Chapter Two
Everything feels different when I”m skating. No one can catch me. Nothing can go wrong. I can accomplish anything I need to.
I pump my arms and skate faster, catching some real speed around the corner on my way back to the library. I know these streets like the back of my hand, and right now I’m flying, enjoying the smooth new blacktop of my charming hometown.
There are bad sides to frantic economic growth in a small town. Oversold hotels. Rising real estate prices. Increasing cost of, well, everything. But there are good things too, like improved roadways and heated sidewalks. There’s some fancy tubing embedded under the concrete that keeps the pavement completely clear year-round. It’s freaking a-ma-zing! I skate around for practical reasons — efficiency and health — but mostly I do it because it’s fun, because kid Noelle would have died to roller-skate around town in winter.
The elites who retire to ski chalets on the BZB dominate our town council. They love to fund improvements to the aesthetic of the town square, anything in service of more tourist dollars.
Tourists like that demon in Miss Ethel’s corner store. I don’t know what it was about him that made me want to escape.
Okay, that’s a lie. I do.
He unsettled me. He was so striking with his big shoulders, long fall of black hair, and delicate eyeglasses. Swoon. And the way his intense stare felt like a caress. Double swoon.
But every time I took a peek, there was something else. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. Something familiar. It caught me off guard.
Do I know him from somewhere? Is he vacationing at the resort? With the polished style of his clothing, it wouldn’t surprise me, but the way he and Miss Ethel interacted, so at ease, it was like he knew her, like he was a local.
No.I shake my head and skate faster. I know all the locals. I know the locals’ family members who come into town for holidays. I know the vendors who stock our stores weekly. I’ve lived in Winter Bliss since the day I was born.
He’s a tourist. Has to be.
And out-of-towners are off limits. They always leave. There’s no point in flirting with a man who’ll be on his way. Some people can manage the smash-and-dash approach, but it’s just not me. I’ve had enough heartache over the years. The first was my best friend when I was a kid. His family just up and left town one day, and I never heard from him again. Then, the boy I shared my first kiss with at sixteen ended up only staying for a brief stint at a local summer camp.
A string of short-lived flings followed, and then only a couple years ago, a demon swept me off my feet when he came into town trying to win it big at the resort’s casino. He was the most charming man I’d ever met and so well-read. The only jackpot he won was cleaning me out of the $600 in my checking account before skipping town. Ouch.
I stay away from visitors now. No sense in hurting my own feelings, you know?
I slow my pace as I navigate an older, cracked section of pavement and run smack dab into someone.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” I say.
The demon is about my age with golden ombre horns that arch up in a tall, elegant curve. Pretty and uncommon. He’s dressed to the nines in a cream cashmere sweater and shiny gold piercings through his eyebrow and ears.
“Stay to the right, and you won”t run into people.” He takes the time to thoroughly inspect his sweater for — I don’t know — smudges or an imprint of me, I guess, before walking on without a backwards glance.
“Welcome to Winter Bliss,” I mutter as I roll my eyes and skate on. He’s definitely not from around here, almost certainly coming from the Emberlight Resort. The rich tourists that stay there are good for the local economy but snooty as all get out. My mind drifts back to the demon with glasses in the corner store who seemed so nice.
No, Noelle. I shake my head. Don’t go there. You don”t date outsiders.
As for dating locals? It’s slim pickings in this sleepy town, I’ll say that. If you like thrice-divorced layabouts or money-hungry gamblers or anti-social mountain men, you’re set.
Me? I want something more.
I refuse to settle for good enough. I’ve seen too many of those kinds of marriages while skating up and down these streets my whole life.
Around the next corner, I find two demons hanging up a shiny banner across Main Street.
Truthfire Festival
Town Square - Sunset - New Year’s Eve
“Hey, there! How’re the twins?” I ask. The married demon couple work odd jobs for the city during special events, and their boys just turned four.
“Much better,” The wife smiles down at me as her husband pipes in, “Rowdy and full of rage.”
I laugh. “Firing on all cylinders then.”
“Count us in for storybook circle on Saturday. Their four little cousins from out-of-town are comin’ too.”
“Oh, I bet they’re so big now. Can’t wait!” I grin, then immediately pause in front of the bakery and pull out my phone. With my recorder on, I whisper, “Storybook circle. Pick a book and find an extra staffer for the day.”
Voice memos are the only way thoughts stay put and things get done. I review them every night before bed and make alarms to keep me on track. Life is hectic but good. I exhale and lean against the bakery’s brick front column, giving myself just a moment to breathe. The scent of warm bread and sugary treats lifts my spirits a little.
Life has gotten busier than usual lately. Running our family’s nonprofit library on my own with just a small staff of mostly volunteers has been a challenge. But the added stress of our financial woes is really weighing on me.
Not to mention, the holidays are coming up. Families and tourists are already trickling into town, bundled up in matching outfits and hugging on doorsteps. Wreaths and mistletoe hang in doorways. Candles, trees, and festive displays light up front windows. It’s a week and a half until New Year’s and whether the culture calls for seven, eight, or twelve days of holiday cheer, there’s one uniting factor. Everyone is celebrating and everyone is welcome at the Truthfire Festival on New Year’s Eve. It’s the same night as an important demon winter holiday, and with so many of them in town, it’s become a bit of a catch-all holiday event. There’s entertainment, roaring fires, and plenty of good food to go around, anything that can be cooked over an open flame — cinnamon-infused cider, candied apples, roasted chestnuts — you name it.
As much as the sight of my hometown coming to life around the holidays brings me joy, it also leaves me feeling a little lonely. Mom and Dad are on a cruise this year, my uncle recently moved into a memory care facility down the street, and I’m an only child. I don’t get homesick for my own family too often because I see everyone in Winter Bliss as my family. That is, until their real families show up in town, leaving me feeling left out.
“Bonjour.” The top half of the door next to me swings open and the town baker, a bright-eyed fae woman with mint green skin, leans out, her every movement as graceful as a swan.
“Oh, hello!” I shuffle through my bag and hand over her book delivery. She was in a reading slump, but I knew the perfect solution — a food journalist’s gastronomic history of the diverse cultures in Zanzibar. “It’s due back in a week or I can pick it up with your next personalized book delivery.”
She eyes the bright photographs on the cover and nods while reading the summary on the back before setting it aside. “Merci.” She lifts a still-steaming pastry toward me with a $10 bill tucked into the artfully folded paper holder. “Hope this helps the fundraiser, ma cherie, et le pain au chocolat on the house.”
“Thank you so much! Double thanks!” I beam at her, mouth watering. $10 is a sure sight better than Miss Ethel’s tip, but I brush the thankless thought away. Every dollar helps and there’s no time to catch up on reading like the holidays. My best fundraising days are ahead of me.
I may get wistful this time of year when everyone else is cuddled up with their families, and I’m still alone. But I’m not that lonely. I have a town full of people who care about me. That’s not nothing.
I skate further down the street, finishing off my pastry in four big bites.
Winter Bliss is my home. Every building brings me so much comfort, but one building more than most. The two-story, historic library I live and work in.
Seeing the bright blue awning, a new addition, just a couple doors down, fills me with joy. It’s a family thing. Over a century ago, my family started a reading room in the empty space and have managed it ever since. My uncle was the longest running town librarian. With over thirty years of service, he’s my hero and mentor. But when he was diagnosed with early onset dementia at sixty last year, I took the reins. Since I was a kid, I’d been his helper, and I just finished my master’s in library science online. I was ready, even if the circumstances were bittersweet.
There’s a lot weighing on my shoulders. Years of budget constraints and details slipping through the cracks of my uncle’s memory means the building is in sad shape.
I’ve tried to get my arms around all the repairs we need, but there’s only one solution.
The library has to move. Our building just has too much that needs to be done: a new roof, faulty electrical connections, and a shifting foundation, among about a dozen other issues.
At the last budget meeting, the town council denied my request to renovate the library using grant funds earmarked to historic buildings. As a privately owned public library, I guess we didn’t make the cut. They chose to invest in making the town square facades pleasing to the eye instead of fixing structural issues. Tourists really only drive through our town to gas up or maybe have a meal on their way to and from the BZB’s luxury ski resort.
Their message to me was simple: I have to make do.
Well, librarians are nothing if not resourceful.
“No rest for the cheery,” as my uncle likes to say.
And in a town this small, we can start fresh right here. My fingers graze over the shiny new doorknob of the building next door to the library. I peer in. It used to be a soda fountain decades ago with a long wood bartop that would make a perfect circulation desk. Then it became an antique store. When that went out of business, the building sat empty for years. The owners renovated it and recently put it back on the market. It”s only half the size of the library, so I’ll have to downsize our physical book collection. Even thinking about getting rid of books makes me shiver with discomfort, but needs must.
It’ll be a tight fit making the finances and the layout work, but I can do it. I nod my head. Cute and cozy. It’ll be fine. The library will live on for another generation.
I may be getting ahead of myself though. The lease isn’t mine. Notyet. I’ve been negotiating with the realtor on the monthly rental price. Demons love to haggle, and it’s not my strong suit, but I’m hoping persistence pays off. My lease is up on New Year’s Day, and I really think Balthazar Jones is about to crack. No one else has snapped up this building, and it’s been on the market for months. He’ll just have to lower the rent, right?
In two more strides on my skates, I squeak to a stop in front of the library. My breath fogs up the stained glass of the front window on a sigh. I trace a star, then a long swirly line up to the next candy colored pane. I have every inch of this place mapped and memorized in my mind. Leaving this old building will be painful. I can already feel emotion tightening my chest at the thought. But there’s no money, too much to do, and no one else but me to do it.
We have to move, and this fundraiser has to succeed. We need movers, some furniture, and enough to cover first and last month’s rent.
The $12 in my pocket doesn’t do much, but it’s something.
I open the front door and hug the volunteer running the circulation desk, dropping the cash in a lockbox. With a green sharpie in hand, I skate over to our donation poster and color in a tiny line to indicate how much closer the new funds bring us to our total goal of $3,500. Scooting back to see the big picture, it’s . . . daunting.
My feet ache in my skates so I unlace them and wiggle my toes on the carpet. Despite the dusting of snow, it’s warmer in town than up Mount Winter Bliss, so I’m a little sweaty. I head behind the desk and tear off my green puffer. My leg warmers got wet, so I take those off too. Even with my PG-rated strip show, I’m fully clothed in a long thermal top and thick leggings.
Finger combing my hair, I’m sure I look like a mess. I feel like a mess. Let’s be real; I am the photo next to the dictionary definition of “mess.”
Heading to the front window, I look out, curious if the Johnsons got the banner over the street up. Instead, I see the demon stranger from the corner store. He throws a single suitcase into a shiny black SUV belonging to a rental car chain before resting his bum against the hood and pulling out his phone.
I sigh. Drat. Just passing through, as expected.
I let myself look him over. I’ve always loved a distinctive nose, and his has a charming bump at the bridge. It’s not every day this town gets a burly, bespectacled demon wearing perfectly tailored clothes. I mean, he’s practically dressed to seduce a librarian. Who can blame me for ogling a bit?
A smirk quirks across the side of his face. My nose is nearly pressed against the glass at this point, taking in every hunky inch — the light in his eyes, the arch of his metal-capped horns etched with delicate, swirling designs, the way his black hair in a long braid drapes artfully over one side of his face, adding a bit of mystery.
And why is he smiling?I wonder. Maybe his girlfriend sent him racy pictures, some big city woman who wears fancy lingerie every day. No, with my luck he’s probably married. This guy is just too put together not to have someone helping him with all that sexiness.
“Up to no Goode, Noey?” Arms envelope me from behind, knocking me out of my horny daydream.
I grip the familiar forearms and crane my head back. “Uncle Darren! I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
I lean to the side and wave at the supervisor from the local memory care facility. The orc lady also occasionally volunteers for the library, mostly for big events, but she’s been stepping up a lot since Uncle Darren moved in, helping to make sure he still gets to be a part of as much of the library’s activities as he can. She organizes these small group visits once a week. The seniors get to pick out new titles to read, wander around and, I hope, feel less like a patient and more like a person for a few hours.
“The director approved us coming twice a week now since the movie theater is getting renovated.”
“I’m so glad.” I turn fully and give him a warm hug. When he was in charge here, it was always important that the library felt homey. Thanks to him, we’re more like the town living room, with plenty of floor seating, desks with computers, and comfy chairs along the windows, not to mention sitting stools sprinkled among the quiet, shadowed stacks for the more introverted readers.
While Winter Bliss is changing before my very eyes — a swankier theater, smooth roads, and new shops popping up every day — it’s heartening that the library is still a place people want to spend time.
“Oh! My doctor told me about a book I want to check out today. Get this, the premise is a guy answers a newspaper ad: Teacher seeking pupil. You won’t believe what he finds when he shows up.”
“A telepathic gorilla?” I ask, knowing he’s talking about one of his favorite books.
“Yeah!” His eyes light up. “That’s the one. Sounds pretty good. You’ve read it?”
More like he read it to me. I smile and try to keep the tears at bay. “I think you’ll love it.”
It’s simultaneously horrifying and fascinating to watch the mind of my favorite person twist itself up in a hundred new ways. And somehow, he finds the most interesting paths back home.
“Aww, little Rom. Not so little anymore, huh?” he asks, peering out the window.
“What?” My heart constricts at the name I haven’t heard in years.
“You remember Jaromar? Your best friend when you were . . . how old? When did his family move away?” Uncle Darren’s brows scrunch, and it’s almost painful to see him falter. His jaw tightens. He often falls into angry frustration when his normally detail-oriented mind can’t put the pieces together the way he knows they should fit.
“I was fourteen.” I squeeze his hand until he’s looking at me again and not chasing hazy thought fragments that lead him to dark places. I always want to bring him back to the present. That’s all that really matters anymore, but speaking of the past, this once, might help. “Rom left in the middle of ninth grade.”
He looks at me with soft eyes and pats my hand. “That was a tough time. You’ve always been a sentimental sort, Noey.”
I avoid tearing up by giving him another big, rocking bear hug. “Sentimental about you, ya old goof.”
He chuckles and hugs me before pulling back. “How are we on the returns stack?”
And he’s back in librarian mode, but I can tell by the way he’s asking me that he knows it’s not him in charge anymore. He knows I’m calling the shots, and that’s a relief because I don’t have to suffer through a power struggle and can set him to a task for a little bit.
“Go check with Rosie at the circulation desk. She’ll need help organizing the incoming books into sections.” I have a small but mighty group of volunteers and a couple part-timers. They”ve been a big help lately, taking on more of the 9-5 tasks while I focus on the fundraiser.
He winks. “On it.”
By the time I turn back around to look out the front window, the shiny rental car is gone.
There’s no way that was Rom. He hasn’t been back to Winter Bliss in almost fifteen years. Besides that, as a kid he had a broken horn and the side of his face was scarred up. I’d have noticed.
My uncle’s memories just got tangled up. Every time it happens, the ricochet effect on me is different. Sometimes it’s a sweet moment that warms my heart. Sometimes it’s heartbreaking. This one? Just a little confusing, I guess.
My phone chimes in my pocket.
“$200?!” I squeak. My mind races. Non-residents can get a library card, though I don’t like to do that unless I can trust they won’t run off with my books. Then again, I need to weed the collection anyway, so if they take off with some, win-win? And if they’re staying for two weeks, they may want a second delivery and be just as generous. Judging by the tone of the message, it’s a demon, for sure. Straight and to the point with an offer. And if that offer was $200, it means they’ve got way more to spare as they always underbid.
I glance back at the donation meter. That wouldn’t be one paltry little line. That would be a sizable chunk toward the move. My heart races, hope setting off like doves in flight. My thumbs type out a quick response with a link to our digital library card application.
Hmm. That’s a strange response. I grab the keys to my moped and my helmet, then tuck a tiny mace in my pocket for good measure. A lady can never be too careful. $200 for a book delivery for someone who doesn’t even have preferences seems too good to be true. Maybe this person is an ax murderer. If so, they know the perfect lure, book talk and a donation to the library.
I’m willing to risk it.
My phone chimes.
I smile, watching the dots dance as my new favorite donor types.
A good start? That sounds like a repeat donor! A book series drifts to the forefront of my mind, but it’s a little racy. Okay, more than a little. I have to ask . . .
I chuckle. They seem fun. Even more, I know the perfect book series for them. The payment app I link in the flier chimes. Has there ever been a more beautiful sound than a successful fundraiser? My shoulders shimmy as I restrain a squeal of delight.
“Watch out, Rosie.” My uncle says from the circulation desk. “Noey’s about to be kicking up a storm rushing around the stacks. She’s got some recommendations brewing in that little red head of hers.”
No matter how time jumbles in his mind, when he knows me, he knows me. There’s nothing I love more than giving someone the perfect book recommendation and introducing them to a story that surprises and delights in a way they never saw coming.
I’m a librarian, after all. It’s my specialty.