Chapter Two
Two
A Pearl of Wisdom
from Nettie Getchell
“Nothing, not one single thing, can carry you off to a far-off place faster than a book.”
Tallulah
I was being watched.
Golden eyes studied me from atop a metal bookshelf in the large-print section. A fluffy black tail dangled, swishing spines, as if dusting them. The cat’s name was Deckle, and he’d been the library cat for at least five years. Maybe more. No one I’d asked had known for certain.
When I was a little girl and spent most summers here in Forget-Me-Not with my grandparents, I’d whiled away many afternoons at this library with my mamaw, who had been a librarian.
In those days, there’d been a cat named Calliper, yet another black cat with golden eyes—only her fur had been short, not long like Deckle’s.
My younger self had delighted in finding her among the books.
And in hearing the folklore explaining her presence—and that of all the library cats who’d come before her.
I’d been especially intrigued to learn of the extraordinary gift the cats could bestow on patrons: returning a long-lost memory to them through the books on the shelves.
Specifically, through the scent of a book, sometimes called bibliosmia. A mix of ink and paper and life.
My older thirty-four-year-old self, however, side-eyed the decision to continue keeping a cat around, despite the gift of the memories.
Or, really, in spite of it.
I tended to hold grudges.
It seemed as though I was the only one who took issue with having Deckle here, however.
Everyone else loved him. Especially Evanthe Kilburn, the library director, who typically wasn’t one to display any sort of affection.
She was often seen carrying him through the stacks, lovingly scratching his ears and rubbing his chin.
There were even rumors of baby talk, though I didn’t believe them. Evanthe would never.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows as I pushed the book cart toward the children’s section.
I’d only shelved a few titles before my gaze fell on a young boy, peacefully sleeping in a beanbag chair, his arms wrapped around a board book like it was a prized possession.
Propped against the wall next to him sat his mama.
She lifted her eyes from the pages of a thriller novel and gave me a conspiratorial smile.
I smiled back and tiptoed away, trying to remember the last time I’d stolen a few minutes of time to read, to escape into the pages of a book, while my little one napped.
It had been a while. Before the separation, the divorce.
These days, my life looked a whole lot different than it used to.
In just eighteen months I’d gone from being happily married—well, married—to being a single mom of one, then two little girls, when a brief reconciliation resulted in the gift of Mary Joy, my seven-month-old.
There had been a move and a new job and so many changes. Some good. Some not so much.
This job? That was one of the good things.
I’d been working here at the Forget-Me-Not Library for a little over a month now as a library assistant.
My role meant I did a little bit of everything, floating to where I was needed most. Among other things, I helped patrons locate titles.
I worked the circulation desk checking books in and out.
I answered phones. Assisted with the computers.
Lent a hand with programs run by other staff members, of which there were five in total.
Even though this was a small library, it had a big heart.
It was a community hot spot, a meeting place, a shelter of sorts.
It was a place to seek guidance, to create, to relax, to escape, to study, to learn new skills, to play board games and computer games and hear stories—and, of course, read them, too.
When I stopped to straighten a book that had fallen over, Deckle hopped onto the shelf next to my hand. I swore he narrowed his eyes before suddenly reaching out with a paw to pull a book loose. He then batted it onto the floor.
“I keep telling you,” I whispered to him, picking up the book without even looking at the cover, “my memory is just fine.”
I didn’t need—or want—to revisit my past. Supposedly looking back was meant to help, to soothe, to console, according to the folklore.
But I knew it could harm. It had hurt me.
More than once. Every time my mama picked up a book that Calliper had knocked off the shelf and breathed in its scent, it always triggered a forgotten memory of some far-off place she’d wanted to visit.
Within a matter of days, we’d be traveling again, her promises to me that we’d stay put for a while long forgotten.
I slotted the book into its empty spot as Deckle gazed at me, giving me a doleful look, his golden eyes wide and dewy.
“Nope, nope, nope,” I said again, mostly to myself as fortification, because those eyes.
I turned my back on him and carried on with my duties. By far, shelving was my favorite thing to do.
It always had been.
In my teenage years, I’d often volunteered at libraries in the towns where my parents and I traveled, even if we never stayed in one place very long.
I’d basked in the routine of shelving. In the order.
Every book had its place. A specific location within the stacks, determined by alphabet and/or number. Its home never changed.
Unlike mine.
To me, libraries always meant comfort. Solace. This library especially, where my mamaw, June, used to roam. Working here was a dream come true for me, even if I wasn’t a full-fledged librarian like she’d been. Like I always thought I’d be.
Marrying Scott Mayfield had changed those plans.
And divorcing him had altered them again, landing me here.
Did that count as a silver lining? I thought so, especially now, months after the divorce had been finalized and I could look back more clearly.
I didn’t regret our marriage, because it had given me Katy and Mary Joy, but I did wish Scott would take more than a passing interest in our children.
His visits had become few and far between.
Still a baby, Mary Joy was too young to notice, but Katy felt his absence deeply.
As I made my way toward adult fiction, I reminded myself not to dwell on things I couldn’t change and focus on what had brought me to town: building a new, happy life for me and the girls.
One full of friends and community and, most importantly, family.
Like Papaw and Aunt Maeve and Uncle Renny and my cousin Callum.
Did I, someone who was used to being hyper-independent, have to accept Papaw’s offer of help to make it happen?
Yep. Did I have to force myself out of my cozy, reclusive comfort zone once we moved here?
Yes. Was it worth leaving my introverted, homebody ways behind to plant deep roots?
Definitely. Did I ache to be home with the girls right this minute? Absolutely.
I smiled, thinking that if the phrase fake it till you make it had a face, it would be mine, freckles and all. Still, I was trying. Doing. And I’d continue to do so. I was determined to give the girls the stability I hadn’t had growing up.
As I walked through the stacks, pushing the cart along, Deckle kept pace with me. I stopped. He stopped. I gave him the most withering glance I could muster—which, I suspected, wasn’t at all what I imagined it to be—and said, “Stop following me.”
He only twitched his white whiskers in response.
“Please?” I asked.
His tail flicked left, then right.
It seemed to me he found amusement in reminding me of his presence, all but telling me that he wasn’t going anywhere. All but insisting he would eventually accomplish his mission of returning a memory to me, despite how I felt about the matter.
I was about to pick him up and carry him to Evanthe’s office when I heard Isabel Espinoza’s voice coming from the opposite side of the shelf, easily recognizable with its wobbly yet ardent tone.
She was saying, “You’ll need baking soda to remove those stains. Baking soda and vinegar.”
Despite the shakiness of her words, nothing from her was ever spoken without conviction and sheer certainty.
She was never wrong. Even when she was. She was a seventy-something retired finance attorney who’d taken a part-time job as a clerk at the library because she liked staying busy.
Right now, she was supposed to be at the circulation desk, so I was curious as to what had pulled her away.
“Thank you,” a man said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I didn’t recognize the voice. It was deep and slightly bewildered.
I became even more curious when I heard Nettie Getchell say, “No, no. Hydrogen peroxide is best. Trust me. My mama was a midwife for more than fifty years. I’ve learned all the tricks. Pour it directly on the stains, let it sit a minute, then blot and rinse with cold water.”
In her late fifties, Nettie was the youth librarian and had a nurturing demeanor coupled with a strong, no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners voice. The kids adored her.
At hearing her join in the conversation, my curiosity turned to suspicion.
You see, sometimes patrons came to the library seeking advice.
And sometimes patrons received advice even when they hadn’t asked for it.
Isabel and Nettie were notorious for trapping unsuspecting visitors and forcing unsolicited opinions upon them.
When questioned about these tactics, they were always quick to point out that with age came wisdom, so why shouldn’t they dispense their hard-earned lessons?
After all, what better place to share knowledge than the library?