Chapter 2
two
LYDIA
“So there you have it,” I say, putting on a cheerful smile despite the look on her face.
I slide the binder I’ve prepared across the table.
“I think it’s really a no-brainer that the library is the perfect candidate for historical landmark status.
Not only would it be a huge honor to the town—formally recognizing a building that holds so much history—but, with the right positioning, it’d also be a tourist draw for Hawthorne Bay.
You know, a slice of New England lore and all that. ”
Mrs. Corey leafs through the pages in the binder, her pale pink nails gleaming in the overhead lights.
I shift in my seat, waiting for her to say something.
Throughout my pitch, she smiled and nodded politely, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was expecting more enthusiasm.
As the assistant librarian, I’m probably biased, but the Hawthorne Bay library is one of the oldest buildings in town, and it’s beautiful.
“Ms. Chandler,” Mrs. Corey begins. Her fingers play with the edges of the binder. “I’ll preface this by saying you make a compelling case. And the materials you’ve put together—the research you’ve done—is extremely thorough.”
My heart sinks. She’s saying all the right things, but there’s something in her voice that tells me I’m not going to like what she says next. Mrs. Corey clears her throat and continues.
“That being said, I’m sure you’re as aware as anyone of the renovation project that’ll be kicking off in just a couple of months.”
“Of course,” I say, trying not to show the irritation that creeps in every time I think about that damn renovation project.
I know I should be happy about it—renovating the library and all—but it means we’ll have to close temporarily, moving operations to a trailer that Nancy, my boss, is calling The Bookmobile.
Oh, well. It’ll be worth the hassle in the end, having a nicer facility for the community.
“Actually, I’m headed to the stakeholder meeting after this.
I thought I could share with them the research I’ve put together, let them know the Historical Society’s on board. ”
“Hmm…” Mrs. Corey rises from her chair. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but my concern is that some of the plans for the renovation won’t be compatible with the criteria for historical landmarks.”
I stare at her, confused. “Won’t be compatible?
The project may slow things down, but the library will be in better shape once everything’s done.
Besides, my understanding is that the plans are still being drawn up.
There’s still time to make sure everything’s aligned—hence the stakeholder meeting today. ”
Mrs. Corey cocks her head at me. The pitying expression is back. “Ms. Chandler—Lydia—has anyone on the board… talked with you?”
“Talked with me?”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m not sure it’s my place to say anything, but I think there may have been some… wires crossed. Nancy Cohen is your boss, right? I’d suggest taking this up with her.”
Mrs. Corey gestures to the door, and I follow her numbly out to the hallway. She hands me back the binder I put together, full of newspaper clippings, historical references, and photographs from throughout the years. As I take it from her, she pats my hand.
“I can tell how much the library means to you, Lydia,” she says. “And if it were up to me, we’d preserve every facet. It’s a beautiful piece of history.”
The silent but hangs between us.
Mrs. Corey’s face is kind as she holds the front door open for me. She tells me to take care, and I must say it back to her, but I don’t remember because all I can think about is getting out of that building.
I stop on the corner, gulping in lungfuls of crisp, autumn air.
Above me, the maple trees have begun to change color, their fiery leaves a burst of orange and red against the clear blue sky.
For a moment, I close my eyes, willing myself to focus on the scent of salt drifting inland from the sea.
I remind myself I’ve got this, that the world isn’t ending.
Because honestly, even though it sounds dramatic, learning that something’s going on with the Hawthorne Bay library—something I haven’t been told about even though I work there—feels kind of like the world is ending.
Or at least, like my world is ending. I feel like I’ve just been told my childhood home is being bulldozed.
Mrs. Corey said she could tell how much the library meant to me. And she’s right—it does mean a lot. But she doesn’t know the half of it.
She doesn’t know it’s the last place I spent a morning with my mom before we found out she was dying.
I was ten that summer, and Mom—the head librarian back then—took me along with her to work that day.
I sat cross-legged on the floor beneath the circulation desk, a pile of American Girl books next to me, and read while Mom worked.
The library was pretty busy that morning, so we didn’t talk much, but every once in a while I’d tap Mom’s leg and she’d duck down to help me pronounce a word I didn’t know.
After lunch, I went along to the doctor with her, and when she came back out into the waiting room, her face was weirdly drawn.
I don’t think they knew for sure then that she was dying—she had to go back in for more scans, which is when everything turned into a blur—but I do know Mom didn’t let go of my hand the whole drive home.
I remember thinking we never should’ve left the library.
We should’ve stayed there, planted right at the circulation desk, for the rest of time.
In the library, surrounded by the smell of books and the rustle of pages, life couldn’t touch us.
I think about it every time I sit at the desk now, scanning books and looking up titles for kids like I once was.
Mrs. Corey also doesn’t know how little Lydia Chandler, still trying to forget what it felt like when her dead mom’s hand turned cold in hers, used to take down all the Nancy Drew books the library owned and curl up in the corner, reading them one by one.
Her mom always loved Nancy Drew. Does she know how that same little girl would slide down the great wooden banister when the librarian who was no longer her mom wasn’t looking, pretending she was a princess in a castle—whose father would be home that night, instead of at the bar?
Does she know about the naps in the enclave? The hiding spots in the basement? No?
Then with all due respect, Mrs. Corey doesn’t know shit.
Slinging my purse strap over my shoulder, I stride off down the sidewalk.
Aside from the crunch of leaves beneath my heels, there’s only the faint twittering of birds and the occasional rev of an engine.
I pray I won’t run into anyone I know because I’m going to need a few more minutes—and a giant ass cup of coffee—before I can get a handle on myself.
My sole coffee shop in Hawthorne Bay, Brewed Awakening, is buzzing when I get there.
It’s nine a.m., and half the town must have come for their morning cup of Joe because almost every single table is taken.
I order my latte and go to stand at the far side of the counter, hoping the line won’t take as long to get through as I fear.
The stakeholder meeting starts in, like, five minutes, and I’ll need to show up on time if I want to make a good impression.
My brain is a mess of racing thoughts, and the chipper conversations from the people around me aren’t helping to calm me down. I’m not sure caffeine is going to help much either, but at least the act of sipping a warm, silky latte will be of comfort.
A buzz comes from my purse. Digging through it to find my phone, I check the screen and my heart sinks. There’s still an unread text from Dylan—one I’ve been trying to ignore—but the incoming call that’s flashing on my screen is not what I need this morning.
A quick scan behind the counter tells me the barista’s not done with my latte yet, so I move away from the counter and answer my call. This had better be quick.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, hon. Just wanted to check in. How’s it going?”
There’s the faint blare of a TV in the background, and the clatter of glasses. I hope to god he’s not at a bar this early in the morning.
“Oh, you know…” I pinch the bridge of my nose. Do I really want to go there with him this early in the day? Ah, what the hell. “It’s not great, actually.”
“That’s good, that’s good. Listen, I wanted to tell you… I’m seeing somebody, and I thought maybe we could grab dinner.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
My voice is harsh, and the women a few steps away from me, also waiting for their coffee, shoot me some looks. I must be talking louder than I realized.
“What? I thought you’d be happy to hear—”
“No, Dad,” I hiss, heading toward the wall, from which I can still keep an eye on the espresso bar. “You asked me how things were going, and I told you ‘not great’. So you take that as your cue to launch into telling me about some new chick you’re dating? I can see you really care.”
I lean my head against the exposed brick wall. My face is getting hot, my insides twisting. Of course this is how this conversation would go. When has my dad ever called to listen to me?
Answer: never. I’m the stupid one here.
“Aw, honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that. What’s got you down?”
“It doesn’t matter. Work stuff.”
“The library?”
“Yes, the library. They’re renovating, and I’m afraid it’ll make getting historical landmark status a challenge. You know Mom always wanted—”
“Oh, Lydia.” Dad’s voice is as pitying as Mrs. Corey’s face was. “That was a long time ago.”
“Twenty years and two months, actually.”
Dad clears his throat. “Honey, I know you miss your mom, and I know you love that library, but you’ve got to move on.”
“Oh, right. Since you have done such a great job of doing that. You’ve moved on so well—right from one bar to the next!”
When Dad doesn’t answer, my stomach sinks. I don’t know where the fuck that just came from, but I’m too riled up to take it back. And anyway, it’s not a lie. We’ve been through this before.
“Anyway,” Dad says finally. His voice sounds tired over the blare of the far-off television. “I’d like you to meet Shelley sometime. She’s wonderful. She teaches at the university, and she’s—”
“I’m late for a meeting,” I say, cutting him off. “Have a good day.”
I jab at the phone screen to end the call, then stand with my eyes closed, head still resting against the wall. I know I should cut my dad some slack, be grateful that he’s making at least some effort, after so many years of just… not caring. Or at least, not trying. But I can’t. Not today.
When my phone buzzes again, I inhale sharply. Is he for real? You’d think a person would get the idea that their daughter doesn’t want to talk to them when they—
Oh.
It’s not Dad. It’s Dylan again. When he decided he didn’t want to be tied down three months ago, I deleted his number the same night.
But of course I still recognize it. And although I haven’t replied to any of his texts these last couple of days, I’m starting to wonder if I should.
He hasn’t said outright that he wants to get back together, but…
As the barista calls my name and I head to the counter to grab my coffee, I open the text and suck in a breath.
Jesus Christ, Dylan. That’s… bold.
But his words barely have time to register, because no sooner do I swipe my coffee off the counter than I feel myself collide with something big and tall and solid, and my phone goes skittering to the floor.