Chapter 28
I smile at her and squint against the morning sun that’s shining through my windshield. “I’d like to pay for the car behind me as well.”
“Well, isn’t that sweet of you.” She beams her approval.
She adds the totals together, and I hand her my debit card to pay, glancing at my notebook that’s lying in the passenger seat as she processes the order.
The rectangle of bound pages has been giving me judgy eyes ever since I drove away with it from Levi’s house yesterday evening.
He’d seemed a little off in his behavior, but I’d pinned that on having to deal with his whole family all at once.
From things he’d said to me in the past, I knew they could overwhelm him pretty quickly.
Personally, I think they’re great and can tell they love Levi a lot, but I can also see how they could be a bit much concentrated in one room like that.
Even with my self-assurances, however, a niggle of doubt won’t leave me alone, a continuous finger poke to the brain.
It was obvious that Levi had stumbled across my notebook before I’d arrived since he’d had it on hand instead of me having to go and look for it.
He’d given it to me without a single question, but there was something akin to hesitancy in his eyes.
Had he peeked inside? If so, had he seen his own name written within?
My stomach churns as possible reactions roll through my thoughts.
I mean, if it had been me who’d stumbled upon my name in a book like that, I’m sure I’d have questions.
Possibly even some pretty negative inferences, if I’m honest. Even so, I hope he didn’t jump to any erroneous conclusions.
I worry my bottom lip. Just what exactly is marinating in his mind right now?
“Here you go, hon.” The barista hands me my debit card back, and I return it to the holding slot in my wallet.
Once my hands are free, she extends a traveling container with three cups—a London fog for Evangeline, a Mexican hot chocolate for Martha, and the first pumpkin spice latte of the season for me.
“Thank you so much.” I smile once more at the employee.
My gaze falls again on the blasted notebook that’s become more damning evidence than proof of well-being.
Shame climbs like vines along the walls on my insides as the faux leather cover stares back mockingly.
I put the coffees down on top of the notebook hoping to silence the nonverbal accusations, roll up my window, and shift into drive.
I’ve never wanted to inspect my motivation for keeping that notebook or any of the previous ones I’ve filled over the years.
In fact, I’ve been pretty firmly rooted in the comfortable state of denial.
Any time my thoughts started to prime the wells of reason, I’d turn on the flashing bright lights of it’s good to be intentional about making someone else’s day brighter, of making the world a better place, and I’d focus on that truth alone until the desire to probe deeper passed.
Because, seriously, who can argue that doing at least one good deed a day is a bad thing?
But now it’s like a mirror is being held up to my face, forcing me to look at my distorted reflection.
Or, more accurately, now that someone else is aware of the Band-Aid I’ve been using to cover what is more than likely a case of survivor’s guilt—among other things—and has ripped the bandage off, I’m forced to look at a wound I haven’t allowed to properly heal.
I turn into the library’s parking lot, my gaze snagging on a giant blue tarp covering the left corner of the roof that I hadn’t noticed yesterday when I’d dropped Cletus off, having parked him in the upper lot on the other side of the building.
What in the world happened? My heart sinks as I press down on the brake pedal and duck my head to get a better view.
I realize I’m experiencing some of what the Pevensie children did when they walked through the wardrobe and into Narnia and back—that time didn’t work the same between the two worlds.
I’d been gone but had expected it to be like no time had passed here in Little Creek.
Obviously, that wasn’t the case, and a lot has happened in my absence.
Like the library roof looking like a half-frosted cupcake for a Smurf-themed party.
I pull into a parking space and turn off my car, gathering my belongings and the tray of coffees. As I walk toward the building, I can’t help but try to get a glimpse of what the damage is under the tarp.
I store my belongings in the back room and make my way to the front, drinks in hand. Evangeline is turning on the computers at the huddle of desks set up for patrons’ use while Martha is riffling through some papers in the children’s section.
“Good morning,” I call out.
They both stop what they’re doing and immediately turn to me, smiles overtaking their expressions.
“I brought fuel for the day,” I say as I lift the cupholder in the air.
“I’d say you shouldn’t have, but I have a feeling this is going to be the most Monday-est Wednesday in the history of time,” Martha says as she pulls out her hot chocolate and takes a long sip.
“The reason for that have anything to do with the tarp on the roof?” I ask, fishing for the story of what happened.
Evangeline collects her London fog and takes an appreciative sip.
“The storm that blew through decided to blow off half the shingles on the roof. There are a couple of roofing companies that are supposed to drop by today to check out the extent of the damage and then give the board of trustees a bid on repairs.”
Martha’s face clouds. “Hopefully the powers-that-be can apply for and be awarded a federal grant for the renovation. The last I heard, private donations are at an all-time low right now and revenue from city and county taxes are barely enough to cover our current expenses.”
“What about insurance? Won’t they cover the cost of a new roof?” I ask.
Evangeline winces. “According to Ryan, the property insurance policy the library holds is an actual cash value one instead of replacement cost value. Which means the payout will only be what the insurance adjuster deems the roof was valued at before the storm damage. Which will probably be significantly lower than the money required to replace the roof.”
Martha and I share a concerned look. That doesn’t sound good.
If budget cuts are on the horizon, what will go?
The bookmobile was a donation, but it still requires money for fuel and maintenance.
Martha’s been growing the children’s department with crafternoons, STEM-focused activities, and focused presentations by special guests like the wildlife rescue facility and the power company.
Some of those don’t cost the library anything because they’re considered community outreach within their own company, but for others the library pays an honorarium.
A more pressing thought stabs at my temple. Should we be worried about our jobs?
Evangeline blows out a hard breath as if ridding herself of the negativity, then paints on a bright face. The woman has a strong belief in faking it until you make it.
“I’m sure it will all work out.” She turns to me, her grin becoming more pointed. “Besides, now that Hayley is back, I think we can agree that the more pressing question is when we can meet this new man of hers.”
I tap my chin as if deep in thought, trying to keep the tone light and playful. If it were up to Evangeline, I’m sure she’d have Levi and I married in a Gatlinburg chapel by nightfall. Me, on the other hand . . .
Well, things just aren’t that simple.
“Can we really call him my man?”
“Yes!” both women respond. Evangeline’s is a shout of exclamation while Martha’s is a more subdued agreement, along with a small shake of her head like she can’t believe I’m being so dense.
“The man writes love letters to you,” Evangeline points out.
“They’re regular letters, not love letters,” I correct.
She rolls her eyes. “Letters with secret love messages in them.” Her gaze narrows. “Why are you being intentionally obtuse? Oh my gosh, you didn’t pull a too-dumb-to-live heroine card or fall into a miscommunication trope, did you?”
I turn the Martha. “Is she the pot or the kettle, do you think?”
Evangeline taps her toe. “I learned from my mistake, and you can learn from it too instead of making the same one yourself.”
“Why do you think I’ve made some sort of mistake?”
She throws her hands up. “Because you’re skirting around claiming him as your man and downplaying how utterly romantic the fact he writes you letters is.
I’ve seen you go out with a string of men.
You keep things surface-level and fun. This time things are different, and most people tend to get just a little bit scared when things are different, especially when something big is on the line. Like your heart.”
So much for keeping things light. I glance to Martha for help, but she only shakes her head at me, unwilling to get in the middle of Evangeline and her pursuit of romance all around her.
Evangeline takes a step closer and picks up my hands to cradle in her palms. “Is that it, Hayley? Are you scared? Because it’s okay if you are. Vulnerability is terrifying.”
This has gotten too real too quickly. I’m already dealing with the crumbling walls of my possible disillusionment from my notebooks as well as my own unsurety about the rightness of continuing things with Levi. I can’t deal with Evangeline’s probing questions right now on top of that.
I laugh like the whole exchange has been a joke from the start.
“You need to simmer down, Cupid. Levi’s coming over to my place later this week, and I’m going to cook him dinner.
” I hold up my hand. “And before you ask, no, you can’t crash our date so you can swoon over the idea of another happily-ever-after in real life. Go enjoy your own with Tai.”
She wrinkles her nose at me. “Spoilsport.”
The sound of the deadbolt hitting the strike plate at the front entrance thunks through the room and draws our attention.
Mrs. Kittle stands on the other side of the glass with her canvas library bag slung over her shoulder.
The library has a thirty-item limit for checking out media, and Mrs. Kittle comes every twenty-one days on the dot to exchange her thirty items for another thirty.
Martha glances at the clock on the wall.
“We were supposed to open three minutes ago.” Her gaze sweeps the library.
Half the computers still need to be turned on, including the one we use behind the circulation desk as well as the self-check-out scanner.
Toddler story time will start in an hour, and she probably still needs to gather whatever props she plans on using for the day.
I flush, knowing I’m the reason we’re so behind already this morning. “I’ll get the door.”
I walk to the front with a welcoming smile on my face for Mrs. Kittle. There’s a lot in my life I need to sort through, but that’s going to have to wait. For the next eight hours, I plan on escaping into the literary worlds around me.