Page 1 of The Library of Second Chances
CHAPTER ONE
THERE WERE Alot of things Chloe had never thought would happen to her. One was ending up back in her hometown of Wellbridge, after years of living in the city. The other thing that she hadn’t expected was to find herself marching alone down a wet cobblestone street on a dark and rainy autumn evening, frustrated, thirty quid down and soaked to the bone.
‘Leave your umbrella at home, they said. It won’t rain, they said,’ she grumbled to herself, her heels clacking on the uneven street, threatening a twisted ankle. No one had actually said that, of course. It had been her own naïve assumption. Her wet hair stuck to her scalp, and it was another mile before she’d reach her house. Even in the rain, there were no taxis around.
Besides, she didn’t want to go home right now. The thought of stepping into a cold, empty house was depressing. But that was the problem with small, quaint towns like these. Even at nine o’clock on a Friday evening, barely anything was open. Except pubs. Pubs were always open.
She slowed as she reached the Pride & Pint, glancing through the window. Raucous laughter came from inside along with the clinking of glasses, shouts and cheers at what was probably a football match. It looked warm, but she didn’t much fancy stepping inside by herself, looking like a drowned rat.
Instead, Chloe walked up the hill towards her neighbourhood. She didn’t want to climb the hill in these ridiculous heels. She hesitated, then turned left instead,grimacing as more icy rain fell on her head and tightly crossed arms. Her teeth chattered. This wasn’t her idea of a fun night.
She could think of only one thing that comforted her at times like these. Books. There was one place of refuge for her troubled mind. The Wellbridge Library, which happened to be Chloe’s new workplace.
She had the keys in her bag because the library manager, Mrs Cook, had asked her to open the library in the morning. Though she wasn’t entirely sure she was allowed to use said keys outside the library opening times, Chloe didn’t much care at the moment. She wanted to escape the rain and find somewhere warm, to seek solace in a quiet, calm space among books and paper. Somewhere that wasn’t going to give her frostbite.
The streetlamps glowed yellow through the haze of the falling rain as Chloe strode across the empty car park, shivering now. After rummaging in her bag with icy hands for the keys, she finally pushed open the heavy doors of the Wellbridge Library.
She stepped into the dark silence and closed the door with a dull thud behind her, muffling the steady patter of rain. The lights were all off, the dim grey of the October night sky visible through the arched gothic windows. When Chloe had stepped into the grand library four weeks ago for her job interview, the rows and rows of shelves, the medieval windows, the enormous, stitched rug in front of the reception desk, and the wooden balconies that promised secrets had stolen her breath away. They had done a marvellous job of maintaining the old, sentimental charm of the place. It felt like stepping into Hogwarts library or the one in the castle inBeauty and the Beast. She’d never say it aloud, but there was something . . . otherworldly about this place. Like it was too good to belong here.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, the dripping rain from her dress and hair likely making a puddle on the floor,when a soft meow startled her. It was only Clementine, the library cat. He was fluffy and orange, the little bell on his collar jangling as he stalked along the lobby desk, regarding her with a curious, haughty look. Feeling a little silly, Chloe flicked on the lights. She petted the library cat as the reception area flooded with comforting light. Clementine’s amber eyes looked up at her, his tail swishing. The first time she had tried to pet him, he had scurried away and disappeared between the book cases. He must be in a good mood tonight.
The library’s lights were electric, but they were designed to look like lanterns, bright enough to light the way, but dim and comforting, a soft glow rather than the stark, artificial white of most public spaces. Chloe loved the scent of this place: paper, ink, and mahogany. It made her think of hidden knowledge, of limitless imagination. She shrugged off her jacket, then changed her mind with a shiver and kept it on.
She shouldn’t have been in the library so late, but ending such a terrible date by going back to her empty house to sit and ponder everything that had gone wrong was the last thing she wanted to do. Chloe kicked off her heels and strode through the reception area, the muffled sound of her feet on the carpeted floor familiar and comforting. She wished she could peel off her sodden tights, too. Maybe she shouldn’t be doing any of this at all, but it wasn’t like anybody was around. The only thing the library needed to make this moment even better was some fresh towels. Maybe a hairdryer.
According to Mrs Cook, this library had been here for over two hundred years; after going through various purposes – a courthouse, a hospital – it was finally made into a library in the fifties. The west wing was home to the non-fiction and the children’s books, but this . . . this was Chloe’s favourite section. Beyond the oak doors of the east wing were the archives, a large room on two levels separated by a spiral staircase of polishedwood. Shelves stood on either side, the ground floor hosting educational texts, while the upper floor housed fiction books organised by genre and author name.
Simply being here made her feel better – who didn’t enjoy being in the presence of books? But Chloe still burned with humiliation at the thought of her date earlier tonight. Dean had seemed pleasant enough when they had chatted on the app. Their messages hadn’t made her heart skip a beat, exactly, but the red-headed, freckled mechanic from the next town over had seemed nice. And maybe that was enough for now. Chloe hadn’t had more than two consecutive dates with anyone in over a year, not since she had broken up with her boyfriend in Sheffield, and she thought a meal with someone who might be interested in her would be a good way to spend her free time.
The date, however, had not been nice.
Dean, who looked at least a decade older than his Bumble photo, had arrived twenty minutes late without so much as an apology. He had looked her up and down, shoved his way into the pub first, then when it was time to pay for their food, he had conveniently ‘forgotten’ his wallet. Who casually mentions this without even saying sorry? Who brought up their ex-girlfriend twice during their conversation? And who rang their mum in the middle of the date to boast that he was out with a ‘fit bird’?
Who the hell evendoesthat?
Chloe stomped up the spiral staircase a little harder than necessary, the thumps echoing off the high-ceilinged room. Clementine followed her, his long tail brushing her calf before he scurried ahead, the little bell Mrs Cook had attached to his collar jangling as he went. He disappeared behind a bookshelf, maybe to find somewhere comfortable to snooze.
Up here, Chloe breathed in the scent of paper. This was what she craved. Shelves and shelves of various fiction genres. Contemporary romance, fantasy, science-fiction, historical,thrillers, literary, classics. Even just being in the books’ presence made her calmer. She rubbed her hands together, blowing into her freezing fingers. She would have to talk to Mrs Cook about investing in some blankets to match the armchairs that sat below each window. She loved those. Cosy little reading nooks. Why was she mad again?
Oh yeah. Dean. She scowled, thinking of all the witty comebacks she should have come up with instead of awkwardly sipping her gin and tonic, desperately trying to find a reason to escape.
She’d finally paid the tab and muttered some weak excuse about needing to get home before leaving him alone in the street. She hadn’t even wanted to share a taxi with Dean. She’d blocked him as soon as he was out of sight. Maybe that was mean, but she didn’t think she’d be able to face an awkward post-date exchange.
Cold rain ran down the window in rivulets, the outside world bleak and grey. It was a terrible evening to be wandering around and a perfect evening to be inside with books. It beat sitting at home and worrying about being single for ever, anyway.
Wandering about the library at night was a welcome distraction, and not only from worrying about her current lack of boyfriend. Chloe was going to sink onto one of the armchairs, then decided against it; she was still drenched. Instead, she leaned against the banister overlooking the lower floor, relishing the silence and at the same time hating the thoughts that crept into her mind when there wasn’t anything to distract her.
It had been just over a year since Mum and Dad had died in the car accident. Chloe had spent the one-year anniversary a few weeks ago getting drunk, watching her favourite comfort films, the box of tissues beside her, gradually emptying a bottle of wine. She had been too upset to even read, and had instead fallen asleep toTitanic, waking up to a disintegrated tissueclenched in her palm. Chloe’s younger sister, Gwen, had been on holiday that day, according to posts on her social media, which Chloe was definitelynotstalking under a fake name. Gwen had been somewhere in the Caribbean, sunglasses on her face and looking stunning in a white bikini.
Chloe supposed people dealt with grief differently. Gwen hadn’t even come to their parents’ funeral. She had been in Fiji.
The hurt was still there, and she doubted it would ever fade. A year had brought her out of her cloud of grief where all she wanted to do was sleep, but it hadn’t been easy to come back to Wellbridge, to move into what used to be her parents’ home, and to try and piece her life back together. Already, she was regretting coming here.
She had decided, upon moving in and dealing with the legality of things, that this would only be temporary. She would save up some money and then move back to the city. Maybe back to her flat in Sheffield, where she had worked until recently. Back to chaos and strangers and bright lights and unfamiliar settings, where it was wonderfully loud and busy. It distracted from thoughts that got too deep or depressing.
It was almost a relief to fret over her non-existent love life instead. It was a much smaller problem, one she could focus on without wanting to cry until she threw up. Chloe had had a boyfriend or two in her time, though never anything serious. Not for a long time. She was twenty-six now, and it was hardly too late, but her failures at finding love had led her down a slippery slope of believing all the good ones were already taken. Or worse, thatshewas the problem.
She closed her eyes and let loose a slow, steady breath. No, Dean had definitely been the problem tonight.
