14. Charlie
14
C an I do anything to make you more comfortable?” Emily asks, with her typical anxious expression.
You could leave me alone to work.
“Nope. I’m good and once the pain meds kick in, I’ll be able to walk around and put those returns away.”
“You’ll do no such thing. You’re stationed here all day. Just ring this bell if you need anything.” She points to the silver call bell at the desk.
“I hate that bell.”
“I’m not a fan either. But tap it and I’ll come running. Oh, and here is your mail.”
I grab the stack of envelopes and flyers, setting them aside. “Thanks.”
“I’ll check on you in a bit.”
“I know you will,” I call back, already flipping through my mail. I set aside the subscription renewals and staff correspondence—the only things I consider important mail. The invitations to workshops and paid courses go in the trash. And the mystery envelopes—the ones discreetly labeled so you open immediately but it’s just an ad to apply for a business loan—also go in the trash.
All that’s left to look at now are flyers with discount codes for special edition hardcovers.
Em never lets me order those. She says those are meant for bookstores, not little old libraries like this one.
Wouldn't it be a dream if I were in charge of inventory and, well, the overall design? The things I'd imagined over the years to make this library more inviting and colorful are endless.
But there is no budget, and no one cares.
Speaking of which, after returning all of yesterday's emails, I move on to my special project.
More like an initiative I’m proposing to the library after I get all the T’s crossed or ducks in a row, or whatever the saying is.
It’s something I’ve wanted to do ever since I started handing out free children's books in the community. The very thing people in town make fun of me for. Oh, there’s Charlie again, setting up shop to hand out sticky old books to small children.
Yep, I’m the crazy lady. But I’m okay with it. Tragically, the library discards old books when they get new inventory. So I keep a folding table in my trunk and set it up near storefronts, bus stops, and even side streets.
But this is something more…official, exciting, newsworthy. Something that would break my heart if the powers that be turn it down.
I open the file labeled “ New Children’s Hall ” and look at the sketches once more before hitting print.
I push my chair back toward the printer and pull the pages before tip-toeing back.
“So what did he want, anyway?” Emily returns, being as invasive in my space as she could get.
I jump and shove the plans into a folder. “Who?”
“Roger Harris. He came by yesterday and insisted we get you that envelope.”
I look around my desk. “What envelope?”
“The one I handed you with your mail. You do open all your mail, don’t you?”
I laugh. “Of course.” I blindly pick up the stack I set aside earlier. “But need to get through…archiving… before I look at anything…um, personal?”
“He seemed pretty ticked off. My sister used to live in his building, and she got—”
“Owe. Owe my foot.” I wince, crouching over the desk.
“Oh no. What do you need? Should I call someone?”
“Ice,” I gasp. “Get me a cup of ice.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I watch her scurry off and quickly lift the trashcan, scanning for an envelope from Townshead Development.
There’s no stamp or address—just my name.
I groan. Probably a bill for damages that a guy like Roger Harris won’t hesitate to screw me with.
I’m not opening it. I should tear it up.
I hear Noah’s hard tone in my head, berating me for not calling him when I was in trouble.
But Roger Harris doesn’t scare easily. I tried all kinds of threats when I wrote to him about the water damage seeping through the ceiling over my kitchen.
Curiosity gets the best of me, and I tear it open, finding a check. My heart stops for a moment when I imagine this might be a returned check.
I’ve only bounced a check once in my life. And it still haunts me. Not just the fees I had to cover, but the fact that the check I’d written was less than all the fees combined.
I flip it over, expecting the worst. Expecting giant red letters for the amount owed.
But…it's not one of mine.
It's a check from Townshead Development, signed by Roger Harris. In the amount of…five thousand six hundred dollars?
“Holy shit.”
“What?” Em rushes over. “Is it your foot?”
I slam the check down before I could even process what it’s for.
“What’s that?”
“Junk mail,” I blurt out. “Makes me angry.”
She frowns but shakes it off. “I brought you ice.”
I grab the rim-filled cup and stare up at her awkwardly. “Thank you.”
“I’ll…leave you to whatever it is you’re going to do with that.”
“Appreciate it.”
I pull the lid off my coffee—which has since gone cold—pour it into the cup of ice, then flip the check over again.
Yep. Still addressed to me for the amount worth more than two month’s salary.
I search the envelope for a clue and find a note on the bottom.
A donation in memory of Sara Whitley – Townshead Development
Donation?
After he tried to squeeze every dollar out of me for the last few months?
My instinct is to call Noah and I don’t know where that came from. Noah and I are still nothing. Our truce is all it is. A truce so we don’t fight in front of the people we care about.
He’s not my lawyer or my hero. I can handle whatever this means myself.
By not depositing it until I get to the bottom of its true purpose.
I know it’s noon because my stomach growls. My body has always worked like a clock. If I don’t have my coffee by nine a.m., I’ll get a headache. If I’m not looking at food by noon, my stomach sends me a message to get on that. By three, I start to crash, and by six, I’m somewhat awake again and cooking up some concoction I swear is edible.
“Charlie?”
I look up to see a young man approaching me. He’s in a red vest and baseball hat.
“Um…that’s me.”
He offers a smile and hands me a brown paper bag and a large to-go cup with a tea bag hanging off the side.
“Who is this for?”
“Delivery for Charlie. That’s all I have.”
“Um…thank you.” I reach into my wallet, but he holds up a hand. “The tip was well covered, ma’am. Enjoy your day.”
I glance around before staring at the contents set in front of me. The continuous growling makes me dig into the bag, and I don’t need to unwrap it to know it’s a roast beef sandwich.
It’s been three years since I ordered one of these in his presence. And it still has everything I need. Mustard, mayo, extra pickles, American cheese, no onion.
I sigh and flip the tag hanging over my tea.
Earl Grey is your thing.
Noah: Don’t act like it’s not yours too.
Why would I do that?
Noah: Because you have a weird thing.
What weird thing?
Noah: Where you pretend you don’t like the same things I do.
It’s almost six and I’m finishing up a few details of my proposal for the new children’s wing. Maybe calling it a “wing” is a little aggressive. More like…a few feathers.
I tap my chin as I rename my project for the sixth time.
A Few Feathers .
I click save when I hear Em’s authoritative voice. “What are you working on?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re smiling. You’re not archiving articles.”
I smirk deviously at her. Em is friendly enough, but she’s very ‘by the book.’ She doesn’t think outside the box or, hell, outside of what earns her paycheck.
Me? I want to expand. I want to give. I want children sitting in a circle, reading and engaging instead of having their pretty little eyes glued to devices.
How will we have future writers when we don’t have little readers?
My mother’s words and my mantra.
“Charlie,” she warns. “I told you it’s not going to pass with the Board. It’s too expensive and the concept is too ‘big city’. Not small town.”
“It’s not 'big city' at all. Do you know how many of those children’s books I actually give away? All of them. If it was a bad idea, no one would stop for them. You should see the kids’ faces light up. We could set up character reading sessions, tutoring—”
“Charlotte,” she cuts off, using my full name like she’s my mother. And though she’s close to retirement and has often been like a mother to me, she's not. “Let it go. It’s time. I know it’s been your little dream project, but it breaks my heart to see you work so hard on something, knowing it’s not going to happen.”
“Did…you even ask the Board?”
She sighs. “I planted the seed about needing more of a designated space for children and making it more colorful and whatnot...”
“And?”
“And they weren’t very interested. In fact they…”
“What?”
“Well…they laughed. And someone said something along the lines of ‘Sure, why don’t we just hand them a bunch of paint brushes and have them go nuts.’”
My eyes brighten at the idea.
“Charlie…it’s a joke.”
“It’s brilliant. They can make it their own . And just think about how unforgettable their first experience will be at the new space.”
“There is no new space.”
“But there could be, especially if we’re cutting the cost of painters.” I nudge, and she thinks I'm joking.
She glances down at my laptop, bitterness washing over her face. “Yeah, Charlie. Maybe. You keep doing what you’re doing. Who knows. Maybe one day.”
My face falls.
I know what she’s doing.
She thinks this is a distraction from my pain, a way to mask the chaos that is overtaking my life right now. She doesn't understand that I've been working on this for several months. Not since Mom died.
From sketches to budget, to vendors, to a workable timetable—I've thought of everything. All they have to do is say yes. Well, that and fund it, but I’ll take the yes for now. Hell, I’ll figure out a way to raise money for it.
“Thanks, Em.”
She nods thoughtfully. “See you tomorrow.”
I stare at the plans I’d printed. My enthusiasm somehow weakened. Suddenly, I don’t see an initiative I’d put months of considerable thought and effort into. Something I planned to execute cost-effectively, efficiently, and beautifully.
All in hopes of a wonderland for children. An escape for some, a safe haven for others.
A purpose for me.
Suddenly, it’s a folder of nonsense. A meaningless diary entry. Something I’ve conjured up to escape my reality.
That can’t be why I want this. Can it?
My phone pings with an Uber notification and I shut my laptop and pack up my tote bag before checking to see how far my driver is. I’ll need extra time to hobble down to the lobby.
I look at the notification that says my trip was successfully…
“Canceled?”
A frame appears in front of me, pulling my gaze. Noah is wearing slacks and a polo. The same bored expression I'm used to only…there's a hint of something…devious behind it.
I cock my head and hold up my phone. “Did you get rid of my driver again? You’re messing with my rating.”
He looks completely uninterested in my rant. “Car is running. Let’s move.”
I sit back down. “No.”
He sighs. “Charlie.”
“You don’t get to cancel my ride, then storm in here like I’m a chore and snap your fingers.” I fold my arms like the stubborn brat he says I am. “I’m staying.”
His head drops slightly before looking up again. A wave of guilt hits me as I find his tired blue eyes because I know it has to do with him sleeping on the couch. “You’re right,” he says, taking a breath. "Whenever you’re ready, I’d like to give you a ride home.”
He sounds sincere, but I’m not easily swayed. “I have more work to do, so you go ahead. I’ll call another Uber later.”
Frustrated, he looks up like he’s reminding himself to count to four. “Your chariot awaits.”
I shake my head and open my laptop.
“Charlie, I don’t have time for games. Let’s go.”
I type in my login credentials like he’s not even here.
The screen opens to my plans, and I minimize my useless little project.
“What’s wrong?”
I look up with a frown. “What? Nothing.”
He cocks his head. “Something happen?”
“What could happen? I’ve been at work all day.”
He watches me for a moment. “You’re upset.”
“Yeah.” I give him a pointed look. “Can you tell?”
“No, this isn’t at me...” he decides, his eyes narrowing.
I shut my laptop. “Fine. You can drive me to your house. But only if you quit it with the questions.”
He raises his hands to concede.
I walk around the counter and his eyes fall to my feet. His brows lift in surprise when he finds me wearing the purple slippers he bought me.
Ugh. Dammit.
“Yes, I brought them. The memory foam makes it easier to walk. Don't let it go to your head," I snap.
I let him take my arm for support, and swear I see a hint of a smile as we walk out the door.