Chapter 1
If I had a choice, a black-and-white cow onesie, complete with pink udders hanging from my lower belly, is not exactly what I’d pick to be wearing when called into my boss’s office. But here we are.
It’s five minutes until pajama story time begins, and Ryan is looking at me with his brows raised, waiting on my answer about whether I’m free for a “little chat” once I send my tiny munchkins back home and into bed.
I pull the hood of my onesie over my humidity-inflated curls and feel the fabric horns flop to the side as I force a carefree smile to my lips, even though my stomach is threatening to swoop down to my toes.
If I’m going to be the cow that jumped over the moon in Goodnight Moon, then by golly I’m going to commit to my character.
And a nighttime bovine track-and-fielder wouldn’t be concerned about the deep crease between her boss’s eyes or the resigned slump of his shoulders.
“I’ll stop by after the last ‘goodnight to noises everywhere,’” I assure him, still holding my pitched-up smile.
His gaze drops to the bundle in my arms—a couple of books I’m planning to read aloud and the sock monkeys I made myself because they are surprisingly expensive to buy and I’m trying to save the library money.
His lips twitch north but fall almost immediately as his gaze meets mine, then bounces to the group of preschool and early elementary kids who are starting to get a little rowdy.
He nods and pivots without another word, trudging across the library like he’s making his way through a bog instead of walking over well-worn, low-pile carpet.
He disappears behind the door that leads to the space he uses as his office whenever he makes the commute from the main regional library, where his actual office is.
We’re a tiny blip on the map here in Little Creek, but along with the other librarians, Evangeline and Hayley, we make sure the library runs as smoothly as possible.
Evangeline has a weekly video call with Ryan to discuss business and troubleshoot any issues that arise.
Plus, he comes in-person once a month as well.
But no one expected to see him today. He’s not scheduled to work from this location for another two weeks.
The cloud of tension hanging around him is thicker than the dust billows that follow Pig-Pen in the Peanuts comics.
“Bluey’s stupid. She’s for babies.” A little boy’s snide tone jerks me back to the present.
Right. Story time. Before the tiny troops mutiny.
“You’re a baby if you like Bluey,” he continues to taunt.
I march to the front of the round rainbow rug all the kids know to sit on during story time. A little girl with wispy pigtail braids wearing a Bluey nightgown glares at the boy beside her.
Derrick. Of course it’s Derrick. And of course his mom is leaning against the wall in the back corner with her face buried in her phone, oblivious to the fact that her son is about to make a little girl cry. Or, nope, he might be the one to cry if her tiny balled-up fist is any indication.
“I love Bluey.” I swoop in with a smile and a distraction, stealing their attention in the nick of time. “And I’m not a baby, am I, Derrick?”
His expression immediately transforms, his pinched features going lax as he looks up at me with big brown eyes.
“No,” he agrees, “you’re a cow.” He says this the same way he would if he’d just declared I was a fairy princess instead of a rotund farm animal.
With awe and childlike worship. Evangeline teases me that I have the kids of Little Creek under some sort of spell with the way they hang on my every word, but I remind her it’s the stories that captivate them, not me.
“And you look like a real paleontologist with all those dinosaurs on your pajamas.” I tweak his chin and give him a genuine smile.
He scrunches his nose. “What’s a pale-toe-la-lo-gist?”
My smile stretches, charmed at his mispronunciation. “A paleontologist is a scientist who studies fossils like dinosaur bones.”
“Do you need a volunteer today, Miss Martha?” Amara tugs on my onesie and peers up at me with pleading puppy-dog eyes. A slight pout of her lips is the cherry on top of her cute manipulation to get me to let her participate in the stories.
I take her hand and have her stand beside me. “It just so happens that I do. I need six volunteers for our first book, in fact.”
Hands pop up as if they are all spring-loaded. I choose five more volunteers and watch as each child comes to the front with wide, proud smiles on their faces. I pass out the five sock monkeys and place a toy stethoscope around May’s neck, who is the youngest reader.
“Any guesses what book we’re going to read first today?”
“Five Little Monkeys!” a couple of them shout.
“That’s right.”
I’ve placed a Nugget Play Couch that was donated to the library on the floor to act like the bed the monkeys jump on.
After a few instructions to the kids holding the sock monkeys, I begin to read.
The helpers up front act out the story with the monkeys as I hold the book up so all the kids in the audience can see the pictures.
Predictably, each child tries to make their monkey jump the highest. The laws of gravity mean nothing when the imagination is involved.
When I get to the part about the doctor, I point to May.
She pulls her thumb out of her mouth with a loud pop. “No monkey jump bed,” she says in her little three-year-old voice.
There’s a few awwws from the parents in the audience and a couple of giggles from the kids.
I turn the page and keep reading. The sock monkeys are now doing flips and summersaults as the kids launch them into the air.
Thankfully, they’ve managed to keep their landing pad on the Nugget instead of on another child’s head.
At the end of the book, we quietly and calmly tuck the monkeys into bed. Amara kisses her monkey on the forehead, and the other four children follow her lead, each smack of the lips growing a bit louder as they try to outdo one another.
“Okay, I think the monkeys are ready to get some sleep. Thank you so much for your help, but you can go sit back down on the rug.”
While the kids lower themselves back into their spots, I pick up the next book. Five Little Cows. I make my eyes as round as I can, dramatizing a look of surprise, and give a little gasp. “Oh, look! It’s a book all about me. Mooo!”
The kids giggle, and I open the book. Every time the word moo is on the page, I point to it, and the kids all do their best cow impersonations.
Five Little Ducks was checked out, and the library doesn’t have Five Little Fireflies or Five Little Hummingbirds to continue our “five little” marathon, so I’ve chosen to end with the classic Goodnight Moon, which even the adults will likely enjoy.
I settle back in my chair, signaling silently the tone of the book before I read.
For Five Little Monkeys and Five Little Cows, I sat on the edge of my seat, a constant smile on my face, projecting the fun and energy the story within contained.
But now it’s time for calm. For the lulling that only a good bedtime story can bring.
“‘Goodnight noises everywhere.’” I close the book in my lap.
“Good night, May,” I say in the same soft, lilting voice I’d used while reading.
“Good night, Rosa. Good night, little Jordan, and good night, Derrick. Good night, Theresa and Evelyn and Carter.” I wish them all a good night and wave as parents hold on to hands and lead their children out of the library to drive them home and tuck them into bed.
“You forgot to whisper hush,” Hayley says with a grin after Amara is led out the front door and there aren’t any more kids left.
I stand up from the rocking chair that does resemble the one in the picture book. “Are you implying that I’m the quiet old lady?”
“Who me?” Hayley touches her chest in mock innocence. “I would never.” She bends down and collects the sock monkeys for me, then begins to fold the Nugget to go back to the storage closet. She pauses and smirks at me. “I might have heard one of your munchkins guess at your age though.”
I wince. “I don’t think I want to know.”
Hayley straightens. “Let’s just say that that many candles on your next birthday cake might be a fire hazard.”
“I’m not surprised, considering they think anything before the year 2000 is ‘the olden days,’ when pictures were only in black-and-white and we didn’t have television.”
“Ouch.”
“So, depending on who you overheard, Laura Ingalls Wilder and I could’ve been childhood friends.”
“I guess you know how to milk yourself, then, huh?” Hayley cackles.
I look down at the udders hanging from my belly. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”
“Any idea what he wants to talk to you about?” She’s jumped to Ryan’s unusual presence here, which, even though she and Evangeline often help me clean up from story time, was probably why she’d come over in the first place.
Not to taunt me about how much farther ahead on the number scale of life I am than her.
The big four-oh might be just one skip count by twos away, but hitting middle age is the least of either of our worries right now.
“Not a clue.”
“Yeah, Evangeline didn’t know either, which I find odd. She’s practically the boss without the official title, but Ryan hasn’t told her anything.” Hayley hefts the Nugget into her arms. “I’ll finish up here if you want to go figure out what’s going on.”
I bite my lower lip, sigh, then nod, accepting that there’s no use putting off the inevitable. “Thanks.”
Evangeline is helping a patron at the circulation desk as I pass.
Our eyes meet, and she gives me an encouraging dip of her chin.
When I reach Ryan’s closed door, I pause.
My heart is thumping against my ribs, and even though I don’t know why he wants to talk to me , I feel like my subconscious has picked up on some subtle foreshadowing and is warning me that whatever the news is, it isn’t good.