Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Ranch
“What’s that?” I asked as Muddy set a plate of food down in front of me.
“It’s breakfast,” she said in confusion. “You’ve seen breakfast before, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but I already ate a donut. Why would I need breakfast?”
“Are you really gonna make me lecture you?”
I grinned. “You sound like Brooks.”
“Speaking of Brooks, you two were looking pretty cozy this morning when you said goodbye by the truck.”
“Cozy . . . yeah. Getting cozier by the minute,” I admitted. My cheeks blazed when I remembered what we’d done together just that morning.
She smiled like she knew what I wasn’t saying. “Another cup of coffee?”
“Please.”
Light footsteps traipsed down the stairs, and a moment later, Mr. Powell’s thirty-year-old girlfriend appeared in the kitchen. Her hair was in a high ponytail and her skin looked wan in the early morning light.
“Hi, Poet,” Jane greeted.
“Hi,” I replied.
“Morning, Muddy.”
“You look like hell,” Muddy said to Jane.
“Thanks,” Jane drawled with a grimace. “This is what happens when you have a patient go into labor in the middle of the night.”
“Dog?” I asked.
“Raccoon.”
“Oh sure,” I said with a nod.
“So,” Jane began as she went to the coffee pot. “You’re staying in town for a while?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“And you’re crashing in the apartment over the empty storefront?”
“Nothing stays a secret around here, does it?”
“Gossip train,” Muddy said.
Jane snorted. “Or pillow talk.”
I nodded and popped the yolks of my eggs. “Yeah, it’s really cute, but I still need some stuff for it, like a coffee maker and maybe a little table and a set of chairs. There’s nowhere to sit except the bed, and that’s awkward.”
“I should take you to my place,” Jane said. “My apartment lease ends in a few months, but I have my furniture still there. I’d considered donating it all after I moved in here, but I haven’t gotten around to it. You can pick through things, if you want.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
Jane nodded. “I can take you now, if you want. I have the morning free.”
I looked at Muddy. “Do you mind?”
“Mind?” Muddy asked. “No, not at all. There will be plenty of time to work on the cookbook. Trust me.”
“Are you sure I can have this?” I asked as I held up the coffee maker.
“Take it.” Jane smiled. “There are some coffee filters in the drawer.”
Her phone rang and she pulled it from her pocket. She stared at the screen. “I’ve got to take this. But make sure you open all the cabinets—there’s some kitchen gadgets I’m sure you could use in your new place.”
She strode to the back sliding door and went out onto the balcony, closing it behind her as she put the phone to her ear.
I sat on the floor of the kitchen and began riffling through the cabinets. I was in the middle of adding a blender to the pile of appliances when I heard the balcony door open.
“Poet?” she called.
“Down here.”
Jane came around the counter, her expression tight.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She swallowed. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Well, I am.” She gestured to the stash. “Good haul. Careful with that mandolin though. Make sure you use the guard.”
“I promise,” I said. “I’m fond of my fingers.”
She nodded. “Swivel around and open the drawer.”
I did as she said and pulled out matching dish towels.
“These are great.”
“Let me show you something else.” Jane waved me toward the kitchen table. “It folds in.” She reached underneath it to release the latch and then collapsed in the two ends.
“Oh, that’s perfect,” I murmured. “Not sure I really have room for four chairs, though.”
“Take them anyway,” she suggested. “You can leave two of them downstairs in the store and use them when you need them.”
Thirty minutes later, her car was packed up with all my new treasures.
“Thank you so much,” I said softly.
“For what?” she asked as she climbed into the driver’s side.
“For all of this.” I buckled myself in and then gestured toward the trunk. “It’s going to make the apartment feel even more like a home now.”
She smiled. “Well, I’m glad to help. You want to head down there now and unload all this?”
“You have time?”
“Yep.”
“That would be great, actually. I kind of want to surprise Brooks.”
“Surprise Brooks, huh?”
“Okay, what are you asking without actually asking?” I demanded.
She started the engine and put the car into gear. “I don’t think my stuff is the only reason the apartment is starting to feel like a home.”
“Oh good. Another insightful woman in my life,” I quipped.
She laughed. “Am I wrong?”
“No.” I bit my lip. “But I just met him. And yet it feels like I’ve known him forever.”
“Hmm. Yeah. I understand that all too well.” When I was silent for a moment, she said, “What is it you’re trying to figure out, Poet?”
“Life. I’m trying to figure out my life.”
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Please.”
She flashed a grin. “You never figure it out.”
“Never?”
“Never. You just live it. That’s all you can do.”
Jane helped me get everything up to the apartment but then had to leave almost immediately because a golden retriever ate a pair of silk panties, and she got called into emergency surgery.
I had no ride back to the Ridge, so I was stuck in town. It didn’t matter, though. I knew how to occupy myself. I grabbed my keys and cell and locked up.
Silver Street was bustling. Families flocked to The Diner and Sweet Teeth. The Copper Mule was closed, but at night, it would be full of adults. Teenagers hung out on benches and sidewalks.
As I walked through town, I thought about belonging. All of us searched for a place to call home, a place of familiarity. We craved community, a village, somewhere to belong.
I ambled through town and smiled when I found myself standing outside the Huckleberry Hill Library. It was as if my soul knew where to take me.
The Huckleberry Hill library was an elegant, restored brick building with a brass plaque on the exterior that read EST. 1904.
I opened the heavy wooden door and was greeted by one of my favorite sights.
Books.
Shelves of books.
Rows of books.
Books as far as the eye could see.
The ancient librarian behind the counter had a friendly smile, and her skin was wrinkled like old parchment.
A strand of pearls encased her wiry neck, and her white hair was ever so slightly tinted blue and cut into a bob that was too short for her features.
Her thick glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose, and they were attached to a golden beaded strand so she could take them off and let them rest on her chest.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Hi,” I said with a smile of my own as I strode toward her.
“Looking for something in particular?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted.
She pointed to the back corner. “That’s the children’s section. And over there—” she gestured to the other end of the room, “—is fiction. Upstairs, we have nonfiction and history. Young adult is sort of split between children’s and the adult section.”
“Thanks, I’m just going to have a look around.”
“Please do. My name is Edna Cranston.”
“Cranston,” I repeated. “Oh, you’re related to Eloise!”
“My younger sister.” She beamed as she raised her hand and pushed upward on the back of her head. “She does my hair.”
“Well, it looks great,” I lied.
“Thank you, dear.”
“Poet,” I introduced, holding out my hand. “Poet Peabody.”
“Poet,” she said, shaking my outstretched palm.
She had a surprisingly strong grip for a woman of her age.
“That name sounds familiar,” she murmured, releasing my hand.
“I’m friends with Hadley and Salem Powell,” I said.
Her brow wrinkled. “No, that’s not the connection I’m thinking of. Oh! You’re the young lady that’s renting the apartment over Lucy’s storefront.”
Well, there was no hope for any sort of private life in this town. And definitely not if I lived on Silver Street.
Smiling at the elderly librarian, I turned and explored the bookshelves.
Aged spines. Dog-eared page corners. Cream-colored paper that thousands of others had lovingly touched.
Books reminded me of being seven years old and clutching my grandmother’s hand as we strolled through the streets of our Bay Ridge neighborhood. Every Wednesday afternoon, we’d trek to the local library, empty canvas satchels swinging on our shoulders.
The library was an ugly serviceable building, yet I’d gaped at the selection of undiscovered adventures.
Overwhelmed, I’d stuffed my bag full like a forager picking berries.
And at night, tucked beneath a patchwork heirloom quilt, I’d listen with wide eyes and even wider ears as my grandmother would read me stories about princesses and pirates; lions, witches, and wardrobes; and last unicorns.
Fluorescent lighting and calculating coworkers, bottom lines and working lunches had eroded my first love.
I wandered to the children’s section. It had a reading nook and the walls were decorated with painted art from the elementary school kids.
The library had a robust nonfiction and historical section, but it was sorely lacking in the fiction department. No new releases from the last five years at least.
One thing I learned in the trenches at a New York publishing house: there was always a gap in the market, a hole waiting to be filled.
An inkblot of an idea began to take shape.