget.
This added cute factor can only help my case.
The grown-up faces out there in the auditorium, however, are harder to read.
With one exception.
James Pierpont always lets me know exactly what he thinks of me. The grinch from the reference department sits at the back of the auditorium, oozing the usual smugness. The arms crossed over his sweater vest push out his biceps arrogantly. The rolled-up sleeves accentuate a pair of sinewy forearms.
My mouth goes dry.
On the surface, he has the movie-star good looks that give him the air of a handsome actor portraying a stuffy librarian on television.
Too, too hot to be an academic surrounded by books all day.
But I remind myself that he’s a Pierpont and a snob and he seems to have beef with the children’s annex.
Why else would he sneer at me every morning as he walks by?
From the back of the auditorium, he’s doing it again. James Pierpont clearly hates my guts. He’s trying to rattle me.
Jerk.
I have no idea why he thinks psyching me out is more important than keeping his all-important reference desk chair warm in his empty cavern of a department.
Well, I simply won’t let it derail my presentation.
I’ve been practicing this pitch for weeks, and I’ve done my homework. And dammit, the kids deserve an updated space to nurture their love of books.
My eyes intentionally avoid the chiseled jaw of James Pierpont as I say, “The reality is, the annex needs a lot of work. More floor space would benefit the weekly story hour, where we’ve been stretching the limits of the room for two years already.
We need more quiet areas for kids ages 7 and up to snuggle up and read, separate from the area for younger children.
The good news is that the annex shares a wall with the storage area, which is currently barely one-third full.
We could expand the annex by a mere 100 square feet and still maintain ample storage. ”
James is watching me intently. I know it as surely as I can feel the goosebumps rising on my skin.
I’m not rattled. I soldier on, because that’s what I do.
With my carefully crafted PowerPoint, I click through examples from other libraries, showing wheelchair-accessible reading nooks and inviting, kid-sized cubbyholes with soft textures and low lighting.
I conclude with the data supporting my request.
“Our neighborhood is primed for major growth, and frankly, our children’s annex needs to be more than just an afterthought if we want to keep up with that growth,” I say.
As I deliver this conclusion, my eye can’t help but drift over to James. And no wonder; his stare has its own energy separate from everyone else around him. He radiates intensity. Or maybe someone cut one, and that’s a look of disgust.
I’m so focused on what that look on James’s face is about that I almost forget the most crucial part of my speech. The fail-safe. The ultimate cute factor.
Kelly, a little girl who’s been coming to story hour every week since she was two, takes the mic from me.
She has adorable braids and dimples and isn’t the least bit nervous, thanks to her dance school and theater training.
She beams at the crowd as I pretend to reach for the mic that she “stole” from me.
“We love Ms. Tabby, and we love our library! The big kids like me need a space where there’s no monkeying around.”
This gets a brief, patronizing chuckle from the audience.
Tough crowd.
And that’s lunch.
The library board, employees, commissioners and volunteers all file out, giving no indication that I’ve given them anything to think about.
I thank the kids for helping and give Kelly a big thumbs up.
She hugs me and asks, “When do we get our reading nooks, Ms. Tabby?”
I try to be positive. “My boss will let me know soon, and you’ll be the first to know.”
I have to prepare for the Saturday story hour in a few minutes. I have to turn on the sunshine and enthusiasm and think about anything else while I wait to see if I got the funding I need.
Verity comes up to me as I’m packing up. She planted herself close to the commissioners for my benefit.
“Tell me everything and don’t hold back,” I say. “What was the vibe out there?”
“The kids were cute?” Verity says with a grimace.
I sigh. “I take that to mean they weren’t buying what I was selling.”
“Maybe? Maybe not,” she says, giving me a sympathetic look. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Waiting sucks,” I say.
Verity grabs my shoulder. “Put it out of your head for now, and let’s go get drunk at the Fall Fest. I snagged us free VIP drink tickets.”
My best friend already looks ready to go, waving the tickets in front of my face.
Tomorrow she and her boyfriend are going to his hometown for their Oktoberfest, so this afternoon is our only time to browse the bazaar, watch the apple press, eat fried everything and drink all the seasonal beverages until someone has to roll us home.
“Babe,” I say. “I have story hour first.”
“Dang, I forgot,” Verity says, playfully pouting and stomping her foot. “They’d better not run out of pumpkin ale again this year.”
I waggle my eyebrows at her. “They will after we’re done with them.”
Verity laughs and follows me downstairs to the children’s annex, having already scheduled her entire afternoon off for my benefit.
I frown at the outdated primary colors on the walls that greet me, the 1990s-era chairs, and the faded posters. Maybe someone can dig deep and let me at least paint the walls in here.
Verity chatters as I push my cart around the shelves, deciding which story to do today. I pick up a retelling of Hansel and Gretel.
“That’s a bit dark,” Verity says.
“It suits my mood,” I say sullenly. “Kids need to learn that this world will eat them up and spit them out.”
“Now, if you’d used that in your budget pitch, you might’ve gotten an immediate reaction.”
I snort.
Verity is silent for a long time as I put books away and pull more to help me brainstorm for story hour. I like visuals to go along with the theme, but there’s slim pickings for anything related to Hansel and Gretel.
Eventually, I settle on some books from the 70s with cheesy illustrations, then turn to head back to my desk. I notice a look of concern on Verity’s face as she scrolls through her phone.
“What is it?” I ask.
Verity looks up at me. “Nothing.”
She holds her phone behind her back.
I squint at her.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
She grimaces.
“Verity.”
“I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s just going to make you crazy.”
“Well, now you have to tell me.”
Verity squeezes her eyes shut. “Dang it. I hate that I don’t have a poker face.”
I’m starting to worry now. “Am I getting fired?”
“What? No!”
“Tell me why you’re making that face!”
Chagrined, Verity realizes she is about to give in. “Don’t lose hope, okay? But someone was poisoning the well before you even started,” she says.
What in the world does she mean by that?
“Stop being coy and show me.”
“Here. If anyone asks, I never showed you this,” she says, biting her lip and finally showing me an email on her phone.
I take her phone and read it. It’s an email forwarded to Verity by one of the board members, with whom Verity has an in. When I realize what the email is about, every word is a punch in the gut.
The message was sent out to senior staffers, board members and commissioners yesterday.
It reads:
“It’s come to my attention that the children’s annex is under consideration for an expansion.
I have reviewed an early version of Ms. Francis’s proposal and have some thoughts.
I believe this is premature and the proposed budget overblown.
Children’s books are not what our branch is known for.
We house the finest research and reference library in the entire city.
If anything, any new spending should be used to highlight our strengths rather than throwing money away chasing trends that do not promise to pay off in the long run. ”
The email goes on from there, but my head is exploding so much that I cannot finish it.
The email is signed by James Pierpont, head of the reference department.
Barely able to breathe, I hand the phone back.
“I shouldn’t have shown you that, right? It made you sad,” Verity says.
“No, I’m glad you did. Thank you.” Sad doesn’t touch what I’m feeling. Lost and deflated and feeling like I don’t belong here, that hits the mark.
“Sit down, Tabby,” Verity orders, pulling out my desk chair. Sit? Probably a good idea, as I’m so lightheaded with humiliation.
She goes away for a long moment, giving me time to think.
Some time later, my friend returns with a steaming pumpkin spice latte with cold foam from the coffee kiosk in the lobby. No one is supposed to enter the library proper with food or drinks, but employees break this rule all the time.