Flying Solo(13)

“I’m sure she would have said something like ‘better this than a divorce.’?”

“That’s what June says, too.”

“She’s very wise, as she always has been.” Barbara looked at her watch. “So, I have a follow-up appointment at eleven-thirty this morning.”

“Well, that’s good. I guess they can give you lessons on how to walk on your big braced leg, in case you have to stomp on any mice in the next few weeks.”

“Once,” Barbara said. “I stepped on a mouse once, and my children have never let me hear the end of it.”

Laurie laughed and glanced at Dot’s clock on the wall. “The library’s going to open in about fifteen minutes, and I think I’m going to go over and grab some books to read.”

“Dot doesn’t have enough in the house? I seem to remember she had enough books to choke the Library of Congress.”

“I just want some fresh ones,” Laurie said. “I was over there the other day right after I got here, and I kind of liked it.” What she did not say was that the library had three big sofas in a horseshoe formation in the middle of the fiction section upstairs and an endless supply of magazines. “I won’t be long.”

“Did you know Nick Cooper is running that library now? He took over from his mom and dad?” She did know. It was the sofas and the magazines…and that.

“Yes, Mom. June told me. And no, I haven’t seen him, and yes, I know he’s divorced, and yes, if I do see him, I will say hello for you.”

“You’re way ahead of me, sunshine.”

“I know. Please take care of your ankle, get your ice cream from the store like a normal person, and I’ll check on you tomorrow. Love you tons.”

“Love you, too.”



* * *



—

The Calcasset branch of the Whipwell County Public Library sat on a hill on the corner of Kirk and Cabot Streets, a block down from Grocery Stop and two blocks down from a little coffee shop that was just called The Cozy Cup, which hadn’t been there when Laurie moved away. A small parking lot, a bike rack, and a book drop bin sat in front of the big stone building, more like a church than the kind of brutalist block big cities had, or the office-park splat of a structure that too many suburbs got stuck with in the 1970s. This building had been here since 1898 and was on the National Register of Historic Places. This was a proper library.

Laurie parked out front and slung her tote bag over her shoulder, filled with the mass-market paperbacks she’d checked out when she first got to town a week earlier, all of which she’d already raced through. Inside the front doors, she found the slot near the circulation desk and slid them in, one by one, letting them thunk into the mostly empty bin. She raised one hand and offered a little smile to the woman behind the desk, who nodded back. Who, she wondered, are all these people who live in the place where I once felt like I knew everyone? And then there was the one person she did know, who hadn’t made an appearance yet.

The paperbacks were on a set of short shelves near the middle of the library’s main floor. Laurie ran her hand along their spines, some of which were so broken that the titles were almost obliterated, looking for things that sounded like they would have lots of murders and detectives and maybe some beautiful people having sex in European cities. She pulled Fatal Memories and Guns on the Riviera, and just as she was getting to the end of a row of books, she heard a voice next to her.

“Ma’am, I’m here to arrest you. Your books are about twenty years overdue.”

It took a minute. He was older, obviously, just like she was. She often saw men with the same hair they’d had in high school, but his had evolved. Shorter, neater, maybe a little lighter. Still, the face was the same, and the smile, especially, was the same. She’d always had to catch her breath when she saw him, and she figured now it was probably just because it had been so long. Probably. He put his palm to his chest. “Nick? Library enforcer? Old pal? Don’t pretend you forgot.”

“Oh, Nick,” she said, drawing it out. “I guess I remember you.”

“You better.”

Before she could spend too much time wondering whether she should hug him, it was already happening, and he was so familiar that she almost slid her hands down into his back pockets. How long had they lasted before they made contact, nine seconds? “I’m glad to see you. I was here the other day, but I guess you weren’t around.” He ran the library now, circ desk to stacks, and when she’d come before, she’d casually glanced down every corridor and row of materials, and she’d happened to wander past every section on both floors. She hadn’t, purely fortuitously, run into him. Now she held up the books in her hand. “I’m grabbing some pulp. I get bored.”

He had a smile like a camera flash or a clap of thunder: distracting. But then his expression changed. “I heard you were coming up here to see about Dot. I’m sorry I missed the service. I was stuck here, actually. I hope she would understand—she came around a lot. I think she was here about three weeks before she died, just dropping off spy novels and picking up more.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if some of your books are still at her place. I might need a truck to return them, though.”

“So you’re taking care of the house?”