Chapter Four
Keeley
“Aw, darlin’ you’re a sight for sore eyes, aintcha?”
I look into the heavily-made-up eyes of Sissy Mayhew—a former Miss Texas, circa 1966—who currently reigns as the Spring View Library’s overlord… ahem , head librarian.
She’s got to be in her eighties at this point, but she’s still here working every day, except Sunday, when the library is closed, and Wednesday, which is her day off… and which she spends at the beauty salon every single week.
In all the years I’ve been coming here, I’ve never seen her in anything other than a full face of makeup, a big, poufy blowout, and a lot of rhinestone jewelry.
“I guess I am,” I say with a self-deprecating smile. I have no idea if her question was rhetorical but either way, I’m sure she’s correct in her assessment of me. I’m wearing cut-off denim shorts and an oversized t-shirt that reads “Fries Before Guys” across the front. I had no time to blow-dry my hair so it’s pulled back in a sloppy bun, and I didn’t even attempt eyeliner on my ridiculously puffy red eyes.
“Oh, Keeley,” Sissy tuts as she swats the air with one manicured hand, chuckling like I’ve just said something hilarious. Her shrewd gaze moves over my face. “My offer’s still on the table to show you some of the latest Mary Kay products—I have an eye cream that will do wonders for you!”
Oh, yeah. When Sissy’s not stacking shelves full of books, she peddles multicolored makeup palettes and “miracle anti-aging creams” as her side hustle.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I reply with as much cheer as I can muster. “I’ve still got half a jar of the last eye stuff I bought from you.”
Which is a lie. The jar’s still full.
“Suit yourself, darlin’,” Sissy says skeptically. She shakes her head like I’ve deeply disappointed her, and I take this as my cue to scamper past the front desk and head upstairs.
The Spring View library is in a stone building on the edge of Oldford Park, where I spent a great deal of my childhood feeding the packs of rather aggressive and entitled ducks in the pond.
My grandfather and I had a standing Saturday morning routine back then. After my parents’ divorce, Dad had a pretty hectic schedule between his busy job and having full custody of two kids. So Grandpa was my designated babysitter on Saturdays when my dad took my older brother to soccer practice.
Which I was happy about. The two of us would go to Dough Re Mi, a local bakery that sold—and still sells—the best Boston creme donut you will ever have the pleasure of eating. We’d buy a half dozen—three Boston creme, three plain unglazed. Then, we’d stroll to the park and sit on a bench by the pond, feeding the greedy ducks crumbles of the plain donuts, while each eating a Boston creme before splitting the third.
It was our belief that one point five donuts each was the Goldilocks amount. Two made me feel sick after, and one wasn’t enough to fully satisfy my sweet tooth.
After we’d eaten our treats, we’d walk through the rest of the park until we reached the library. After greeting Sissy—who’s been part of the furniture here for as long as I can remember—my grandfather would browse the mystery and thriller sections while I perused the middle grade books with even more hunger than I’d had for my donuts.
I inhaled everything, from The Babysitter’s Club and Warrior Cats series to Anne of Green Gables and Little Women.
Grandpa and I would sit in the back corner on the second floor of the library for hours, reading our books in the big comfy chairs.
Those perfect Saturdays are one of my favorite childhood memories. They’re what made me want to pursue writing… although I didn’t quite envision my current job when I dreamed of being a writer back then.
To this day, Grandpa is a voracious reader, although he favors audiobooks now as his eyes are failing. Last time I chatted with Amanda, one of the lovely nurses at his assisted living facility, she told me he listened to ten books in the past week.
As for me, I’m still a regular at the library—even on Saturdays. And today, of all days, I can’t think of anywhere better to hide.
For one, the library is blissfully air conditioned. For two, no way am I risking running into Andrew and Lisa again as they skip home together after their breakfast sandwich date.
Barf me a river.
My cheeks flare red in a particularly potent combination of rejection and humiliation as I select a squashy-looking orange beanbag in lieu of a real chair. I sit crisscross-applesauce and open my laptop.
I pull up a rather boring article I’ve been working on about a change in local traffic laws. But I’m not focused in the least, my head still swirling in a mess of Andrew and Lisa.
They’ve been best friends forever, and I was always accepting of this. Did my best to strike up a friendship with Lisa too and never let myself slip into the role of “jealous girlfriend” by wondering if the two of them had ever thought about being something more to each other.
I didn’t want to be that person, but apparently, I was na?ve not to be.
Before I can stop myself, I’m closing my tab and opening social media, typing Andrew’s name into the search bar, and scouring his profile—trying not to wince at the picture of him smiling into the camera, his brown eyes kind, his dirty blond hair tousled from the wind.
I took that picture. We were on a hike outside of town, and the wind picked up so crazily that we almost blew away. It was a fun day.
In a Relationship with Lisa Stanson.
I feel idiotic. Dimwitted. Stupid as can be.
How long has this been going on between them? Was it happening behind my back?
I moan audibly, clapping a hand to my forehead. This earns me a disapproving “Shh!” from the elderly man reading a book on Chernobyl at a nearby table.
Which actually sounds like a pretty nice destination to escape to, given the circumstances. Right now, I’d take pretty much anywhere on planet earth. Or Mars, potentially.
I’m still half-daydreaming about buying a one-way ticket to Italy (not Chernobyl) and doing a bit of an eat-pray-love thing to “find” myself (minus the love part, of course, because screw love) when my laptop starts chiming with a Zoom call.
I whisper an apology to the frowny man as I stand from the beanbag, digging in my backpack for my headphones.
“Hi, Freya!” I answer the call as I duck into one of the private study rooms along the wall to avoid further scorn from the grump.
“Keeley,” my editor says warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as her smiling face fills my computer screen. “How are you?”
“Good, yes, great,” I lie clumsily as I set my laptop on a desk and perch on the edge of a chair.
Freya frowns a little as she takes in my puffy, makeup-less face, but unlike Sissy, she thinks better of mentioning it. “Wonderful. Sorry to call on a Saturday, but I just popped into the office to do a little weekend work and saw you were online, so I thought I’d try you.”
“Sure,” I say with a wry smile. Freya works in Boston at OneWorldMedia’s huge, shiny headquarters. And while she loves to make it sound like her “popping into the office” on the weekend is a rarity, I am totally convinced that she’s a workaholic and would sleep at her office if she was able to.
Freya taps a pen against her cheek as she smiles at me. “So how’s that traffic violation report coming along?”
OneWorld is a huge media conglomerate with a ton of cool stuff under their umbrella. They also have a ton of way less cool stuff, including the management of several municipal websites in this area. I got a job with them right out of college as a remote content writer for the Serendipity Springs town website.
And even though writing about local bylaws and town council meetings to determine stop sign placement is all very exciting ( not) you have to start somewhere. I’m grateful to have a job with such a reputable company, with a fantastic boss overseeing my progress.
“It’s scintillating,” I joke.
“You know, I could hook you up with much more interesting work in a heartbeat if you really wanted,” she says teasingly, dangling proverbial bait in front of me, as she often likes to do.
Over my two years working here, Freya’s become somewhat of a mentor and friend to me, and she’s been super candid with me about my future as a writer. Especially after I let it slip that I was a massive fan of Evoke, a lifestyle website OneWorld also owns.
Evoke is kind of like BuzzFeed, but with less quizzes about what food you’d be, and more interesting, thought-provoking pieces on culture and current events in the Boston area, all aimed at women in their twenties—like me.
I’d love to write the kind of op-eds Evoke publishes and leave local traffic laws far in my career past, and Freya has made it clear that she could easily get me started in an intern position.
Problem is, Evoke’s staff all work in-office at HQ, so I’d have to move to Boston.
“I know you could,” I tell her warmly. “And I appreciate it, I really do. But?—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Freya swats a hand good-naturedly. “You won’t leave Serendipity Springs.”
I nod. It’s not that I have anything against Boston, but I’m a lifelong Serendipity Springs resident, born and raised. My dad’s side of the family has been here since before my great-grandparents.
Even after I graduated from one of the local high schools, I went to Spring Brook college at the edge of town to study journalism and creative writing. I met Andrew there. Sophomore year, he lived in the dorm next to mine, and we soon became a couple.
Fast forward to today, when I’m freshly single and hypothetically ready to mingle—with no obligation to stay here for the sake of my relationship—and leaving town still doesn’t feel like a logical option.
For one, I cannot be a twenty-five-year-old intern living in the city. How would I pay rent? I wouldn’t even be able to afford a car so I could come home and visit my Gramps and my brother, which is a non-negotiable for me.
“You know I can’t afford to live in Boston as an unpaid intern, so I guess I’m stuck with traffic reports for now.”
“Traffic reports… and let’s not forget the star signs,” Freya says, and I snort with laughter. I don’t believe in star signs any more than I believe in pigs flying, but every week, Freya gives me the task of writing random advice for people born under every moon of the year.
Filler content , she calls it.
The highlight of my week, I call it. Which might sound a little sad, but Sissy Mayhew is a great believer in star signs, and this comes in very handy from time to time.
“Although, speaking of written in the stars,” Freya starts, her voice totally casual, though her dark eyes glint in a way that makes me think she’s testing the waters for something she has stuffed up her sleeve. “What if I told you there may soon be a full-time paid writing position available at Evoke?”
My breath catches and I’m sure I misheard. “Excuse me?”
Freya’s smile widens. “I was chatting with Nisha, Evoke’s editor, earlier this week, and they’re about to hire a new permanent staff writer. I told her I knew someone perfect for the job.”
“Really?” I bite out, trying to ignore the way my stomach flutters.
“Really,” Freya confirms. “Of course, it is an in-house position, so you would have to move… but you’d be on salary. Not to mention the position comes with full benefits.”
“It does?”
She names a number.
“Wow,” I can’t help but say.
It’s more than I make now. Enough to rent a room in Boston and buy myself a secondhand vehicle.
But as much as my heart is racing at the thought of an opportunity like this, I find myself still wrestling with the feeling that I can’t, or shouldn’t, leave.
“Like I said, it’s a rare opportunity,” she says with a twinkling smile, though I already know this as well as my own name.
“Thank you for considering me,” I tell her, and I mean it—because the fact that this is happening at the same time my relationship has fallen apart seems almost… well, serendipitous. As much as I don’t believe in that kind of thing.
Though I don’t mention this to Freya—I once tried telling her that my boyfriend lives here in Serendipity Springs and this was one of the reasons I couldn’t take a Boston internship. In response, she just snorted and muttered something about there being plenty more manfish in the sea.
In hindsight, she might have been correct about that one.
Not that I care about any man, fish or otherwise, right now.
“Excellent.” Freya leans back in her chair, looking triumphant. “To interview, all you have to do is submit a sample article, so if— when —you choose to move forward with this, we can brainstorm ideas.” Her eyes sparkle. “Although I think I already have the perfect topic for you.”
This makes me smile. Once Freya gets this excited about an idea, there’s no stopping her. “What’s that?”
“During my conversation with Nisha, she mentioned that she went to Spring Brook College in Serendipity Springs.”
“Yes! Same place I went to school,” I say with a smile. As one of the head honchos at Evoke, Nisha is automatically an idol of mine, and I have shamelessly googled her. I figured this little tidbit of trivia could be useful should I ever get the chance to meet her.
“Funny, that.” Freya’s voice is carefully calm, and I definitely get the sense that she’s working an angle, true journalist that she is. “Nisha mentioned something interesting about your town that I hadn’t heard before. Apparently, there’s a kind of urban legend about a building there. I can’t remember the name of it, but it’s an old apartment block, and as the story goes, the building has something to do with helping people find love?”
I laugh, trying (and failing) to make the sound seem sweet instead of bitter. “You’re talking about The Serendipity.”
“Yes! That’s the one! Do you know anything about it?”
I snort. “I live in it.”
“You do?” Freya’s eyes get wide. “Anything… legendary about it?”
I smile the smile of a woman scorned, thinking how funny it is that if Freya had asked me this question just one week ago, I might have had something completely different to say. As a fifth generation Serendipitian, I’m all too aware of the lore about the town, and more specifically, about The Serendipity apartment building being a place where you might get lucky in love.
Hah.
“The urban legend is exactly that: an urban legend,” I say fervently. “It’s just a regular old building.”
“Pity.” Freya looks disappointed. “That sounded like it had some juicy potential as a feature article for Evoke. A lighthearted look at finding love on your doorstep.”
For some bizarre reason, instead of thinking of Andrew and all the dinner dates and pool swims and movie nights on the couch we shared in The Serendipity, my thoughts turn right away to the Irish stranger— Beckett —in the elevator this morning. How he caught me with strong, sure arms after I tripped on his guitar case.
If anything has juicy potential for a story, it’s that: a hilariously embarrassing meet-cute with a handsome, mysterious man.
If I believed in meet-cutes. Which I don’t.
Plus, he was a little smug, a little too pleased with himself. A little too pretty. And I guess, in turn, I was a little unnecessarily sharp with him when he tried to help me. Which wasn’t really fair. I was just reeling from the revelation of Andrew and Lisa together, of the fact that I hadn’t just been broken up with… I’d been left .
I shove away the memories of twinkling hazel-green eyes and lilting accents, deciding that if I ever do see Irish Stranger again, I will just have to pretend I have amnesia and therefore have zero recollection of our elevator non -meet-cute.
With that problem sorted, I turn my attention back to the matter at hand and to Freya, who is grinning on the screen.
“Why don’t you take the weekend to think about it—the job and the article you might want to submit for it?”
I’m sure I already know my answer; I want to apply. I want this job. I’m definitely going to need a different article topic, but I have plenty of time to brainstorm better ideas.
And if nothing more comes of it, it will at least give me something else to think about besides Andrew and Lisa.
“Deal,” I say.
Freya smiles.