Page 17 of Love Notes

“Oh, it’s a guy,” she said, her gaze sharpening as cats with lasers engaged in an intergalactic battle behind her.“Is he hot?”

“So hot,” I said.“And, look at this.”I dove out of frame for a moment, returning with the little wooden alien that was sitting at the edge of the coffee table.“He’s a woodworker, and he makes amazing furniture, and he also whittles.”

“What is that?A gnome?”

“An alien,” I said, holding it closer to the camera.

Anita hummed.“Your taste in men is…eclectic.”

“The way you say that doesn’t sound like a compliment,” I said, deciding to send her one of Ryan’s carved roses.That would show her.

She laughed.“I’m glad you’ve met a hot guy, even if he whittles.Now go and write your book.I need two chapters by next week, Adam.”

“They’ll be there,” I said, and I honestly believed that for almost five full minutes after I ended the Zoom call.I was always energized and motivated after speaking with Anita—our relationship had started off professional but was now snarky, with moments of gentle bullying on her side—and I wished I could bottle that feeling for when I needed it most.Which, as it turned out, was five minutes after ending the call and staring at a blank page on my laptop.

So instead of staring at it for even longer, I grabbed my phone, my wallet, and my car keys and decided to go and walk around Caldwell Crossing until inspiration hit.Someone would stop me before I crossed the Canadian border, right?

When I went outside to the car, I thought about heading through the trees to Ryan’s workshop.Instead of bothering him now though, I decided instead that I’d grab some cupcakes or something from town and drop by when I returned.I hoped that wouldn’t be too pushy, but last night had been amazing, and I wanted to see him again.Just not quite as much of him as I’d seen the first time I’d gone to his workshop.I mean, I wouldn’t have minded seeing all of that again but only as soon as he was happy to show it to me and not before.That had been embarrassing enough for both of us that I was sure he didn’t want a repeat.

The drive into Caldwell Crossing was short and pleasant.The day was warm and beautiful, and I drank it in while taking my usual mental notes of details I could pepper into the next book.I wondered what it would be like to live here, and the question came with an unexpected sense of longing, which might have had less to do with the way the sunlight danced in the treetops and more to do with Ryan Devlin.

The problem with exercising my imagination to earn a living was that sometimes I didn’t know how to rein it back in.By the time I arrived in town, I’d already established the groundwork for a cozy fantasy life where, for some reason, I baked bread while Ryan sat in the porch swing after a hard day building furniture and whittled me roses and aliens.The part with Ryan didn’t seem too out of character from what I knew of the guy, but the part where I was baking bread?Total garbage, because I couldn’t bake for shit.During the pandemic when everyone was getting into sourdough starters and learning to crochet while they were stuck working from home?I took up junk food and soap operas instead.And Ialreadyworked from home, so it wasn’t as though I needed to rearrange my life in any meaningful way at all, more like I’d just been waiting for an excuse to live on Twinkies and Coke.I did not make healthy choices in times of stress.

I found a parking spot in town right by the library.

The Caldwell Crossing library was tucked away in a charming building that was a reminder of the town’s more prosperous history.It was one of those small-town grand buildings, with neoclassical aspirations built on a tiny house budget.A pair of columns guarded the entrance, and an open-mouthed lion’s head gave a silent roar from above the curved architrave of the main door, which seemed like an odd architectural choice for a library.I wondered if it had been a bank or something in its previous life.The attempts at grandeur didn’t last for long; inside, the library foyer was cozy and carpeted, and colorful flyers made up a community noticeboard full of information about bake sales, mommy groups, and upcoming events like Founders Day.

“Can I help you?”a woman asked from behind the counter as I stepped into the main library room and found myself surrounded by that familiar comforting smell of books.She was an older lady, with perfectly combed short gray hair, a powder blue cardigan, and glasses.

“Hi,” I said.“Hello.I’m looking for your local history section.”

She pointed.“Those two shelves over there.If you reach the tubs of picture books, you’ve gone too far.”

“Thank you.”

She raised her eyebrows.“Are you after anything in particular?”

“Oh,” I said.“Not exactly.Just going for the vibe of the place, really.”

“Well, we also have newspapers, from back when the town had its own newspaper.Those are in our archives though.”

“Digitized?”

“Oh, honey, no.Most of them aren’t even on microfiche.”She laughed at the expression on my face.“You let me know if you need anything.I’m sure I’ll be able to find it for you.”

“Thanks,” I said and wandered over to the local history shelves.

The library was cozy and quiet, and it only took me a few minutes to fall into research mode.Well, broad research mode, which involved grabbing any books that caught my eye and hoping that sooner or later I’d narrow that vague interest down into something specific.Maybe there was a historical event I could tie my modern murder to?Something that just screamed Caldwell Crossing.

Could I drown a man in a vat of maple syrup?

Probably.

Was maple syrup even stored in vats?

A visit to Sam Caldwell’s maple syrup farm might be in the cards.

I slipped into the zone and began to fill my notebook with pages of notes that were as ineligible as a doctor’s handwriting, slowly working my way down the shelf.Most of the books were local histories by local authors, the sort that you bought in gift shops instead of bookstores, and focused heavily on family history.Then there were the nature books, lovingly put together by the birdwatchers and the watercolor artists and photographers.A book published in the 1970s caught my attention.It was written by the retired editor of the local newspaper and was a collection of anecdotes, character studies of colorful residents, and deep dives into a few crimes and scandals the man had covered in his forty-year career.I set that one aside, wondering if the library would let me borrow it, and kept going on my search, thoroughly engrossed.

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