Chapter 3
Mayor Breckenbridge is in danger of being the recipient of another curse if he doesn’t cut his shenanigans out.
I am beyond tired, which is making me irritable, but our prestigious mayor isn’t helping anything.
I was up past midnight last night trying to put together the bulletins for all four of Little Creek’s churches.
The office assistant they share came down with the flu, and someone mentioned how I’m always eager to volunteer, so when Pastor Jordan called asking if I’d be willing to help them out in a pinch, I couldn’t say no, even though I really didn’t have the time nor the energy.
I can barely keep my eyes open now, but at least I have a nice big checkmark in my notebook next to yesterday’s date.
Martha leans toward me and whispers, “How many pictures do you think he’s made poor Peggy Sue take?”
I’m not sure why she’s being careful with her volume. I’m beginning to think the only thing Mayor Breckenbridge can hear is the sound of his own voice.
“I really wish we’d wrapped it in a ribbon I could’ve cut,” he complains. “Or had a bottle of champagne I could have smashed on its hull—er, fender. That would’ve made a splendid picture.”
“Yes, sir.” Peggy Sue doesn’t bother removing her camera from in front of her face to answer.
Little Creek doesn’t have what people outside our small town would call a newspaper, but we do have Peggy Sue Sturgis and the printer in her basement.
From gossip column to classifieds to investigative journalism pieces, Peggy Sue is a one-woman, one-sheet, knows-all tells-all.
No doubt our distinguished mayor is hoping for a full spread on how he’s already on top of fulfilling his campaign promises so he can slack off the rest of his term.
I turn to Evangeline, swallowing down a yawn. “Next year I’m campaigning for Kitty Purry to be mayor. If the city of Idyllwild in California can have a golden retriever as mayor, Little Creek can elect your Ragdoll cat.”
Evangeline snorts. “As if Kitty Purry would settle for anything less than a throne. She already thinks she’s a queen. If you give her an ounce of power, she’ll turn into even more of a tyrant.”
“Are you sure you’re capturing my good side, Peggy Sue?”
I roll my eyes and cross my arms. “Tai should be in these pictures. Cletus looked like he was about to join the zombie apocalypse before my cousin did his magic. Now he’s the vehicle equivalent of Eliza Doolittle.
A daytime talk show–worthy transformation that would fool anyone.
It burns my britches that Mayor Breckenbridge is taking the credit when it’s not due him. ”
“Tai is really fantastic, isn’t he?” Evangeline’s voice has gone off to dreamland, its new permanent residence whenever she talks about Tai.
I roll my eyes again. “I can’t agree with you when you say it like that.”
She smirks, and I just shake my head.
The truth is, Tai has outdone himself. Yes, he’d grumbled that the two types of bodywork weren’t even remotely the same, but his finished product would’ve convinced anyone that they were.
Instead of rust and dirt and years of grime and neglect on display, he’d put on a fresh coat of paint in the same shade of blue that covers the library card nestled in his wallet.
He’d even hand-painted stacks of books with colorful bindings along the side with the word Bookmobile in blocky font.
Mayor Breckenbridge pivots and holds his hands out in a Vanna White pose.
“Okay, that’s enough,” I mumble before marching toward Cletus. I paste on my best customer service smile, the one I use with especially difficult patrons.
I tap the mayor on the arm. “Thank you so much for your generosity, Mayor. I’m sure Peggy Sue here will let all the good townspeople know just the kind of leader you are.”
Mayor Breckenbridge puffs out his chest like a proud peacock.
Guess he missed the slices of sarcasm I slipped in there for him to chew on.
“But I know how much serving the neighboring communities means to you and how much vision and pride you’ve put into this illustrious bookmobile”—guess Martha’s tidbit about the Greek meaning of Cletus has stuck in my brain—“and I know you don’t want to see its maiden voyage delayed for any reason.”
“No, no, of course not.” He pats his ample belly, then seems to really look at me for the first time even though all us librarians have been out here watching the spectacle he’s been making out of himself for the last twenty minutes.
Ryan, our supervisor who mainly works with us remotely from his office at the main regional branch, has come for his once-a-month personal check-in and offered to oversee operations inside while Evangeline, Martha, and I watch the circus in front of us.
Considering the bookmobile is partially funded with county tax revenues and technically now property of the county library system, Ryan plays a role in its operations and wanted to be on site for its first route.
“Are you the librarian given the honor of steering our town’s library into our community’s rightful leading role?”
I grit my teeth but keep on smiling. “That’s me.”
His eyes light up. “Peggy Sue, get a picture of me handing over the keys to . . .”
“Hayley Holt,” I supply.
“To Miss Holt.” He digs around in his pocket and extracts a single key on a ring, then holds up the metal sphere of the ring in his pinched fingers, jiggling the key until I hold my hand out, palm up. He turns his head and beams for the camera.
When the hard metal connects with my palm, I curl my fingers around it. “Peggy Sue, would you be interested in some before and after photos of the bookmobile?”
Mayor Breckenbridge startles, shooting me a disquieted glance. He grumbles something under his breath, and I doubt the color staining his cheeks is from the temperatures that are rising with the sun.
“Oh!” Peggy Sue finally lowers her camera and looks at me directly. “That would be a nice—”
“Don’t you have a route to get on, my dear?” The mayor bumps me toward the driver’s door. “People are waiting for the books you’re going to bring them, isn’t that what you were saying?” He shoots Peggy Sue a sharp smile over his shoulder as he curls his fingers around my elbow.
I choke on my chuckle. Funny how he’s all of a sudden concerned about a schedule. Also, he does realize I can just email Peggy Sue any pictures I have, right?
Evangeline and Martha sidle up to him like living bookends, matching looks of concern etched on their faces.
Martha hands me my bag. “The tablet and scanner are in there and fully charged.”
I’ll need both to sign patrons up for library cards, check out books, and show people how to use our website to request books that I can stock Cletus with and bring them on my next trip.
Not to mention, I can set up a hotspot so everyone can have access to free Wi-Fi wherever I’m parked.
I’ll drive a route once a week, circling back to each destination once a month, so that I can also stay on top of my other duties at the library.
“Drive carefully,” Evangeline adds. “It rained fairly hard last night.”
Evangeline is always worried about rockslides after it rains.
There are warning signs posted along the roads depicting large rocks falling on vehicles, and now she’s scared one will come loose of the mountainside and crush her car under limestone and granite.
The chances of that happening are probably less than finding a rare gem in one of the bags of dirt they sell at the tourist-trap mines in Pigeon Forge.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure her. I’ve been driving on these roads since before I even had a license, sitting on my daddy’s lap and singing along to George Strait. I’ve never once had any issue with falling debris. Right now, she should be more worried about my drowsiness.
Her lips are pressed firm, but she manages to tilt them up in a semblance of a reassured gesture. She eyes me, then Mayor Breckenbridge. Me, then the mayor again. Her shoulders rise as she takes a deep breath, then turns her back to me and faces the mayor.
“You had a mechanic look the van over before you donated it, right?” She pitches her voice low to keep what she’s saying from floating over to Peggy Sue. Probably in hopes that the mayor will be honest with her in case his answer would make him look bad in print.
He huffs and jerks his chin down and back, the extra skin around his jowls folding and layering over his thick neck. “Just what are you implying, young lady?”
“I’m not implying anything, Mayor. I just want to make sure Hayley is safe. That’s all.”
“Well, of course she is safe. Do you think I would do anything to put someone in my town in danger?”
Martha’s gaze meets mine, and she lifts her brow. Did he not see the condition Cletus was in when he first dropped the van off in the library’s parking lot?
“My apologies.” Evangeline turns and widens her eyes at me.
We’re all wondering the same thing. Is Mayor Breckenbridge really that clueless, or is he simply being careless? Seriously, Kitty Purry for queen of Little Creek next year. I’ll make her a tiny crown and scepter myself.
“I think we’ve got all we need, Peggy Sue. Thank you,” Mayor Breckenbridge calls out. He tips an imaginary hat to Martha, Evangeline, and me. “Good day, ladies.” With that, he turns on his booted heel and strides toward the municipal building one street over.
“Here, I checked this out for you.” Martha hands me a paperback by Lynn Austin, with a young blond woman on the cover, a faraway look in her eyes. She’s clutching a small stack of books to her chest, log cabins nestled in the woods.
I scan the title. Wonderland Creek.
“It’s about a packhorse librarian in Kentucky during the Great Depression. Thought you might enjoy it during any downtime you have on your route. You know, a whole look-at-the-women-who’ve-gone-before type of thing.”
I caress the cover with my thumb. “Thanks, Martha.” I clear my throat and put on a brave face. “All right. I’ve dillydallied enough. Time to hit the road.”
Evangeline and Martha take a step back so I can close the door.
The key fits into the ignition, and the engine cranks up with enough coughs and sputters to put a chain smoker to shame.
I take a cleansing breath, muting the ominous music starting to play in my mind and dubbing in some positive vibes instead.
“You’re the bookmobile Little Engine That Could, Cletus.
Let’s show them what you’ve got.” And that I’ve got nothing to worry about.
I put the van into gear and pull out of the parking lot.
My first stop is Turkey Grove, a community that doesn’t even have a dot on a map.
There’s only one access road that I know of, and it’s so narrow and riddled with potholes that cars need to turn sideways and suck in their guts in order to pass each other.
I’m sincerely praying that I don’t meet up with any vehicles coming the opposite direction.
I’ve only been to Turkey Grove once, to hike to a nearby waterfall.
All that I remember is a mechanic’s garage, a general store, a trailer park, a church, and miles and miles of uncorrupted nature.
I saw laundry hanging on lines to dry and outhouses that were still in use.
It was a bit like stepping back in time.
Honestly, I won’t be surprised if today will be someone’s first time accessing the internet.
I’ve been driving about forty minutes, adrenaline from nerves kicking the sleepiness out of my system better than caffeine could have, when all of a sudden, Cletus’s clutch slips, creating a squeaky, grinding noise.
My pulse spikes as my stomach jumps into my throat. “Don’t give up on me now, Cletus. You can do this.” I grip the wheel so tight my knuckles turn white.
A burning stench fills my nostrils, singeing the inside of my nose. The dashboard lights up like Christmas, then blinks with the heartbeat of a college rage party.
“No, no, no. Come on, Cletus!”
What should I do? Should I try to turn around and make it back to Little Creek? Keep going and hope to crawl our way to the mechanic before Cletus completely peters out?
Whether it’s the right thing to do or not, I stop the van and pull out my cell phone. At least there’s one bar of reception, which I’m surprised but thankful for. If nothing else, I can call a tow truck and get a ride back home.
Cletus gives a loud cough, a shudder that I feel all the way down my spine, then dies with a puff of smoke curling from under the hood.
Tow truck it is.
A buzz not unlike an insistent bee right next to your ear fills the space around me with a physical tremble.
Something isn’t right, but I can’t pinpoint what’s wrong exactly.
The quiet hum becomes a distant rumble in the air, growing in volume until the vibrations are shaking my teeth together.
An earthquake? I push open the van door and jump out of the driver’s seat. Outside, the noise is even louder.
And that’s when I spot the boulders tumbling down the mountainside behind me, dislodging more rubble and debris as they plummet to the ground.
My hands shoot out to cover my gasping mouth, and in the back of my mind, I recognize the small voice wondering if this is what it was like for the Israelites watching Jericho’s walls crumble in front of them.
I’m far enough away to not be in danger of being crushed or hit with a stray rock, but it’s hard to process what my eyes are witnessing.
As quickly as the whole thing started, the rockslide stops.
The air is coated in a dusty haze that slowly dissipates on the gentle breeze.
When the dust settles, a dam of boulders the size of cars and stacked as tall as a house lays across the section of road that I had just driven across.
If Cletus had given up the ghost even thirty seconds earlier, I might have died right along with him.