The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(61)
Minutes later, he moved closer and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.
Abigail knew this was what she’d been waiting for, she knew just as Gloria had known the day Fred Bailey walked into ChickenCastle, and she shivered at the thought.
“You chilly?” he asked
“Not at all,” she answered, settling into the crook of his arm.
At the end of the evening they kissed goodnight outside the apartment; the kiss, sweet and lingering, remained on Abigail’s lips long after she’d stepped inside and closed the door. It was the kind of kiss, she told herself, that only came about once you’d found your own true love. Squinting into the mirror as she washed her face, angling a glance at the reflection until it came back just the way she wanted, Abigail could imagine the silver slick of soap to be a bridal veil dropped down over her face.
She slipped beneath the sheet, in a dreamlike state before her head hit the pillow; moments later she was fast asleep, floating on a heart-shaped cloud. She’d fallen into bed hoping to dream of the day she and John would be married, but that’s not what happened. Instead they were at a train station, she was waiting for him to bend and kiss her but a puff of black smoke rolled across his face and although she could sense he was there she could no longer see him.. Suddenly she spotted his figure moving toward the train; she grabbed onto the sleeve of his jacket and pleaded with him not to leave. For a moment he stopped and turned to her, then as the train started to move, he jumped aboard. You’ve always known I’m a traveling man, he shouted back, then he slid into a seat alongside a window and waved goodbye. Only then did she notice that every other window of the train was filled with babies, waving their chubby little hands and crying out goodbye, mama. Abigail heard herself scream as the train pulled away and left her standing on the platform with tears streaming down her face and a ripped off patch of tweed jacket in her hand.
Abigail woke with a start, her gown soaked with perspiration and her heart galloping at a thousand beats per minute. It took her a full minute to grab hold of herself and come to the realization that it had been nothing more than a dream. No, she thought, not a dream, a nightmare! But it was enough to set her thinking about the fact that John had kissed her, then turned and walked away, saying nothing about when they might be together again. Maybe he’d never come back, never even call. He’d have no further need of the city map now, so he’d move on to some other town, some other map, some other librarian.
She sobbed and wailed until the sound of anguish filled the room and spilled out into the airshaft. A neighbor called across that he was trying to sleep and banged down his window, but Abigail continued to cry. When the wailing eased off to a steady flow of sniffles, she started to shiver like a person who’d been hauled up from a frozen lake. In the middle of July, on a night so warm that every window in the building was left open, she took a wool blanket and covered herself. She buried her face in the pillow and curled her body into a ball of desperation. “I should have changed my dress,” she sobbed, “worn something with glitter.” She told herself that she was the picture of plainness and it was no wonder he’d not fallen in love with her. She bolted to a sitting position and raised her hands in an airborne gesture, “No man can love a woman like me,” she shouted, “I’m a librarian!” Someone across the airway called out that it was three o’clock in the morning and two more windows slammed closed. Again drenched in perspiration, she threw off the covers and stripped away her gown. Before the sun peered over the horizon, Abigail had washed herself down with ice water twice, drank three cups of tea with honey, one cup of warm milk and a half glass of whiskey, but not once did she again close her eyes.
By morning her eyes were swollen, dark as an overripe plum, and there was a red blotch of hives circling the side of her face. Even though the temperature was forecasted to hit ninety-five degrees by mid-afternoon, she pulled on a black dress with long sleeves and did not bother to add a single speck of jewelry. She drank a glass of water for breakfast, then stuck an apple in the pocket of her skirt and left for work. The desolate drag of her feet gave Abigail the look of mourner as she shuffled along in the rising heat.
Arriving at the library fifteen minutes after the scheduled opening time, she unlocked the door, then went and sat behind the circulation desk – not filing, or cataloguing, not stacking books or stamping overdue notices, but just sitting. Although her brow was slick with perspiration, she didn’t remember to turn on the fan until well after ten-thirty. And, even after she finally did turn on the fan, she neglected to turn on the overhead lights, so from the outside the library appeared to be closed.
About one-thirty a boy of fourteen or so, poked open the door and called out, “Anybody here?”
“I’m here,” Abigail answered in a weary voice. “You need a book?”
“No ma’am, I got a delivery.” He pushed his way through the door with a large bouquet of red roses. “Miss Abigail Lannigan?”
She nodded and he handed her the bouquet. “For me?” she exclaimed.
“You’re Abigail Lannigan, right?”
She reached out and took hold of the roses; in the center of the bouquet was a folded note. With the roses nestled in the crook of her arm, she started fishing through her purse. “Wait a minute,” she said, “I’ll get you a tip.”
“The man already gave me fifty cents.”