11. Chapter 11 Maggie
By the time we reach the end of the chapter, Sophie’s eyelids are drooping.
The battle is officially lost.
"I think our reader is shutting down." I say.
"I'm still awake," Sophie mumbles.
The statement is immediately followed by a yawn.
"Of course you are."
Eli tucks Sophie beneath the blankets while I switch off the bedside lamp. Within minutes, Sophie is asleep.
For a few minutes, neither Eli nor I speak.
There's something sacred about a sleeping child.
The room feels quieter because of it.
We simply watch Sophie sleep.
There is something different about her tonight.
Maybe it's because I've spent the last several weeks getting to know her. Maybe it's because I've seen how hard she works at being brave.
Whatever the reason, she looks younger when she's asleep.
Less responsible. Less careful. More like an eight-year-old who should be worrying about soccer games and library books instead of whether important people are going to leave.
The thought follows me into the hallway.
I pull the bedroom door mostly closed behind me and turn to find Eli standing only a few feet away.
The upstairs corridor is quiet. Most of the guests have already gone to their rooms. Somewhere downstairs I can hear the faint clatter of dishes as Wren finishes cleaning up after dinner.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
Then Eli slips his hands into his pockets and looks toward Sophie's door.
"Thank you."
The words are simple.
The effort behind them isn't.
I don't know exactly why I'm so certain of that. Maybe it's because I've spent enough time around him to recognize how carefully he chooses what he says. Maybe it's because he seems far more comfortable fixing a problem than talking about one.
Either way, the gratitude feels genuine. And oddly vulnerable.
I slip my teal colored glasses off and rub the bridge of my nose smiling at him.
"You don't have to thank me for reading a bedtime story."
"I'm not."
His gaze remains on the closed door.
I wait.
Eventually he continues.
"She's reading more."
The statement catches me off guard. Not because it's untrue. Because of the pride in his voice.
"I've noticed."
"She reads signs now."
I smile.
"Signs?"
"The menu at the diner. Store windows. Instructions on cereal boxes."
A quiet laugh escapes me.
"Those are excellent literary choices."
His mouth twitches.
"The cereal box is currently her favorite."
"Strong storytelling."
The smile lingers between us before fading into something softer.
Eli glances back toward Sophie's room.
"I don't think she realizes she's improving."
"Most people don't when they're doing it one day at a time."
His eyes meet mine then. The hallway suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago. Not crowded. Just personal.
Intimate in a way that catches me off guard.
I become aware of details I have no business noticing.
The way his hair curls slightly at the collar when it's overdue for a haircut. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The tiredness around his eyes that never quite disappears, no matter how often he smiles.
He is a handsome man.
I've known that since the day I nearly knocked him over in the hallway. Lately, however, the attraction has become tangled up with everything else.
The way he looks at Sophie when she isn't paying attention. The patience he shows when she's struggling. The steadiness he brings into every room he enters.
Those things are far more dangerous than blue eyes and broad shoulders.
"I was worried when we moved here," he says quietly.
The confession surprises me.
"I know."
"No, I mean really worried."
He gives a short shake of his head.
"The divorce was hard on her. The move was hard on her. Then the house disaster happened and suddenly we were living in a suite at an inn."
His expression softens.
"I kept wondering what I was missing."
The honesty in his voice settles somewhere deep inside my chest.
Because that is the thing nobody tells you about good parents.
They spend an enormous amount of time worrying they're failing.
I think about all the ways Eli has shown up for Sophie.
The soccer practices.
The bedtime routines.
The steady presence.
The thousands of ordinary decisions that make a childhood feel safe.
"You weren't missing anything."
He looks down the hallway toward Sophie's room before speaking again.
"I've spent a lot of time trying to make sure she was okay."
"I know."
"I made sure she got to school on time. I packed lunches. I signed permission slips. I never missed a soccer game if I could help it. I kept the routines the same because everybody said kids need consistency."
He smiles faintly, although there isn't much humor behind it.
"I got pretty good at surviving."
The word catches me.
Not living.
Surviving.
"I don't think I realized there was a difference until you showed up."
I blink.
"Eli..."
He shakes his head.
"I'm not saying you fixed anything."
His voice is steady, but I can tell the words aren't easy for him.
"I'm saying you reminded me that childhood is supposed to be fun."
The hallway grows very quiet.
"You build blanket forts in the lobby. You hide book recommendations all over town. You convince my daughter that reading out loud can involve pirate voices instead of embarrassment."
A reluctant smile appears.
"I've been so busy trying to protect her from disappointment that somewhere along the way, I forgot she deserved delight."
The admission settles over me with surprising force.
It would have been easy for him to take credit for everything he has done right. Instead, he has chosen to confess the one place where he thinks he fell short.
The truth is, I don't think he ever did.
Children don't need perfect parents.
They need parents who love them enough to keep showing up.
Eli Turner has been doing that every single day.
"You've given her something she didn't have before," he says quietly.
I shake my head.
"No."
He looks at me questioningly.
"I didn't give it to her."
I glance toward Sophie's bedroom door.
"You did."
He follows my gaze.
"She trusts the world enough to laugh because she learned long before I met her that someone would catch her if she fell. That's not something a librarian teaches in three weeks."
His expression softens in a way I've never seen before.
For a moment, I wonder whether anyone has ever told him he was doing a good job.
Somehow, I doubt it.
Neither of us speaks.
The silence stretches comfortably between us.
And standing there in the quiet hallway outside our suite, I find myself thinking that attraction is supposed to be the easy part.
What worries me is how much I admire him.
The quiet settles comfortably between us.
Neither of us seems to be in a hurry to end the conversation.
The hallway is peaceful, and the inn has grown still around us.
Somewhere downstairs, the old grandfather clock marks another quarter hour, but otherwise the only sound is the faint hum of the air conditioner working against the lingering early fall heat.
I smile at him.
"I think you're giving yourself far too little credit."
"For what?"
"For Sophie."
He looks toward the closed bedroom door.
"I've spent most of the last few years wondering if I was doing enough."
"You are."
The words leave my mouth before I think about them.
Normally I would have softened the statement with a joke or a qualifier. Instead, I simply let it stand.
"I've watched the two of you together," I continue. "She trusts you completely. She knows you'll be there when she wakes up, when she comes home from school, when she needs help with homework, and when she's scared. Children don't fake that kind of security."
He doesn't answer immediately.
When he finally looks back at me, there is something in his expression that makes my heart squeeze.
"I don't always feel like I'm getting it right."
"I don't think good parents ever do."
A small smile appears.
"My dad used to say that if you worried about whether you were a good parent, you were probably already ahead of the people who never asked themselves the question."
"I think your dad was a wise man."
"He usually was."
The smile lingers for another moment before fading into something more thoughtful.
"What about you?" he asks.
"What about me?"
"You left a library with a bigger budget and a bigger staff to come here and fight for one that might not survive the year."
He studies me with the same quiet attention I've come to recognize.
"Most people wouldn't make that trade."
I look down at my hands.
"I didn't leave because I wanted something bigger."
The admission surprises me a little.
Maybe because I've never said it out loud.
"I left because I wanted something that mattered."
He doesn't interrupt.
"I loved my job in the city, but somewhere along the way I realized I had stopped knowing the people I was helping. Everything became programs and reports and attendance numbers. Those things are important, but they aren't why I became a librarian."
I glance toward Sophie's room.
"I like it here because I know the names of the children who walk through the front door. I know which books make them laugh. I know who pretends they don't like reading and who secretly checks out two extra books every Friday."
I laugh softly.
"I suppose what I'm trying to say is... I like being here."
The words feel strangely significant.
Not Cedar Hollow forever.
Not promises about the future.
Just here.
Right now.
When I lift my eyes again, Eli is looking at me with an expression I can't quite read.
Neither of us notices that we've moved closer.
At some point during the conversation, the distance between us has quietly disappeared. We aren't touching, but we are standing close enough that I can see the tiny scar near his chin and the flecks of gray in his blue eyes.
My pulse stumbles.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes.
The moment stretches.
Not awkward.
Not uncertain.
Simply... tender.
Then the laundry room door bursts open.
"There you two are!"
Wren backs into the hallway carrying an overflowing basket of towels before turning around and stopping dead in her tracks.
Her eyes move from Eli...
...to me...
...to the very noticeable lack of personal space between us.
A grin slowly spreads across her face.
"Well," she says brightly, shifting the laundry basket onto one hip. "This is considerably more interesting than folding fitted sheets."
Eli takes one very deliberate step backward.
I immediately discover that the hallway has plenty of room after all.
"I was just saying goodnight," I explain.
Wren nods with exaggerated seriousness.
"Of course you were."
She walks past us toward the staircase, then pauses just long enough to glance over her shoulder.
"Oh, and for the record, the chemistry in this hallway is visible from space."
Before either of us can respond, she disappears downstairs, cheerfully humming to herself.
I close my eyes for one brief, mortified second.
Somewhere beside me, Eli lets out a quiet laugh.
And somehow, that makes the embarrassment even worse.
I shake my head and let out a quiet laugh. "I don't think I'll ever recover from that."
Eli folds his arms, although the corners of his mouth are still threatening to smile.
"You'll be fine."
"Easy for you to say. Wren is your friend."
"She's also relentless."
"That is somehow less comforting."
He chuckles softly, and I decide I like the sound far more than I should.
For a moment, the awkwardness begins to fade. The hallway feels ordinary again. Sophie is asleep just a few feet away, the inn is settling for the night, and the strange awareness that had passed between us slowly gives way to something easier.
Then footsteps sound on the staircase.
Wren reappears, this time without the laundry basket.
She stops at the top step and snaps her fingers.
"I knew I forgot something."
Eli looks immediately suspicious.
"I don't like that sentence."
"You never do."
She points toward me.
"I had a visitor at the front desk this afternoon while you were both gone."
I tilt my head.
"A visitor?"
"The editor from the Cedar Hollow Chronicle stopped by."
She grins.
"Actually, I think he's technically the editor, the photographer, and about half the advertising department."
"Small-town newspaper?" I ask.
"The smallest."
Eli slips his hands into his pockets.
"What did he want?"
"He loved the Stories Saved Me wall. Apparently, people have been talking about the library all over town, and he wants to run a feature on the campaign before the budget vote."
"That's wonderful," I say.
"It gets better."
Wren's grin widens in a way that immediately makes me nervous.
"He wants pictures."
I blink.
"Pictures of the library?"
"Yes."
I relax.
"Good."
"And pictures of the people behind it."
The relaxation lasts approximately one second.
"Oh."
Wren points from me to Eli and back again.
"Specifically, he asked for the librarian who started the campaign and the firefighter whose daughter has become the library's biggest cheerleader."
Eli groans quietly.
"I don't see why I'm involved."
Wren laughs.
"Because half the town has watched the three of you together for the past few weeks. Whether you realize it or not, you've become part of the story."
I open my mouth to object.
Nothing comes out.
Mostly because she isn't entirely wrong.
Wren claps her hands together.
"So..."
I already know I'm not going to like the rest of this sentence.
"He'll be here tomorrow morning."
Eli and I speak at exactly the same time.
"What?"
Wren smiles brightly.
"Eight-thirty."
She starts down the stairs again, then pauses and looks back over her shoulder.
"Oh, and he specifically asked for a photo of both of you."
The words hang in the hallway.
Wren beams as though she's just delivered wonderful news.
Eli and I simply stare at each other.
Tomorrow morning suddenly feels much too soon.
Eli disappears into his room a few minutes later, leaving me alone in the hallway.
I don't move right away.
The Prairie Rose settles around me with its familiar evening sounds. The old floorboards creak softly as the building cools for the night, and somewhere downstairs I hear Wren humming while she folds another basket of laundry.
When I first arrived, this hallway had simply been a place to pass through on my way to a temporary room.
Now I knew which bedroom belonged to Sophie. I knew which stair tread creaked loudest after dark. I knew where Earl always left his oversized fountain soda whenever he stopped by to "help," and which windows caught the last bit of evening light.
Without noticing it happen, the inn had stopped feeling like temporary lodging.
It had begun to feel like home.
The realization should have been comforting.
Instead, it frightened me just a little.
Because homes are much harder to leave than hotels.