Chapter 4
TAYLOR
The next morning, I’m dressed and ready to go before the sun is up, excited to explore the local library.
I know I should be exhausted after yesterday, and physically I am. Between moving everything around and ripping up half the carpet, I was pretty worn out before the tree exploded through the window.
And then that incredible picnic and surprisingly good company gave me a second wind, and I got a few of the books moved a second time.
Well, Meg was good company at least.
Her dad is a different story. He blows hot and cold. Which is pretty typical for guys, in my opinion. It’s just that normally they blow hot until you start to really like them and then they suddenly aren’t sure they want anything serious.
Roan Connelly’s gaze might be heated, but his attitude is cold as ice. How he raised such an open-hearted and laid-back daughter, I’ll never know, but I’m glad he did.
Meg is a treasure, and it will be nice to have her around.
I’ll just have to keep Roan at arm’s length.
The only trouble with that is I kind of like him, and not just his rugged good looks. I like the way he is with Meg, even if he’s weird and gruff with me. And I like the way he stormed in and took charge of making things right with the window too.
And of course we wouldn’t have had a picnic on the floor last night without his good idea—even if he didn’t say much and mostly just left Meg and me to chat about A Wrinkle in Time.
I head downstairs and enjoy the sight of half my wood floor in the sunlight. Pulling on my coat, I wonder if I can finish up at the library quickly enough to put in another hour or two on the store before lunch.
Speaking of which, I have to get to the grocery store today. If it hadn’t been for Roan’s Christmas tree incident, I probably wouldn’t have eaten anything but mac and cheese for the last twenty-four hours.
My mother’s voice pipes up in my head.
You can’t forget to eat, Taylor. Anything you do on an empty belly won’t be done right.
I guess I’ve always been hyper-focused when something captures my interest. But I’ll definitely stop and get some lunch today.
I’m already outside before I remember that Roan is probably out here too. For some reason, I have the urge to check my reflection in the shop window, even though I know the way I look is the last thing Roan Connelly cares about.
I spot him right away, talking with an older couple. The woman is waving her arms around, like she’s describing how big a tree she wants.
Roan has this gentle smile on his face that I haven’t seen before. The hard angle of his jaw isn’t as steely as usual and his eyes are crinkled at the edges.
Of course, when he catches me looking his face tightens up again. But he waves once, which I guess is progress.
The lady looks over her shoulder and smiles at me, and I wave back at both of them before hurrying along the sidewalk in the direction of the library.
Focus, Taylor. Get the shop ready, get your ducks in a row, and stop thinking about your neighbor.
The village of Angel Mountain is still sleepy at this hour. The library opens at eight, but a lot of the storefronts I’m passing have signs that say they won’t be open until nine or ten.
It’s an eclectic mix of old-fashioned shops selling basic odds and ends, and sleek-looking boutiques full of modern-looking furniture and high-end ski clothing. I guess that’s to be expected in the Poconos.
I pass the small Lenni Lenape Museum, wishing I could stop in, but that doesn’t open for a few hours. Maybe if I finish up early today I’ll treat myself to a trip to check out this interesting spot with its Native American art and artifacts.
One of the shops has a big display of those cute little Christmas animals I’ve always loved—Foster’s Figurines.
I see they’ve added some new designs this year of gingerbread families, and I also learn from the sign that they’re made right here in Angel Mountain.
Yet another spot for me to check out when I have time.
At last, I reach the library. It’s a massive brick Victorian that looks more like a mansion than a public building, which makes me wonder if it used to be someone’s home at some point.
I push open the heavy wooden door to find a surprisingly sun-drenched lobby.
The ceiling goes up three stories, with a bookshelf-lined balcony around the second floor.
A massive front-facing window starts on that balcony and stretches to the top of what would have been the third floor if this were a house.
“Striking, isn’t it?” a woman’s voice floats to me across the large space. “I mean, it’s not as impressive as the one in midtown Manhattan, but we’ve got good light here.”
“How did you guess?” I ask as I approach the lady wearing blue-rimmed glasses with a beaded chain dangling from them.
“Oh, it was too easy,” the lady laughs. “I don’t know you, and you’re about my daughter’s age, so you have to be an out-of-towner. Plus, that coat isn’t up to the job up here in the mountains.”
“Wow,” I say. “And how did you know I was from New York?”
“That part was just a lucky guess,” she says, smiling. “What can I help you with today?”
“Well, for starters, I’d love to get a card,” I begin. “But I also have an ulterior motive. I’m reopening the bookshop in town, and I’d love to get to know what the locals like to read.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the lady says, coming out from behind the desk. “You’re Jessie’s niece. I’m Maureen Chalfont.”
She pulls me into a hard hug before I can even acknowledge her name.
“Your aunt is a very special lady,” she tells me, pulling back to look me right in the eyes from behind her spectacles. “I miss her, but I’m glad she’s having her big adventure at last. She deserves it.”
“She does,” I agree, instantly feeling an instant connection with Maureen Chalfont.
“Now, I probably don’t have to tell you that she opened that shop mostly as an excuse to be in town socializing,” Maureen continues with a knowing smile. “I’m glad to hear you’re interested in stocking it properly.”
That much is true. My aunt certainly never thought of the shop as a way to make money.
“I’m looking forward to it,” I tell her honestly.
“She says you’re a real book lover,” Maureen says kindly.
Which tells me that she knows exactly what happened with me in New York.
My stomach drops, my cheeks heat, and I suddenly wish I could sink into the floor.
“It probably won’t come as a surprise that we move a lot of romance and mysteries,” Maureen goes on quickly, like she’s realized I’m mortified.
“But I know you’ll like to hear that we have a good children’s section that stays active.
There’s a story hour happening right now, if you want to slip back there to get a sense of it? ”
“I’d love that,” I tell her.
“Great,” she says. “I’ll put together a list of some of our top circulating titles and authors to take with you when you go.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, following in the direction she pointed, toward the back of the library.
The stacks are high and fairly close together. This place has a really good collection for a small-town library. In some ways, that will take the pressure off me to stock anything terribly unusual. But maybe that was the trap Aunt Jessie fell into.
That and not needing to make the shop profitable. I don’t really have that luxury.
A spirited voice is reading aloud as I arrive at the edge of the children’s section.
High-backed chairs surround an open area where a young woman with pink and blue hair and wearing what looks like a ballet tutu over jeans is sitting on the floor with a mesmerized semi-circle of children surrounding her.
She’s reading one of the Skippyjon Jones books, and either she’s read this one about a million times or she’s very, very good. Those books are real tongue twisters, and they need to be read at a fast clip.
I listen along with the kids, forgetting to check out the shelves like I meant to, in favor of listening to this excellent reading.
When the woman finishes up, the children all cheer and she pretends to bow and blow kisses, which predictably cracks them up. The moms and other caregivers sitting in the chairs and standing with their backs to the shelves are smiling too.
“Now be sure to come back next week,” she tells them all. “We’re doing a craft along with our reading, okay?”
That wins her more sounds of approval from the kids, and a few of them hug her or touch her cotton candy hair before darting off to join their parents.
“Great job, Taffy,” one of the moms says.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Taffy replies. “See you next week, right?”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” the mom tells her.
I hang back, letting everyone say their goodbyes.
“You’re a little old for this, aren’t you?” Taffy said, turning to me with a quirked brow and then winking.
“I loved it,” I tell her honestly. “I don’t think Skippyjon Jones has an age limit.”
“You’re right about that,” she tells me. “What can I help you with? Are you looking for something for a kid? Or just a nice YA romance? There’s no shame in it. Twilight’s my favorite.”
“I do love Twilight,” I reply automatically. “But I’m actually looking for your opinion more than I’m looking for a book.”
“Wow, okay,” she says.
“I’m reopening the bookshop here in town,” I tell her. “And I want to stock it with stuff people actually want to read. Maureen is running some data for me, but I thought you might have some insights too. I’m… really into YA and kids’ books.”
That’s an understatement. But admitting that I’m so into them that I risked my job for one doesn’t make for a good first impression.
“That’s great,” she replies. “I’m Taffy, by the way.”
“Taylor,” I tell her. “Nice to meet you.”
“So, as you can see,” Taffy says, leading me further into the kids’ section. “We have a very engaged younger readership. I do three reading groups most days, and they’re all pretty well attended.”
“You’re an amazing reader,” I tell her. “I can see why they come in.”