Chapter 7 #2
“Ichabod Crane, Peter Pan, Helen of Troy, and now Tom and Huck.” There was a definite connection between the library books
and the character sightings—if she could call them that. What was actually happening here?
Stella dug through her overnight bag and retrieved Jack Mathis’s novel. She flipped through the pages and stopped on one of
the photographs. “Now if you were coming to life . . .” She smiled at the absurdity of the idea, knowing if Jack showed his face, she might hightail it
the other way. She and relationships with men did not mix well together, like gasoline and stupidity. “Best if you don’t show up, Jack.”
Stella left the library during the afternoon to run home and meet the HVAC guy. He was able to repair the air-conditioning
unit with ease and said within three to four hours, the house should feel pleasant again. Returning to the library and its
cool air was a relief until the temperature in the house cooled from ninety degrees to a tolerable seventy-two.
That evening when Stella and Melanie finished the closing routine, Stella found Arnie sitting at the circulation desk. He
flipped through the accordion file that was stuffed with paperwork for the festival. Sweat beaded across his forehead, and
he rubbed one hand up and down his jaw and then against the back of his neck.
Stella draped her arms over the desk and studied him. “You don’t look so hot.”
Arnie cut his eyes over at her but continued to look through the files. “Says the woman who slept on the library floor last night.”
“Hey,” Stella joked, “there’s no reason to cut so low. I thought I was looking pretty good for sleeping on the floor and being
haunted by teenagers. But really, are you feeling okay?”
Arnie pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped it across his forehead and then down both sides of his neck.
“It’s hot as blue blazes outside, and it’s creeping indoors. I’ll be fine when the autumn gets here. How’s the head, kiddo?”
“When are you going to stop asking about my head?” She plucked an ink pen out of a mug on the counter and twirled it through
her fingers.
“When you give me an honest answer. Still seeing ghosts?”
The pen slipped through her fingers, and Stella shivered. “Not in the last few hours.” She picked up the pen and dropped it
back into the cup. Flimsy words poofed out of the mug like dust. On the edge. Stirring. Unexpected. They wriggled toward Arnie and disappeared up his shirtsleeve.
Arnie wiped his handkerchief across his forehead once more before he tucked it back into his pocket. He reached for a bottle
of water, and his hand trembled against the plastic. He seemed to be having trouble catching his breath for a few seconds
before he twisted off the cap and gulped down half of the water in the bottle.
Stella slid around the desk and propped her hip against the counter beside him. “Seriously, are you okay?”
Arnie pushed away from the desk in the rolling chair. He rubbed his left shoulder and nodded. “I’m starting to think that
maybe I stretched my tuna salad one day too many.” He reached over and patted Stella’s hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve been
worse. Is the AC fixed in the house?”
Stella nodded. “I’m heading home. You sure you don’t need anything? What about for the festival? Is there anything you need me to help with? Last-minute location or vendor changes?”
Arnie placed his hands on his stomach. “I assure you, it’s all organized and prepped like a well-oiled machine. We have very
little to take charge of this year, except your care packages.”
“A few people on the committee were kind enough to volunteer to help me, so that’s all organized too.”
Arnie closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t foresee any hiccups at this point. There’s bound to be something unexpected, but that’s what makes life interesting. I think we’ll be smooth sailing.”
Stella crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t overwork yourself then. The festival is always a success because of all the
overtime and hard work you and the committee put into planning, so take it easy these last few days. I’m going to call you
later and check to see how you’re feeling, and if you don’t answer, I’m going to come back here. Answer your phone when I
call. That’s an order.”
Arnie tossed his thumb over his shoulder. “Yes, ma’am. Now get out of here, go home, and relax. That’s an order.”
Stella shoved her Jack Mathis book and her notepad into her purse and then slung the bag onto her shoulder. She grabbed her
duffel and sleeping bag and saluted Arnie.
“You need to work on your salute, soldier.” He opened a drawer and pointed at his cell phone. “Call me tonight. I promise
to answer.”
My love for you swells
against the cage of my heart.
This time, stay with me.
Stella tucked the pen behind her ear and sighed, closing her eyes as she sank back onto the worn couch cushions. Ugh, why am I writing love poems today? For one indulgent moment, she allowed herself to recall the memory of what it felt like to be held, to offer her heart in
exchange for nothing. The familiar thrill of her hand entwined with another’s drew an extra sigh from her lips. But the ache
of loss followed closely behind.
Words arced across the living room wall, an explosion of rippling colors, like an aurora borealis made of letters. It was
as though the words and emotions had been plucked straight out of her heart and splashed across the wall. Stella picked up
her pen and wrote.
It’s not as though I remember every moment clearly. My memories of you often come unbidden, in the colors of the sunrise,
in the lightning bugs weaving through the trees, in the black-and-white pages of a book. My first instinct is to push them
away, but sometimes I linger for a moment, standing in the center of those memories with closed eyes and open arms, and I
remember you when we were us, when we were in love.
The AC blew a steady breeze across her face, and she breathed in the artificially cold air that smelled faintly of rubber
and heated metal. She reached over for her cell phone and called Arnie. His voicemail picked up, so she left a message.
She cooked a premade cup of macaroni and cheese in the microwave and ate it standing in the kitchen.
After a dessert of two peanut butter cups, Arnie still hadn’t returned her call.
Unease trickled into her mind. She grabbed her phone to call him again, but it rang in her hand.
Her relief that it was Arnie quickly vanished.
“Percy,” she said on a sigh.
“Well, hello to you too,” he said.
“I thought you were Arnie,” she admitted.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Percy said, sounding slightly put out.
She glanced at the time on the clock. Why hadn’t Arnie called her yet? “What’s up?”
“Given any more thought to Miami?”
Stella didn’t bother hiding her irritation. “No.”
Percy echoed her frustration. “This is a huge opportunity.”
“So you take it,” she argued.
“Stella—”
“Listen, Percy, I said I’d think about it, and I will. Right now I need to call Arnie.”
“Don’t wait too long,” Percy said. “This opportunity won’t be around forever.”
“Noted,” she said with an eye roll he couldn’t appreciate. She said goodbye and then called Arnie immediately. The call went
unanswered.
“Come on, Arnie,” she said to his voicemail. “Pick up. Call me back.”
Another fifteen minutes passed, and Stella sat on the couch flipping through the English–Italian dictionary, looking up the
Italian word for mistake. She glanced up at her car keys sitting on the coffee table. Words tangled around the key ring. She tilted her head and squinted.
Darkness. Panic. Pain. Stella tossed the book aside, jumped up from the couch, grabbed her cell phone and keys, slipped on her tennis shoes, and
ran out of the house.
Stella parked in the lot, rushing into her usual spot.
As soon as she unlocked the library door and ran inside, the air felt electrified and anxious.
Words, stretched thin and nearly transparent, scampered across the shadowy floor like an army of bug-shaped letters.
Stella had difficulty focusing on any of them long enough to read them.
The single light above the circulation desk spotlighted a tall man whose hands were buried in his dark brown hair. He wore
an expression of complete frustration. Stella stopped moving, unsure of how to process the vision of a stranger standing in
the deserted library. The back door clicked shut behind her.
The man’s attire was enough to cause her to pause and stare. His handsome features were half in shadow, but he was dressed
like a gentleman from the Regency era. He wore a high-collared white shirt covered by a white vest, both tucked into black
trousers. His long black dress coat hung low, brushing against the backs of his thighs. He grabbed the receiver of the telephone
in one hand, pressed it to his ear, and shifted it away again. His fist closed over something in his other hand. He sensed
her presence finally and turned to look at her. His polished black boots shone in the light.
He bowed his head slightly to her and then extended the receiver in her direction. “I do not understand this strange invention,”
he said in a British accent. He opened his fist, revealing a cell phone. “Nor this. Are you . . . Stella? Your likeness and
name have been flashing on this peculiar torch. Arnie needs medical aid.”
Stella’s shock disappeared, and she rushed toward the man. “What do you mean, Arnie needs medical aid? Where is he?” Stella
recognized Arnie’s cell phone in the man’s hand. “Did you steal that?”
The man looked offended and gazed at her with disdain. “I beg your pardon? I have no need to steal. My wealth is quite well
known.”
Stella waved her hands in the air. “Never mind. Where’s Arnie?”
The man pointed toward the open vault door. “He needs a doctor—”
Stella ran for the archives, shouting for Arnie as she hurried down the stairs. She found him at the far end of the archives