3. Chapter 3 Maggie
By nine-thirty Saturday morning, I accidentally become part of Cedar Hollow.
I realize this while standing in the Prairie Rose dining room holding a blueberry smoothie and answering questions from a woman wearing rhinestone sandals shaped like dragonflies while Elvis the rooster peers in the window.
“No, but seriously,” she says, leaning closer across the breakfast table, “what kind of books are you planning to bring into the library?”
“Hopefully the readable kind.”
The woman barks out a laugh loud enough to rattle the windows. “I like her.”
“That’s Margaret Curtis,” Wren whispers beside me. “If she likes you before noon, your survival odds improve dramatically.”
“I can hear both of you,” Margaret announces.
“Your hearing is unsettling.”
I still don’t fully understand how this happened.
One minute I’m helping Wren carry plates into the dining room because “guests trust people holding muffins,” and the next I’m trapped in what appears to be an unofficial town orientation disguised as breakfast.
People keep arriving.
Constantly.
A retired couple named Earl and Dottie June Benson wander in carrying matching giant fountain sodas despite the early hour.
Randy Wilkes appears to “check on the water damage” and somehow stays thirty-five minutes discussing football schedules and drywall.
Mrs. Davis sweeps through the front door wearing pearls before ten a.m. and immediately informs me that the library’s mystery section has been “deeply underperforming spiritually.”
I haven’t even officially opened the library yet.
At one point, I make the mistake of mentioning I’m from Oklahoma City, which triggers twelve separate conversations about traffic, parking garages, and whether food trucks are “still a thing.”
“They are definitely still a thing,” I assure Earl while balancing a paper plate of cinnamon rolls in one hand.
“Huh.” He sips his soda thoughtfully. “Thought maybe civilization moved on.”
Sophie sits beside me at the long breakfast table and joins whatever conversation I’m having like a cheerful little satellite unable to maintain a stable orbit.
Eli notices.
Of course he notices.
He notices everything.
At first this morning, he looked deeply suspicious of the entire concept of a meet and greet. Now he mostly looks resigned to it, which honestly feels like progress.
He’s standing near the dining room archway talking quietly with Luke when Margaret suddenly points directly at me with half a piece of toast.
“So, what exactly are your intentions with our library?”
The entire room goes weirdly quiet.
Not hostile quiet.
Interested quiet.
Like everybody genuinely cares about the answer.
I lower my smoothie slowly and adjust my glasses. “That feels like a question I should answer while standing behind a podium.”
“Probably,” Mrs. Davis agrees. “But you don’t have one yet.”
Wren beams beside me like she personally orchestrated this ambush.
I glance around the dining room again.
And suddenly I understand something important about Cedar Hollow.
This town isn’t nosy because people are bored.
They’re nosy because they’ve decided community is a participatory sport.
“Well,” I say slowly, “I think libraries matter because they’re one of the last places people can exist without being expected to buy something.”
Mrs. Davis immediately points at me. “Good answer.”
Encouraged despite myself, I continue. “Also, libraries should feel welcoming instead of intimidating. Which means I’m hoping to add community events, reading nights, maybe programs for kids and teens if we can build enough interest.”
“You doing story hour?” Dottie June asks hopefully.
“Yes.”
Margaret gasps softly. “You’re hired.”
“I already was.”
“Excellent. Even less paperwork.”
Laughter ripples through the room.
I catch Eli watching me from across the dining room then, his arms folded loosely while Luke says something near his shoulder. That same unreadable expression sits on his face again, somewhere between cautious and thoughtful.
His eyes meet mine briefly.
Something warm flickers low in my stomach before I immediately ignore it on principle.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Sophie passes a napkin to me covered in marker drawings.
“Maggie, look.”
She points proudly at a lopsided sketch of what appears to be the inn underwater while tiny stick figures escape through windows.
“That’s Dad,” she explains. “And that’s you slipping.”
“An iconic artistic choice.”
“You looked surprised.”
“I was surprised.”
Behind her, Eli exhales what might almost be a laugh before catching himself.
Interesting.
Mrs. Davis appears beside me so quietly I nearly fall over.
“You’ll do well here,” she says matter-of-factly.
The certainty in her voice catches me off guard.
I straighten slowly. “You barely know me.”
“Nonsense. I’ve watched you talk to six people, a child, and one emotionally unstable rooster.” She waves one elegant hand dismissively. “That’s plenty.”
Before I can ask what exactly qualifies a rooster as emotionally unstable, the front door swings open.
Unfortunately, it swings open at exactly the same moment Elvis decides to come inside.
The rooster struts across the threshold with complete confidence, weaving between people's legs like he pays property taxes.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Wren mutters.
Nobody else appears particularly surprised.
Which feels concerning.
Elvis marches straight through the dining room, hops onto a chair, and fixes his beady gaze on the basket of pastries near Dottie June.
"See?" Margaret says, pointing triumphantly. "Emotionally unstable."
"That's not emotional instability," Earl argues. "That's ambition."
The rooster lets out a loud crow.
Inside the building.
At ten o'clock in the morning.
Mrs. Davis folds her arms. "Case closed."
I set down my smoothie and cautiously approach.
"Does he bite?" I ask.
"Only if he likes you," Wren says.
"That is not reassuring."
Elvis tilts his head.
I tilt mine right back.
For one strange second, we appear to be negotiating.
Then I scoop up a napkin from the pastry table and wave it gently toward the front door.
"Come on, Your Majesty. Your kingdom is outside."
To my complete shock, he hops down from the chair and follows me.
The entire room goes silent.
I open the door.
Elvis struts onto the porch.
I close the door behind him.
Silence hangs over the dining room for a beat.
Then Margaret points at me.
"Well."
"What?"
"You handled him."
I blink.
"He followed a napkin."
Mrs. Davis nods thoughtfully. "That's still better than Earl's success rate."
"I heard that."
Dottie June dabs at the corner of one eye. "Honestly, I think it's beautiful when people discover their gifts."
"It's a rooster."
"It's leadership."
The front door swings open again and another couple steps inside carrying new pastries from town.
Wren claps happily. “Perfect timing. Maggie still hasn’t met everybody.”
I stare at her.
Then at the increasingly full dining room.
“Oh no,” I say quietly.
Margaret pats my arm. “Too late, sweetheart. You belong to Cedar Hollow now.”
By ten-thirty, I officially give up trying to carry on adult conversations because Sophie Turner has decided I belong to her now.
Not in a threatening way.
More in the determined manner of a very small, emotionally observant duckling.
While Margaret and Dottie June debate whether the town mural should include “historically accurate livestock,” Sophie quietly appears beside me holding three library books against her chest.
“I found these in the inn sitting room,” she says.
I glance down.
A children’s fantasy novel. A soccer biography. And Charlotte’s Web.
“That’s a solid lineup.”
“I already read this one.” She lifts the soccer biography. “But Dad says rereading books counts as reading.”
“Your dad is absolutely correct.”
She looks pleased by this confirmation and follows me toward the side table where somebody has deposited enough pastries to feed a church conference.
Honestly, Cedar Hollow may survive entirely on baked goods and emotional involvement.
Sophie leans against the table while I pour lemonade into paper cups.
“Do you really read all the books in the library?”
“Not all of them. Some of them are deeply suspicious.”
She grins. “How can a book be suspicious?”
“Oh, lots of ways. Sometimes the ending is emotionally manipulative. Sometimes there are too many unnecessary boats. Sometimes a goose appears and nobody explains why.”
“That happened in a book?”
“Twice.”
Sophie laughs softly before glancing down at the novels in her arms again.
Around us, the inn buzzes with overlapping conversations and clinking dishes. Earl is explaining something loudly involving electrical wiring while Wren repeatedly tells him the phrase “probably fine” should never be used around historic buildings.
I take a sip of lemonade. “What do you usually like reading?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Adventure stuff mostly.”
“Excellent choice.”
“And mysteries.”
“Also excellent.”
“And frog facts.”
I nod solemnly. “A well-rounded literary education.”
That earns another quick smile, but it fades almost immediately.
Interesting.
Kids don’t usually pivot emotionally that fast unless something’s sitting underneath the surface.
I lean casually against the table beside her. “What?”
Her fingers tighten slightly around the books. “Nothing.”
“That was a very suspiciously fast answer.”
Sophie studies the floor for a second before speaking again, quieter this time.
“I like books better when I read them in my head.”
Understanding settles into place almost immediately.
Ah.
I keep my tone easy. “Reading out loud feels different?”
She nods without looking up. “I mess up words sometimes.”
“Well,” I say thoughtfully, “English is rude.”
That surprises a laugh out of her.
“I’m serious. Silent letters are basically alphabet lies.”
A tiny smile returns.
“My teacher says I read too fast and skip parts,” Sophie admits. “And sometimes kids laugh when I get stuck on words.”
The softness in her voice presses unexpectedly hard against my chest.
I know that look.
Not embarrassment exactly.
Caution.